Page 7 of Cross the Line
I nearly face-plant when my heel catches on air. If it weren’t for Oakley’s grip on me, I would have gone down – and hard – all at the mention of a name.
‘Dev?’ I repeat, wincing at the way my voice pitches high. I clear my throat, then clarify. ‘Dev Anderson? He’s here?’
If Oakley were actually paying attention to me instead of eyeing a pretty blonde, there’s no way he wouldn’t have picked up on my panic.
It’s been seven months since I’ve seen my brother’s best friend – and the last time I did? Let’s say things didn’t exactly go the way I thought they would, and I’m still mortified.
‘Yeah, of course he’s here,’ Oakley says as we elbow our way up to the bar. ‘SecDark is a sponsor of his team.’
‘Right.’ I knew that. I just . . . forgot. And byforgot, I mean I genuinely had no idea. ‘But I – I thought you sponsored a different team.’ There’s no way I’mthatoblivious. I may not follow F1 as closely as I do other sports, but it’s on my radar. And so are too many things related to Dev, the boy I had a massive crush on for most of my childhood.
Oakley grunts as he lifts a hand to signal the bartender over, which I take as confirmation. ‘We started out with Deschamp, but Argonaut won the owners over with theirall-American, all the timebullshit. So yeah, we switched last year. Though Argonaut has yet to place on the podium this season, so it stands to be seen whether it’s a better partnership.’
I nod, trying to take all of that information in, but my mind is set to anxiety mode. Of their own volition, my eyes dart around the massive space in search of Dev in the crowd. I knew there was a small chance I might run into him at the race this weekend, and I prepared myself for that possibility, but this feels like an ambush.
Oakley is still rambling on about racing statistics, but I’ve mostly tuned him out. I’ve heard it all before anyway. The guy could talk about these things for ever. Usually, I dutifully listen, since I’m an amazing sister . . . and also because I find that stuff interesting, as much as I hate to admit it to him.
This time, though, I only pretend to pay attention, vaguely murmuring when it seems appropriate. But when my eyes land on a familiar form in the crowd, I can’t keep up the ruse any more.
Dev’s trademark grin – the one he’s never afraid to let loose – lights up the room. I swear his face was made for smiling and smiling alone, and the dark scruff on his sharp jaw only accentuates how bright it is. I’ve seen videos on my ‘for you’ pages that constantly gift him the title ofbest smile in the paddock, and I can’t disagree. No one on that grid – past, present and probably even future – has humour more infectious than Dev’s. None of them even come close.
As kids, it was rare to see him without a full-out grin on his face, and it hasn’t changed a bit. Worries seem to roll off his back. It’s not that he doesn’t take anything seriously – he wouldn’t have made it this far in his career if he didn’t – but Dev just has the uncanny ability to always see the bright side, no matter how dark things may seem.
Without his positivity, I don’t think I would have made it through the roughest points of my teenage years, a time when I hated my body for holding me back from the things I wanted more than anything. It’s a lot to credit someone with, but Dev and his smile and his little words of encouragement made all the difference.
My heart races like it always does when I see him, but tonight, it’s accompanied by anxious nausea. He looks . . . good.Reallygood. Better than I remembered, even with a mind that always paints him in the best light.
From where I’m standing, I have the perfect view of his profile. His jet-black hair is shorter on the sides and longer on the top. The strands curl and brush his forehead in that tousled way that looks intentionally styled, though it’s more likely caused by the way he constantly runs his fingers through it. And that tuxedo . . . No man should look that good in a penguin suit, but I know a lot of people – myself included – would rather see him and his broad shoulders out of it.
Although, from what I hear, women aren’t lining up to have that privilege these days, and I shouldn’t be thinking that way either. Not because the rumour going around the internet is that he’s being treated for an STD, but because he’s beyond off-limits to me. Our kiss is a secret I plan to take to the grave.
‘Oh, there he is.’ Oakley’s voice cuts through my borderline impure thoughts and brings my focus back to him. In my periphery, he’s looking in the same direction I am. ‘Let’s go say hi.’
‘Huh?’ The surprised syllable tumbles from my lips.
‘You weren’t even listening to me, were you?’ He passes me a glass of champagne that magically appeared – along with an Old Fashioned he’s already sipping – while I was ogling his best friend. ‘I spotted Dev. I wanna talk to him before my bosses descend on my ass.’
Oakley grips my shoulder and nudges me into walking before I even know what’s happening.
But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I’m absolutely not ready to see Dev Anderson again.
CHAPTER 4
Dev
I’m in trouble. Big fucking trouble.
It feels impossible to be in evenmoretrouble than I was five minutes ago, but it’s the truth.
Because with Willow here, I’m utterly screwed.
Sadly, not literally.
I have to leave the party. That’s my only option, because if she spots me before I can find my composure, I’m going to . . . Well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but it definitely won’t be anything good or smart or helpful to the recovery of my image.
Despite knowing I need to turn and power-walk the fuck out of here, I can’t seem to drag my attention away from her.
Across the room, she glances around, her delicate shoulders tensing as she looks for a familiar face in the sea of guests. If I were a braver man – funny, since I drive a car around a track at two hundred miles per hour for a living – I’d go over and greet her, tell her how great it is to see her again and offer to get her a drink. Only, in my current state, there’s a strong chance that greeting might come out as ‘What in the freshfuckare you doing here?’
