Page 3 of Twisted Trails
He reaches into the back seat and grabs something, tossing it at me without a word.
A worn hoodie.
I scowl, wanting to snap that I’m fine, and that I don’t need his damn charity, but the words die in my throat as I finally do more than just glance at him.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to Luc Delacroix.
Too long.
And goddammit, I hate how unfairly good-looking he is.
His sharp jaw, the too-pretty lips, that nose that’s somehow perfect and punchable at the same time. Those blue eyes, focused hard on the road, like he’s willing the hospital to appear faster. That ridiculous mullet should look like a joke, but somehow it works, in the same way the mustache shouldn’t be hot butis.
He’s a fucking menace wrapped in French charm and infuriatingly good hair.
And now that I’m letting myself, I can’t stoplooking.
He’s wearing a hoodie the same as the one he threw at me, sleeves pushed up, tattooed forearms soaked and mud-streaked from his race, although he’s still in his filthy racing pants.
I hate to give in, but if I stay in this wet gear, I’ll either get sick or look like roadkill when we walk into the hospital.
They won’t let me near him like this.
I wrinkle my nose when my jersey clings to my skin, making a disgustingshlkas I pull it over my head, and then unbuckle the chest guard and toss both into the back seat.
It’s warm in here now, but goose bumps still erupt on my bare skin. Glancing sideways, I catch Luc staring at my chest before he snaps his gaze back to the road, pretending he didn’t just get caught.
A strange heat coils low in my stomach, but I shove it down, grinding my teeth as I yank the hoodie over my head.
It’s pink, because of course it is, and it smells likeLuc-fucking-Delacroix—sunscreen, lavender, and mischief. I scowl harder, even as I burrow inside the stupidly soft fabric.
It’s the coziest thing I’ve worn in years, and that pisses me off even more.
I cross my arms and glare out the window. “Shouldn’t you be on the podium with all your adoring fans after winning on your home turf? I don’t get why you’re hauling my ass around like I’m some wet stray.”
Luc snorts. “You took second, so you should be on that podium too.”
“I’ve got better places to be.”
“Same,” Luc mutters.
My anger dies out as I watch the road, trying my best not to think about the shot of that wheel spinning.
Fuck, Bambi. Please be all right.
I glance at him, then scan the inside of the van again. “Where’d this rig even come from?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Team van. Figured the win’s a good enough excuse for stealing it.”
I huff a laugh despite myself because,of course. He’s a cocky bastard to the core, but when I see how the rain has pooled on the streets, I know I owe him for this.
Riding there on my bike would’ve been suicide.
I shudder at the thought, and Luc flicks on my seat heater. The warmth bleeds into my thighs and lower back within seconds, and I hate how good it feels, how comforting.
Just like the fucking hoodie.
I look at him for the hundredth time today. “Why are you doing this?”
