Page 77 of Over the Limit

There’s no way this is real. Can’t be. And yet Lachlan’s texts keep coming at random times throughout the past few days to make me realize it is real. A glance at my screen proves it.

Lachlan: Lach Ness. That’s what my mates called me at school when they wanted to make fun of me.

Lachlan: I prefer pesto over a red sauce any day.

Lachlan: Not one for sparkling water. The bubbles make it taste funny.

Lachlan: Bucket list destination is Iceland. But I don’t understand why it’s called Iceland when it’s the green one and Greenland is called that when it has the ice. Shouldn’t it be switched?

Lachlan: Shh. Don’t tell anyone but I loathe Vegemite.

Lachlan: One leg out of the covers at all times. That’s how I like to sleep.

Lachlan: Not a fan of spiders or snakes. Not exactly easy phobias when you grow up in Australia.

I told him I didn’t know him—his ins and outs, his preferences, his everything—and now he’s set out to show me via random texts throughout the day.

It feels silly and juvenile, but it makes me smile every time my phone alerts a text and I look down and see his name.

And it means he cares that I was concerned over it.

“Good news or bad news first?” I look up to where Paolo is standing in the doorway of my office. The far-off sound of engines revving in a garage somewhere peppers the air.

“Good news. Always good. I don’t want my mood ruined,” I say.

He nods and takes a step into my office. “Are you sitting down?” he asks and then laughs because I clearly am. “You know you seriously upped our fucking game, don’t you?”

“Okay.” I draw the word out, assuming he’s speaking of the whole Tori Michelle thing but figuring I’ll wait to see where he goes with this to be sure.

“You’re going to have the world watching, Carmichael, so please don’t fuck this up.”

“Paolo. No pressure or anything.”

He looks at me and his smile looks disbelieving. “I’m being serious. You’ll have the world watching. We just signed a contract to broadcast the gala and her performance.”

“What?” I bark out as his grin grows and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Exactly what I said. We just signed a contract for it with Worldcom Media. It’ll be the first time that something other than the actual race is broadcast simultaneously around the world.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am.” He leans back and folds his arms over his chest like a proud papa. “Everything Tori Michelle touches right now turns to gold like she’s fucking Midas. Worldcom thinks that between the draw the drivers have and her in general, people will tune in like gangbusters. And tuning in means advertising dollars and advertising dollars mean money and money makes everyone happy.”

“Any of that money going to the charity?” I ask.

“Yes. Built into the media contract.”

“Good.” I nod but try to wrap my head around it.

“I’m serious when I say that whoever helped or intervened or talked Tori Michelle into agreeing to perform? You need to do some serious kissing of his or her ass because they just made you a huge name.” He stares at me. “Are you going to say something?”

“That’s supposed to be the good news?” I croak out.

“Well, yeah,” he states like I’m an idiot.

“Because to me that feels like the bad news,” I joke as the pressure tightens around me like a vise.

“Carmichael,” he warns.