Page 70 of Broken Breath
I wipe my gloved palms on my thighs, trying to shake off the heat crawling up my neck. I mean, he’s got agreatass, sure.Objectively. And he’s cute. Annoyingly so. Hiccups like a baby bird and talks like he’s got a cold, and somehow still rides like the fucking wind.
And I’m just me. I joke, I flirt, I get handsy. What can I say? I’m French. Physical affection is part of the export. But I’ve never actually done anything serious with a guy. Never wanted to. Never thought about…
Isthatmy problem?
Am I standing here, jealous of him smiling at Payne, all twitchy and obsessed because I want tofuckhim?
Mon Dieu.
I exhale loudly, the sound shaky andentirely uncool, and try to get my shit together and focus on the race ahead. But my gaze is stuck on him as his hips wiggle while he finds his stance on the pedals. He moves his cute ass as if heknowsI’m watching, even though I’m pretty sure he’d rather get hit by a truck than be ogled by me.
Which… fair.
Finally,PetitCrews drops into the track, and the wind seems to go with him, as if it loves him more than it loves gravity. I huff and press a hand to my chest like that’ll slow my heartbeat.
Before I can catch my breath, Raine rolls up to the gate. The beeps start. One, two, three, and he launches. And just like that, there’s nothing left at the top of the mountain but me, the roaring wind, and my muddled thoughts.
I flex my fingers on the bars and try to shake out the tension. This is the part I normally love. The quiet before the storm. The calm before the chaos. The moment when I become everything I’ve built myself to be.
Beep. Beep.
A particularly strong gust of wind whistles through my helmet, and instead of focusing, my brain offers up what I toldPetitearlier.
“You just want someone to bite you first, hmm?”
Fuck.
I would love to bite hisass and see if he hiccups when I do it.
Putain de merde,what’s wrong with me?
The final beep sounds, and I slam down the pedals and burst out of the gate on instinct, but my usual fire doesn’t ignite. There’s no adrenaline rush, no flash of clarity, just static. I’m chasing something, but I don’t even know what.
The first corner is too tight, the second, too wide. Everything is just a fraction off. The course and I are out of sync, speaking different languages.
“Focus,” I hiss, trying to claw my way back into rhythm, but I can’t because I don’t race from my head. I race from my gut, and my gut is a goddamn mess.
I’ve flirted with half the world. I’ve kissed guys, cuddled teammates, even made out with a Brazilian mechanic after a lost bet. But none of it ever made my hands shake. None of it ever made me feel like I was coming apart at the seams.
This? This is different.
I’m supposed to be unstoppable, unshakable. The three-time overall champion who doesn’t flinch, but today, I’m unraveling over a guy who won’t even look at me. Over a hiccup, and my brain is a mess, short-circuiting entirely over the idea of nibblingPetitCrews like he’s a goddamn snack.
Which, I guess he is.
Nope.
Non.
Shut. It. Down.
A root catches my back tire, and I fishtail, nearly losing it so hard my heart jumps into my throat. I barely recover, but I feel it now.
I’m not in control.
The crowd on the side of the track blurs, my breathing is ragged, and every turn feels like it’s fighting me.
This isn’t me. This isn’t how I race. I need to get it together, but I can’t. Not with the thought ofPetit’s hiccup still stuck in my head, and the echo of his voice snapping,I’m not your friend.
