Page 1 of Cross the Line
PROLOGUE
Dev
October – Austin, Texas
I’ve fucked up. Boy howdy, have I fuckedallthe way up.
My race engineer is in my ear, asking questions likeWhat happened?andAre you okay?and, most importantly,How much damage did the car sustain?I need to answer him – need to reassure him and the team that I’m conscious after skidding through gravel and hitting a barrier at nearly a hundred miles an hour. For now, they’ll have to trust my vitals displayed on the pit wall computer screens, because I can’t seem to form the words to tell them. Not because there’s anything physically wrong with me. It’s just that my brain is . . . not present. It’s taking a day off. Fully out to goddamn lunch. And it’s not because of the crash.
‘Dev?’ Branny’s voice breaks through the fog, his concern deep and clear over the radio. ‘Can you hear me? Are you okay? Repeat, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ I choke out, still clutching the steering wheel. My knuckles are probably white underneath my gloves. ‘Car’s done, though. I’m sorry, everyone. This is on me.’
Like any good engineer, he’ll want to question what the problem was, but he knows better than to ask it over the team radio where anyone in the world could be listening. It’ll wait until the debrief, and then I can get my ass handed to me by our CEO, our team principal and my lead mechanic. And I’ll deserve it, because this really was on me.
This was no fault of the car, the track surface, another driver, or a force of nature. No, I committed a mortal sin while behind the wheel.
I got distracted.
It shouldn’t have happened. It’sneverhappened in all my years of racing, and certainly not during the five I’ve spent in Formula 1. I’ve never let my mind wander so far that I braked too late and lost the back end. I barely had time to react before coming to a bone-shuddering stop in the barriers.
‘Turn the car off and come back to the pit,’ Branny instructs.
I do what I’m told before I ruin anything else. I can only imagine what the TV commentators will have to say as they discuss the possible reasons for my crash. I can practically hear them saying,It’s such a disappointment, but what matters is that he’s okay.
But I’m not okay. I’m far from it. I screwed up big time – and I don’t mean the crash.
I can’t stop thinking about it, even as I pull myself out of my ruined car and walk away from millions of dollars of damage. If I’m being honest with myself, things may never be okay again.
Because I kissed Willow Williams last night. And now I’m a dead man walking.
CHAPTER 1
Willow
Seven months later, May – New York City
I’ve nearly set my apartment on fire. Again.
Making macarons should not be this hard. They’re small and cute, and the recipe calls for super simple ingredients – it’s just egg whites, almond flour and sugar. So why, ohwhy,can’t I make a single batch without completely messing up?
‘Oh no, oh shit,’ I mumble as I snatch an oven mitt off the counter and pull out the now-smoking confection. According to the timer, they shouldn’t be done for another five minutes, and yet these are nearly burnt to a crisp. Either the recipe was wrong about the baking temperature, or my oven was sent straight from hell. I’m betting on the latter.
I’m desperate to recreate the infamous Stella Margaux Bakery’s classic macaron because, as of a month ago, New York City’s one location closed for renovations, and I simply can’t live without them. The news was enough to make me consider moving back to the West Coast, where there’s a Stella’s practically every hundred feet.
Then again, I might not have a choice about returning to San Diego to live with my family if I can’t find a job in the next couple of months. I came to New York four years ago for college and had plans to stay for possibly the rest of my life. My education was bankrolled by my amazing parents, with the stipulation that after graduation, I’d support myself. Truthfully, they’d have no problem continuing to help me, and they absolutely have the means, but it’s the principle of it all. I made a promise, and I plan to keep it. I just didn’t think it would be this difficult.
I busted my ass during undergrad with a double major in communications and sports marketing, a minor in English, and a new internship every semester. With all that experience, I thought it would be easy to find a full-time position working in the marketing department of a professional sports team – a.k.a. my dream job. But after dozens of flat-out ignored applications, zero call-backs after interviews, and endlesswe’ll be in touchlies, I’m still unemployed.
It would be so much worse if I’d graduated ages ago instead of just last week, but I’ve been applying for positions for months now, hoping to have a job in place by the time I was handed my diploma. My brother landed one in his field months before graduation, so I figured there was no reason I couldn’t do the same.
Ha. Joke’s on me, because here I am with no job, a dwindling sum in my bank account, and a two-hour drive from the closest Stella Margaux’s. This is not what I callliving my best life. But damn if I’m not trying.
‘What’s on fire?’ Chantal asks from the doorway to the kitchen, grimacing at the smell.
I sigh and move to open the window, sparing a glance back at my roommate as I do. ‘My hopes and dreams.’
‘Figured. Smells awful.’
