Page 59 of Over the Limit

Lachlan Evans isn’t the reason I broke up with Oliver Rossi.

That’s for damn sure.

But he’s not a bad distraction either if I’m going by my train of thought.

I’m not a rebound, Blair.

Those words have been on repeat in my head about as often as the memory of his kiss has replayed.

And now my dad’s have been added.

If that’s what you want.

Funny enough, what I want hasn’t wavered. Not once. I’m just hoping Lachlan Evans is willing to bend the rules he’s lived his entire life by to allow me to have it.

And if he’s struggling with that, then I just might need to remind him why he should.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lachlan

Fourteen days.

It’s all Blair’s text says and fuck if those three syllables don’t make me fucking hard as a rock. What I should be doing is what I came to my private driver’s suite for—to clear my head.

And now both heads are at attention with no fucking relief in sight.

But I said twenty-one days and I meant it.

Had to.

Because she needs to be sure. I need to face my own fucking failure in going against everything I’ve ever been told.

And that’s just fucked up in so many ways.

So I’m holding out. It’s killing me but I’m a man of my word, and I need to at least hold on to that.

“Every fucking race.”

I glance over to Rossi. The King of Muttering in what seems to be his pre-race default as of late.

Doesn’t he know I need to focus as much as it seems he needs to mutter? The last thing I want to do is engage with him right now. He’s been a bear during the last month, and it seems like in almost every interaction we’ve had, he’s gunning for an argument.

That’s the last thing we need right now. An argument. A verbal sparring match. Whatever you want to call it. My damn contract is no closer to being offered and so I need to keep my nose clean and take the high road.

I get up to close my door. “Good luck today, mate. We’ve got weather on our side, that’s for sure. Gonna close this for a bit and—”

“She’s been at every fucking race of my career. Every goddamn time like clockwork. She shows up and gives me a good luck kiss. Leaves before anyone sees her.” He throws his hands up so they slap against his legs like a toddler does. “And this time . . .”

Fuck. I cannot have this conversation right now.

“I mean, I’d give you a good luck kiss if you’d like but I doubt you’ll enjoy it,” I say with a cheeky smile.

Do I want to tell him to shut the fuck up? Do I want to tell him he’s acting like an entitled arsehole? Yep and yep. But it’s race day—the best day of the week—and the last fucking thing we need is for me to create more stress.

“Right. You want to kiss my ass as well as Johann’s, do you?”

For fuck’s sake. Did the man put the A in antagonism because that’s all he seems to want to do?