Page 57 of Head Over Wheels

Catching sight of the thread of my text conversation with Seb, I thought of the way he’d marvelled softly about the transition of our online relationship into real life. He’d been right. All those months had become something even more now the real Seb had slotted into my memories with his dimples and his sometimes cocky, sometimes goofy grin.

We werefriends. I was clinging to that now. Except the designation didn’t feel the most appropriate after I stowed my phone and crawled into bed. I snuggled in the heady warmth of his blankets and his body, his skin under my fingers and his scent in my nose. Maybe we were a little more than friends.

It was a giddy prospect, that my promise of a kiss might have motivated him in one of the toughest races on the calendar, but he’d been angry with me afterwards.

We lived in opposite corners of the planet for half the year and he wanted to open a fucking B&B. He probably wanted seven children and the Belgian equivalent of a white picket fence, but I lived for the bike. He could only ever be a fling and the whole fake-romance thing had been a low attempt to manipulate him into staying. I’d apologise in the morning.

One thing was clear: I was overthinking what was probably nothing more than a friendship with benefits. I wasn’t looking for romance anyway – in fact, it was probably a symptom of my undignified break-up with Gaetano that I was reading so much into Seb’s behaviour. He hadn’t wanted me to meet his family. I couldn’t tell if he truly wanted me close or was just tolerating my advances. Maybe he was just a good guy – with really tasty-looking shoulders.

I rolled onto my back with a disgruntled sigh. Life was so much easier when I only wanted to win races.

Chapter 23

Lori

It was so fucking quiet in the Belgian countryside.

Still only two days post-race for me, I would normally have let myself sleep late, maybe even watched a few episodes of something in bed, but I didn’t want to wake Seb, haunted by how much pain he’d been in last night.

Trying to be quiet seemed to turn me into a restless troll in bed – a restless, horny troll, if I was completely honest – and I rolled around as best I could with my sore shoulder, trying to keep my hands off him. He didn’t help my cause, murmuring in his sleep when I nudged him in the small double and fisting a hand in the shirt he’d given me to wear.

When he mumbled, ‘Lori,’ so softly my hair stood on end, I was tempted to press my lips to his and not give a damn if he needed his z’s.

‘Go back to sleep,’ I whispered instead.

‘But you feel good,’ he continued with a sigh. ‘You smell good too.’

‘I used your soap last night,’ I told him with a smile he couldn’t see, since his eyes were still shut – swollen from exposure to the wind yesterday after he’d lost his cycling glasses somewhere.

His mouth turned up and he rolled towards me with a sigh that was part groan from stiff muscles. He reached for me, his hand landing first on my hip, giving me a fumbling stroke, and then a smearing caress over my cheek, as though he needed to confirm I was truly there. Then his hand fell back to the sheet between us, where I studied his thick knuckles and weathered skin, wondering what it would feel like to slip my fingers between his and hold on. I needed to get up before I did something weird like kiss his fingertips.

Sneaking out of the bed, I rummaged in his wardrobe drawers until I found a pair of socks – ignoring the deflated form of Matilda staring jealously at me from where she’d been stuffed behind the hangers. Padding into the hallway with its beige tiles and frayed woven rug, I headed in the direction of the dining room where we’d eaten a late dinner last night.

It was empty, so I crossed the little foyer, pausing to peer at an old photo of Seb as a child, blond and with several teeth missing, his arm draped over a slightly smaller girl with glasses.

His sister…I didn’t even know her name.

I tried the last door and was welcomed by wafting heat and the smell of coffee. The country-style kitchen was tiredbut cosy, with a stone feature wall and a cast-iron stove lacquered beige. A solid-wood buffet cabinet stood against one wall, in the place it had probably held since before Seb was born.

Rôsine stood at the stove, dirt already on the seat of her heavy-duty trousers, wearing a thick woollen pullover. She called something over her shoulder without looking, of which all I understood was ‘petit’. Turning with a smile, she froze when she saw it was only me.

‘Good morning,’ she said, her tone more measured. Rôsine was a handsome woman, with Seb’s high cheekbones and honey colouring. Her hair was turning grey and tucked underneath a patterned bandana headband, and her thin, straight mouth gave her the look of someone who could deliver a calf – or in this case a goat kid – while also canning vegetables and fixing a fence.

‘Good morning,’ I mumbled in response. ‘Seb’s still asleep. I didn’t want to disturb him.’

Rôsine glanced down at my bare legs and feet in Seb’s socks, her expression barely changing although she must have realised I didn’t have any clothes with me.

‘You want breakfast?’ she asked.

‘You don’t have to… serve me. I’m sure I could just find something,’ I suggested, colour rising to my cheeks.

The look she gave me was quelling. ‘You’re a guest.’

‘Well, I’m sorry I… invited myself then,’ I said with a sigh, hoping my dad had accepted my short message and wasn’t phoning Europol. I should get back in touch with himbefore he suspected kidnapping and the cops showed up and scared the goats.

Rôsine was silent for so long I thought perhaps she agreed I shouldn’t have come. Taking a heavy kettle from the stove, she poured water into a French press and the blessed smell of coffee reached my nose again. Giving it a stir, she set the plunger on top and placed the coffee on the table, adding two small cups and four spiced biscuits.

She pulled out her chair with a short, pointed glance at me and, hoping that was a subtle invitation, I scrambled to accept, taking the seat opposite. When I found myself fiddling restlessly with the painted china cup, I wrenched my hand back and sat on it.

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