Page 19 of Cross the Line
‘You barely see me anyway. You’re too busy in Chicago,’ I huff as I slowly stand from the chair. It feels like a thousand-pound weight has been lifted off my shoulders. If Oakley can’t see any drawbacks, maybe I really am making the right decision. ‘And this will only be for a couple of months. Just until Alisha’s wedding.’
Oakley gets a wistful look in his eyes when I mention Dev’s older sister, just like he has for years, but he blinks it away quickly and waves me off. ‘Whatever. Go get dressed so we can leave. I want to get day-drunk and gamble away my millions.’
I snort but move over to my suitcase to grab an outfit for the day. ‘I think you’re overestimating the number of zeros in your bank account.’
‘You don’t know my life.’ He purses his lips and studies me. ‘Hey, does this mean you need to check in with Dev? When do you officially start?’
‘I don’t know,’ I confess, pawing through sundresses and cardigans and ignoring the uptick in my heart rate. ‘I wanted to get your approval before moving forward with details.’
Oakley grumbles something I can’t make out. ‘Fine, call and let him know that the big bad brother doesn’t care what you two do. Just don’t make things worse for him. He’s already got it bad enough.’
I roll my eyes as I pick out a dress with tiny pink flowers printed across it and a pair of white sneakers. My joints won’t survive walking around this city without arch support, cute as my strappy sandals are. ‘You call him,’ I shoot back. ‘I don’t even have his number, and you’re the one he’d probably rather hear from anyway.’
The first part is a lie. I definitely have Dev’s number, unless he’s changed it in the past seven months. And as for him preferring to hear from Oakley – well, it’s notexactlya lie. I’m just too nervous to talk to him. Surely that doesn’t bode well for our working relationship, but hopefully we’ll fall back into our old camaraderie after a few days.
At least, I hope. Oh god, I don’t know how I’m going to make it through this if I can’t even bring myself to talk to the guy.
Oakley grunts but pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps the screen a few times before setting it on the bed beside him.
Dev’s voice is hoarse when he answers, and I can’t help but wonder what he did after the party last night. ‘What’s up?’
‘Hey, you at the circuit?’ Oakley’s question is directed at him, but he’s looking at me, gauging my reaction.
There’s vague rustling in the background, like sheets. I’m struck with the mental image of Dev naked in bed, brown skin against crisp white sheets, the necessities barely covered. It’s sudden and unbidden, but I like the idea of it more than I should.
‘Nah, haven’t left my place yet,’ he says. ‘Why?’
‘Come get your newest employee on your way over.’
There’s a long, crackling pause before he asks, ‘You serious?’
‘Hi, Dev,’ I squeak.
‘Willow. Hi.’ He clears his throat, and his voice loses some of that scratchy quality. ‘Oak, you’re okay with this?’
‘Yeah,’ my brother says. ‘I’m just pissed I didn’t think of it first.’
‘Okay. Wow. All right. I guess I’ll be there in a bit to pick you up, Wills.’
Before I can panic about being alone with Dev, Oakley adds, ‘We can all go over together. I want the full backstage tour too.’
‘You already know what it’s like,’ I point out, but I’m grateful that he’ll be a buffer – and a reminder of why I can’t let myself think the way I have been about Dev. ‘You’ve been to plenty of races. And you were literally a driver.’
‘Not in F1,’ he counters. ‘And Dev’s always been too busy to show me around, the dick.’
Dev lets out an exasperated breath. ‘Fine, we’ll all go.’
‘One big, happy family,’ Oakley quips.
Yeah. That’s certainly one way of putting it . . .
‘Well, Willow,’ Dev says as I stare at the phone beside my brother’s leg. ‘Welcome to Argonaut Racing. Hope you like red, white and blue.’
——
Dev wasn’t kidding about the colour scheme. It looks like the American flag threw up all over him and ninety-nine per cent of the people here.
This is Argonaut Racing’sall-American, all the timetagline come to life. Every person we’ve spoken to in the team’s hospitality suite since we arrived five minutes ago has an American accent, and the team uniform of navy shorts paired with a red-and-white striped polo screams patriotism. Or creepy nationalism.
