Page 3 of Over the Limit

An hour commitment was all the evening’s sponsor had asked of the drivers. We’re on three hours now, and I’m more than over the noise, the chaos of the event, and everything else that comes with it. This girl can only handle so much fake, and it’s here in droves tonight.

The old stone mansion where the party is being held is on the outskirts of Barcelona. And when I step outside for some fresh air, I’m surrounded by manicured lawns and extensive landscaping. Gorgeous in the daylight but a tad intimidating in the dark if it weren’t for the strings of overhead lights adding a softness that chases most of the shadows away.

I run my hands over the evenly cut hedges and enjoy the smell of the gardenias. I focus on anything and everything around me but feel like I don’t actually see it.

“Sick of the chaos too?” a gravelly, Australian accent says through the darkness.

I jump. Maybe even yelp. What I do know is that I put a hand to my heart and bite back the curse that’s present on my tongue. “Jesus,” I finally say as my pulse pounds in my ears and adrenaline races through my veins.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

I take a few more steps and Lachlan Evans comes into view. The shadows carve lines on his face, but it’s one I know. The dark head of hair with a slight wave to it. The sun-kissed skin. The light green eyes. The full lips. The pensive stare.

It’s a face I’ve studied numerous times from afar. Curious about what he’s thinking, where his intensity comes from, and how exactly he fits in this world when he seems so very different than the other nineteen drivers who inhabit it.

My heart may be decelerating but my nerves are still charged. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on girls?”

“My mum taught me a lot of things about women.” He flashes me the grin he’s known for. “But it seems as if you were the one sneaking up on me.” He points to the set of steps he’s currently sitting on. “I was here first.”

“Semantics,” I mutter through my smile as I rest my ass on the short retaining wall opposite him. In the times I’ve interacted with him, there’s always been something about him that puts me at ease and right now is no different.

We’re about thirty feet away from the entrance to the party. Headlights of arriving partygoers sweep over us, as yet another car drops their occupants off. Someone laughs and I turn to look their way, but when I look back, Lachlan’s studying gaze hasn’t wavered.

“Want one?” he asks and holds out a hard candy, its wrapper making crinkling noises.

“No, thanks.” I pause. “Candy from strangers? That’s a little cliché, don’t you think?” I tease.

“Except I’m not a stranger and what’s wrong with peppermint?”

“Peppermint?”

“Yep. Peppermint.” He nods unapologetically and pops one in his mouth. Its unmistakable scent immediately permeates the air.

“Nothing’s wrong with it . . . I don’t think.”

He smiles. It’s genuine and makes the lines at the corners of his eyes crease and the ridge of his nose scrunch. It makes him look boyish yet surprisingly manly too.

“So, are you?” he asks after a beat.

“Am I what?” I ask. There’s a chill to the air, and I’m starting to regret my choice not to bring a jacket.

“Sick of the chaos?”

“Yes. Maybe.” I glance back toward him and then something hits me. “Too. You asked if I’m sick of the chaos too.” I narrow my eyes at him. I’ve yet to meet a Formula 1 driver who shies away from the limelight. “You’re telling me you are?”

His nod is slow as he brings the bottle of beer I didn’t notice in his hand to his lips. “Perhaps.”

I snort. “Oh, c’mon. You guys live for this shit. The screaming fans. The nonstop advances from gorgeous women—and men. The cameras following your every move.” But the minute the words are out of my mouth, they feel less certain than they sound.

In that moment, I realize that in all my time interacting with Apex Racing—and the drivers in general—he’s the least enamored with . . . or maybe even desperate for the attention.

“At times, yes. At others? Not so much.”

“And this is one of those times?”

He looks to the left at yet another car arriving and then back to me. His shrug is as ambiguous as his answer. “Mmm.”

I immediately want to know what the sound means, but it’s not my place to ask, so I settle for a topic that’s less intrusive. “Big week ahead.”