Page 139 of Knot So Fast
Dex smirks, that calculating expression that means he's about to drop some embarrassing truth bomb. "You may not remember, but the last time you had three tequila shots, you were naked in the pool showing everyone your floating snow angels."
I gawk at him, processing this information with the slow comprehension of someone whose brain is operating on tequila time. Then I giggle, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as I lean in to whisper conspiratorially, "I can do it again."
"NO!"
The chorus comes from everyone simultaneously—Luke, Kieran, Caspian, even Terek who's just emerged from below deck. The unity of their horror makes me laugh even harder.
This was supposed to be a team-bonding day, not a photo op—at least that's what we told ourselves when Terek announced we'd been invited to use one of our sponsor's yachts for a "casual celebration" of our success in Barcelona. Second place in my second race, with Lachlan taking first. The one-two finish for Titan Racing had sent our sponsors into ecstasy and our competitors into fury.
A drone buzzes past, the high-pitched whine cutting through our laughter. It hovers just out of reach, camera pointed directly at us, trying to get the perfect shot of the team that's currently dominating Formula One headlines.
Dex flips it the bird with both hands, his middle fingers raised in perfect symmetry. "Fuck off, you mechanical voyeur!"
Luke's already calling security, his phone pressed to his ear as he orders drone removal with the same casual tone someone might use to order pastries. "Yes, we have another one. No, we don't care if they claim it's for 'journalism.' Yes, you have permission to use whatever force necessary."
He pauses, listening, then adds, "Why are these drones making it a mission to get the best shots of us again? Oh right, we're famous for winning our second race. How could I forget?"
The sarcasm in his voice could strip paint, but there's pride underneath it. We are famous. We are winning. And despite the intrusions, we're actually having fun.
"Bring the champagne!" Lachlan calls out from where he's been manning the grill, because apparently even four-time world champions have to take turns with cooking duties.
Terek emerges fully from below deck, his usually stressed expression replaced with something that might actually be agenuine smile. "Just got off the phone with headquarters," he announces, holding up three fingers. "Three new sponsors."
The cheer that erupts is probably audible on the mainland. Kieran raises his beer, Caspian actually stands up from his precisely arranged lounger, and even Luke stops trying to cover me with a towel long enough to join in.
"To Titan Racing International!" Lachlan shouts, appearing with a bottle of champagne that he definitely didn't have cleared with the yacht's owner.
"To not crashing!" I add, which gets a laugh.
"To beating Mercedes next time!" Dex contributes.
"To properly applied sunscreen!" Caspian says, which gets him pelted with napkins.
"To family," Kieran says quietly, and that one makes everyone pause, smiles softening into something more meaningful.
We clink glasses and bottles and whatever we're holding, the sound carrying across the water. The champagne is perfect—cold and crisp and probably worth more than most people's monthly salary. I stick with it instead of more tequila, having learned my lesson about mixing different types of alcohol the hard way. Apparently.
The afternoon unfolds in a series of perfect moments strung together like pearls. We swim off the stern, the water so clear you can see straight to the bottom twenty feet down. The Mediterranean in late spring is cool but not cold, refreshing after the heat of the deck.
Lachlan dives with me, his hand skimming my ribs as we slip beneath the surface into a quiet blue world that feels like a secret. Underwater, with the sunlight filtering down in cathedral rays and the sound of the world muffled to nothing, it's just us. He grins at me, bubbles escaping as he tries not to laugh at my attempts to do underwater somersaults.
We surface together, gasping and laughing, and he pushes my wet hair back from my face with a tenderness that makes my chest tight. For a moment, we just tread water, looking at each other, and I think this might be what happiness actually feels like.
Back on deck, we're all pruned and sun-drunk, that particular exhaustion that comes from swimming and sunlight. Caspian, ever the responsible one, insists on applying sunscreen to my shoulders, muttering about UV damage and skin cancer statistics.
His hands are surprisingly gentle for someone who spends most of his time with machinery, working the lotion in slow circles that make my knees behave irresponsibly. He's methodical about it—covering every inch of exposed skin with the kind of attention to detail that probably makes him excellent at his job but is definitely making me think inappropriate thoughts.
"If you don't stop making those noises," he murmurs low enough that only I can hear, "we're going to have a problem."
"I'm not making noises," I protest, then immediately undermine myself by humming when he hits a particularly tense spot between my shoulder blades.
"That," he says, his voice dropping to something that makes heat pool in my stomach, "is definitely a noise."
I end up sprawled across a sunbed between Kieran and Dex, the three of us trading increasingly ridiculous jabs about everything from racing lines to who has the worst tan lines. Kieran's already getting pink across his shoulders despite the SPF 50 he claimed to apply, while Dex somehow has a perfect golden glow that makes no sense for someone who spends most of his time in commentary boxes.
"It's fake tan," Kieran accuses.
"It's Italian genetics," Dex counters.
