Page 153 of Knot So Lucky
Because they're not actuallyfighting. Not really. This is some weird Alpha dominance dance disguised as technical discussion, each of them trying to establish hierarchy through competitive posturing about racing strategy.
It would be annoying if it wasn't so predictable.
"You know," I comment around a mouthful of orange, not bothering to pitch my voice lower since we're in a private training facility, "you two sound like my old roommates arguing about who left dishes in the sink. Except somehow more petty."
Both Alphas turn to glare at me simultaneously, and the synchronized response makes me grin.
"We're having aprofessional discussion," Luca says, voice tight with barely controlled irritation.
"About driving techniques," Cale adds, like that justifies the last twenty minutes of increasingly absurd bickering.
"Uh-huh." I finish the orange, wiping juice from my fingers onto my jumpsuit. "Professional. That's definitely the word I'd use for whatever the fuck this is."
Before either of them can respond—probably with more defensive posturing—Adrian appears at my elbow with a plate of actual food.
Not just snacks or protein bars, but real food.
Grilled chicken breast, quinoa salad with roasted vegetables, and fresh fruit arranged artfully on the side. It looks like something from a restaurant rather than facility cafeteria food.
"Figured you might be hungry," Adrian says, his smile warm and genuine. "Training's been intense, and you need to keep your strength up."
The thoughtfulness hits me unexpectedly hard, making my chest tight with emotions I don't quite know how to process.
"Thank you," I manage, accepting the plate with probably more enthusiasm than is dignified. "This is perfect."
Adrian's scent—warm amber and vanilla—wraps around me in ways that feel comforting rather than overwhelming. He's the youngest of the pack at twenty-four, but somehow he carries himself with the kind of easy confidence that usually takes years to develop.
Probably comes from being a billionaire heir who's never had to question his place in the world.
But the privilege hasn't made him entitled or dismissive. If anything, he uses his resources to take care of the people around him, which is evident in the quality of food he just handed me and the genuine concern in his expression.
"I'll partner with you for prepping the cars," Elias says, appearing on my other side like he materialized from thin air. His green eyes are bright behind those round spectacles, already cataloging the work ahead. "Physical drills start in forty minutes, and Richard wants all three prototypes ready for simulator integration testing."
The technical talk grounds me, pulling me back into familiar territory where I actually know what I'm doing.
"Sounds good," I agree, already mentally cataloging the prep work required. "We'll need to run full diagnostic sweeps on each unit, calibrate the suspension geometry to match simulator parameters, and verify the telemetry systems are synced properly."
Elias's smile widens.
"Exactly what I was thinking. We make a good team."
The casual acknowledgment of our compatibility—both professional and personal—makes warmth bloom in my chest.
The three of us settle into easy conversation while I eat, discussing technical specifications and testing protocols with the kind of detail that probably seems obsessive to outsiders but feels perfectly natural to people who love this work.
Adrian asks intelligent questions about aerodynamic modifications, revealing that despite his reputation as the "pretty boy billionaire," he actually understands racing mechanics at a deep level.
Elias explains his latest AI algorithm for predicting tire degradation patterns, gesturing enthusiastically whiledescribing data modeling approaches that make my brain hurt in the best way.
And through it all, Cale and Luca continue arguing in the background.
"—completely ignoring the fundamental physics of weight transfer?—"
"—your approach assumes perfect conditions that never exist in actual racing?—"
"—if you'd just listen for five seconds?—"
"—listening to you complain about my driving style for the past thirty minutes?—"
