Page 39 of Head Over Wheels

‘I wouldn’t want to be him anyway, regardless of… size.’

It was a relief when her shoulders shook with a chuckle. ‘You’re disappointingly mature sometimes, Franck.’ Muffling her next words in her sleeves, I nonetheless understood when she continued, ‘And you’ve got a really nice cock.’

I had no hope of formulating a response to that when my skin was burning with juvenile pride and a big dose of embarrassment. ‘Uh, thanks,’ I gulped, staring helplessly as she threw me a smirk.

But her next words made me cold again. ‘Gaetano didn’t say anything about me, then?’

‘Did you want him to say something about you?’ It was hell not touching her, but she was wrapped so tightly in on herself I knew she wouldn’t accept it.

‘No…’ she replied eventually. ‘How much of a relationship is ego and how much is actually a relationship? The way I see Gaetano now, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell.’

… or if I’ll ever be able to embark on a relationship. That’s what she was saying. I wanted to press a kiss to the pinch between her brows. I couldn’t take my eyes off her but I also had no idea what to do with all these cords of emotion. I just wanted her to feel safe with me.

‘You don’t… It wasn’t allergies, was it? On Zpeed?’ I ventured quietly.

At first she shot me a peeved look but she pressed the back of her hand to her face, rubbing her nose vigorously. ‘Of course it wasn’t allergies. I was just an emotional idiot on Zpeed and my back hurt like hell.’

‘I liked that emotional idiot— Not that I’m agreeing with your choice of—’

‘You liked me because you imagined I looked like Natalie Portman,’ she accused with a snort.

At least I managed not to blurt out that I thought she was just as beautiful. She didn’t have the flawless features of an actress, but her snub nose, her freckles, her top lip that was thicker than the bottom one and often betrayed her feelings— I gulped as the memory of kissing her washed over me. No, I liked her face just the way it was.

‘I kind of miss our chats on Zpeed,’ I said haltingly, the words entirely inadequate, but I didn’t want her to bolt. ‘Not that you’re not… lovely… in person? I like this too! But things… complicated… Did I always say the wrong thing online too?’ I asked, rubbing a hand over my face.

‘No,’ she said with a smile I didn’t expect. ‘You usually said the right thing, Loonie.’

‘Star Wars and melodramatic rock?’

‘Yes, and you didn’t judge me, because you didn’t know who I was.’

‘I won’t judge you now—’ One look from her and I had to admit to myself that I had judged her after meeting her in person. Her reputation preceded her and I’d only seen one side of her online – the vulnerable bit she pretended didn’t exist. Which was why she liked to pretend I didn’t exist. I should probably try to remember that.

‘Top Gun’ was still in there somewhere, even if I kept getting caught up with Folklore.

‘I googled Leesa Kubicka once,’ she said, her voice thin. ‘She’s been studying part-time at a top university. Apparently, she got the highest mark possible at high school and loads of scholarship opportunities.’

I knew better than to try to convince her it didn’t matter that her teammate was academically gifted. ‘It’s never a good idea to google other people,’ I said instead. ‘Except me? You can google me.’

She gave me a shove with her shoulder, but it lingered – unless I imagined that prolonged press of her side to minebecause of the ripple of gratification it sent through me. ‘I did google you,’ she said with a provoking smile.

‘What did you find out?’ I asked, my voice rough.

‘I got a bit distracted with the pictures.’ Her smile grew and I couldn’t have replied if my life depended on it. ‘They held my attention more than your palmarès anyway. It’s shorter than your—’ Her gaze dipped and I snapped my knees together, shoving her with my elbow.

‘Shut up,’ I grumbled through gritted teeth as heat blossomed in my cheeks again. ‘Hoogenboezem won the polka-dot jersey because of me!’ I insisted.

‘Reverse psychology works so well on you.’

‘I’m a simple man,’ I mumbled, giving a shrug that brought my arm against hers again. Did she feel the same deep shudder inside, the same pull, at every light touch?

‘You know I thought you were Canadian. I assumed you must be some rich Québécois who’d got into cycling from your posh social circle.’

‘Huh. Why?’

‘You used to go on about winter and cycling is such a middle-class sport in North America. And the Loonie, of course. Apparently, that’s what they call a Canadian dollar. I thought it was a jokey nickname like Fifty Cent.’

‘You thought I was a rich guy named after a rapper?’

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