Page 11 of Formula Freedom
“Bet you two are glad I let you tag along,” Lance said, pushing his damp hair back with both hands like he was posing for a magazine shoot. His voice carried across the water, smug and teasing.
Lara rolled her eyes from her board beside me. “Let us? I distinctly rememberinviting you, Hemsworth.”
“You were fifteen minutes behind me getting out here,” he shot back. “Clearly chasing greatness.”
“You’re not great,” she said flatly. “You’re just tall.”
“I am very tall,” Lance said, as if she’d proven his point.
I grinned, balancing easily on my board. “I don’t know, Lara. You’ve got to admit—his ego does keep him afloat.”
Lara laughed, the sound bright and full and everything summer should be. “That’s the only thing keeping him afloat.”
Lance shook his head but smiled anyway. “Jealousy is ugly on both of you.”
He paddled a little farther out, and when he turned his back, Lara glanced over at me and smirked, her eyes squinting in the sun. “He’s going to be unbearable if he catches the next set.”
“Guess we better catch it first.”
She bumped her board lightly against mine. “Race you.”
We paddled out together, arms slicing through the water in a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing. Always in sync. Always side by side.
The wave rolled in slow and steady—a clean wall of water that seemed to rise just for us.
I pushed into it, but Lara was faster. She popped up with that easy grace she always had—fluid and fearless—and carved down the face like she owned the ocean. Her hair whipped back in the wind, her stance solid, smile wide as she rode it all the way in.
Lance and I both watched her from where we floated.
“She makes that look way too easy,” he muttered, genuinely impressed.
“Yeah,” I said quietly.
He didn’t seem to notice the way I watched her—chest heaving from the paddle, cheeks pink from the sun, eyes lit with that wild, untamable joy that only came from salt water and speed.
She looked like pure joy.
And maybe even then, I already knew—my heart was a little lost to her.
CHAPTER 4
Lara
For a fewblissful seconds after waking, I forget where I am.
The room is cool. Still. The sheets soft against my skin, the downy blanket a comforting cloud. There’s no tension in the air, no voice calling my name in that tone that makes my stomach twist. No footfalls, no pressure.
Just silence.
Then memory floods back like cold water, and I sit up abruptly. The guest room is dim, soft morning light seeping through the curtains. My rolling bag is open on the luggage rack where I left it last night after digging out the only pair of pajamas I’d packed. A Ritz-Carlton robe is draped over a chair in the corner. It’s as if I’m living someone else’s life. I’m in someone else’s body. But it’s mine.
And I’m here because Lance hit me.
Shame slams into me hard, robbing me of my breath. I can’t believe I let that happen. I can’t believe I let all those abuses that Lance has leveled my way for months go unanswered by outrage. I was raised not to tolerate such things from men. My mother is strong and independent, my father a supporter of feminism. I grew up in an environment where love and respect were pervasive to my very existence, and yet… I forgot it all with Lance. The mere fact that I can’t understand how far I’ve fallen is what causes such humiliation, and now I just want to crawl back under the covers and never come out.
But I don’t have that luxury. I have a life to rebuild. So, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and rub the fatigue from my face. I wince at the soreness in my cheek. The skin is tight and tender. I touch it briefly, more out of disbelief than anything else.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and Reid’s voice follows.
