Page 4 of Over the Limit

“Race week is always a big week,” he says.

“Do you think the crew has all the . . . issues, kinks, whatever it’s called worked out?”

“Kinks?” He lifts a lone eyebrow and fights a smirk as the mint clicks against his teeth. “Is that why you accosted me out here in the moonlight? To talk about kinks?”

“Funny.”

He sets his bottle on the concrete step beside him as we let the comment settle between us.

I tilt my head and study Lachlan Evans, Apex Racing’s understated teammate. Understated? That’s not exactly the right word since he’s just as talented as Rossi . . . but he does it with less panache. With more of a quiet confidence, I don’t think I’ve ever really stopped to contemplate until now.

He angles his head to mimic me as we openly study each other through the darkness. Assessing. Wondering.

“The cars?” I ask to interrupt the sudden awkwardness. “Do you think the race engineers—”

“More racing? C’mon, now.” He chuckles. “Is that what you really want to talk about?”

“It’s my life.” I shrug and then backpedal when I realize how ridiculous that sounds talking to a driver. “I mean not like yours or the others, of course, but it creates the avenue for me to do what I do.”

“And . . . do you like what you do, Blair Carmichael?” he asks, his voice sounding like honey running over sandpaper. Something about my name on his lips, and the intensity in which he looks at me, has chills chasing up my spine.

I run my hands up and down my opposing arms. “I do. Very much so. I love the sport, the community that has been built around it . . . and using F1 and its popularity to bring happiness to those in the community is very fulfilling.”

Community Outreach Ambassador. It’s a longwinded title but one that I love and wear with immense pride.

“It is. I can understand that.” He purses his lips and nods. “I can imagine, knowing that you’ve introduced kids to the sport from all walks of life is a pretty cool feeling.”

“It is. Especially ones who might not ever have gotten the chance otherwise.” I shrug. “Then again, I wouldn’t have the chance to if there weren’t drivers like you who make the sport attractive.”

He laughs. “The sport would be attractive whether I was in it or not. I’m not that much of an egomaniac to think otherwise.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I’m just teasing you.” He pauses a beat when a couple walks between us. “You don’t tire of the constant travel or the fact that we’re always on?”

“My spotlight is vastly different than yours. I have to be on so to speak for an event or a quick interview, but other than that, no one pays much mind to who I am.”

“Surely you get your fair share of attention? Good, bad, and ugly?”

“When you’re a permanent fixture, you become background noise that nobody notices much.”

“I think you underestimate yourself,” he murmurs in a way that has me crossing my arms over my chest.

It’s not delivered as a pickup line like so many other men would. It’s more a statement of fact that I assume is said to make me feel better.

Uncertain how to respond, I motion to our surroundings and revisit his original question. “And yet I’m out here right now, aren’t I?”

“True. I wasn’t sure if that was because of the people inside or the person you came with,” he says.

“Maybe all of the above,” I admit.

He shrugs. “For the record, if the choice was to be out here with you or in there with them . . . the answer’s a no-brainer.”

“Oh.” I blink, his answer surprising me.

“Sorry. That came off wrong.” He holds his hands up and chuckles. “It’s just . . . sometimes people pick the wrong things to focus on. It’s been a running theme as of late between me and my teammate.”

“Seems to be a common thread these days,” I muse. Isn’t that part of the reason I’m out here right now?