Page 33 of Cross the Line
But if her feelings for me were so obvious, how could I have missed them? How could I have overlooked her for so long when I could have had everything I’m aching for? Was Ithatoblivious?
The answer is a bathroom door slamming open and being furiously accused of kissing his sister. Oakley.Oakleyis the reason I missed every clue and hint and damn neon sign Willow tossed out there. Time after time, he was there to intercept them. He kept the blinders over my eyes and forcibly encouraged me to push Willow firmly into theshe’s familycategory. He made sure I viewed her as an annoying tagalong and nothing more.
But Willow isnotfamily. She’s not my little sister. She’s never been annoying or underfoot. Not to me. Never to me.
Yet I’ve always kept my distance. Arm’s length. Eyes averted. Convincing myself that she’s an extension of Oakley when she’s been her own person all along. And it’s taken me until this very week to realize that.
Burying my face in a pillow, I barely hold back a scream of irritation. The universe has got to be playing a joke. The gods that hold my fate in their hands are enjoying fucking with me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t feel like I got hit by a Mack truck of bullshit emotion all because a girl confessed that she likes me. Or used to. But based on how she responded to me, I’m willing to bet it’s still a thing.
I’m not cocky enough to think I can have any woman in the world, but I race fast cars and make millions and have the looks and smile that drop panties. I’m loved by moms and daughters alike, a cheeky bastard with a penchant for flirty quips and dirty one-liners in interviews. I’m a goddamndelight, and women like to tell me as much. Usually without the use of words.
So no, I’m not unused to confessions of crushes and batted eyelashes. I know how to handle a love declaration in a moment of passion and the tears that come when I say I don’t feel the same way. I know how to avoid entanglements that end in drama. I know how to get myself out of trouble.
Except Willow makes me want to dive headfirst toward it. She’s got me contemplating whether I should get out of bed and go find her. Because if I do, maybe there’s a chance I can sleep tonight. I’d hate her for messing with my race weekend rituals if I wasn’t so enamoured with her – and if I wasn’t stuck reminiscing about loaded words and an almost less-than-innocent touch. Fuck, I’ve got to get it together.
What’s messing with me the most is how we just . . . let it drop. Once Oakley told me to never make a move on his sister, I didn’t bring it up with her again. Not the next day at breakfast, where we were both hungover as shit. Not Friday when she stopped by the pit before heading out for a day in Austin with her friends. Not today when she congratulated me for qualifying P12 and sat near enough at dinner that I could have pulled her for a private conversation without garnering any suspicion from her brother.
We’re both pretending like nothing happened, like those damning words never left her beautiful mouth. But I can’t pretend any more, and I have to—
A light knock on the door drags me out of my half-baked plans to stalk down to her room and tell her how fucked-up she’s got me. Blowing out a breath, I roll out of bed and pull on a T-shirt and sweatpants. I’m not about to answer the door in boxers, even though it’s probably someone who’s seen me in far less than that over the years. I think I’ve been naked in front of Mark more times than any woman I’ve ever slept with.
But it’s not Mark, or Chava, or Oakley on the other side of my door. It’s not even Jani or Patsy come to torture me.
It’s the current bane of my existence.
‘Hey,’ I greet Willow, blinking in surprise. Shit, did I conjure her? Could she feel me thinking from floors above? Am I about to find out I’m actually a wizard? ‘What are you doing up here?’
Her eyes don’t quite meet mine when she looks up from the carpet. They dart from my face to over my shoulder and back again. ‘I was looking for Oak,’ she explains, twisting her fingers in front of her stomach. ‘I locked myself out of our room when I went to the vending machine. I thought he might be up here with you and I could get the key from him.’
I shake my head, mostly to clear away my earlier thoughts. I didn’t conjure her, but it sure as shit looks like fate’s out here conspiring again. The question is whether it’s for or against me. ‘He left about a half hour ago.’ The guy’s probably down at the hotel bar chatting up three different women right now. ‘If you want, I can go down to the front desk with you and get another key card made.’
With the soft redness flooding the high points of her cheeks, I almost expect her to decline and rush away. But instead, she nods and lets out a relieved breath. ‘You wouldn’t mind?’
I don’t at all, especially since destiny brought her to my doorstep. Might as well take advantage of it.
‘Not one bit,’ I answer as I pat the pockets of my sweatpants to make sure I have my own key. ‘The room’s in my name anyway, so it’ll be easier that way.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, shifting back to let me out after I slip on my sneakers. ‘It was so silly, I literally left the key sitting on the dresser.’
‘Happens to the best of us,’ I reassure, holding out an arm, motioning for her to lead the way to the elevators.
‘Actually, is it okay if we take the steps?’
I smirk. ‘You still don’t like elevators?’
As I fall in beside her, she lifts her chin indignantly, daring me to tease her. Which I absolutely will. ‘I avoid them if I can.’
‘You got stuckonce, Wills.’ I can’t stop myself from laughing. ‘And it was for all of five minutes.’
‘Once was more than enough,’ she huffs, shooting me a glare. ‘Now some of my stress dreams involve getting stuck in an elevator that drops out of nowhere. My knees would prefer the elevator, but my anxiety doesn’t.’
‘Okay, okay, I get you. Stairs it is.’
I haul open the fire door to the stairwell and hold it so she can go first. I’m up on the ninth floor, so this won’t be a quick trip, but I suppose that works in my favour. Now I have time to gear up to what I want to say, actually say it, and deal with the aftermath.
Willow grasps the handrail on the left, taking each step like she’s afraid of missing one. She’s wearing sensible sneakers with her white sundress, but I can’t fault her caution. Little mistakes for her can result in big consequences. I know the feeling.
When we reach the landing on the eighth floor, I finally clear my throat, hoping it will help settle how hard my heart is beating against my ribcage. I’m not nervous, so I don’t know what its problem is. No, not nervous at all . . .
