Page 41 of Knot So Lucky
As in... Luca Thorne?
The reigning Formula One champion? The Alpha who overthrew Auren Vale and Lachlan Wolfe's dominance last season?
I scan the leaderboard with new attention, looking for names I might have missed in my focus on the actual racing.
ThorneCrownsits in second place overall.
Oh.
Oh.
I just beat Luca fucking Thorne in a virtual racing qualifier.
The realization is still processing—somewhere between disbelief and satisfaction—when a new scent hits my nostrils.
Food.
Not just any food.
Bacon.
Eggs.
Fresh coffee with that distinctive hazelnut note that makes my mouth water.
Pancakes with real maple syrup that probably costs more per bottle than most people spend on groceries in a week.
I lift the VR headset completely, turning in my chair to find Cale standing beside me with a plate that looks like it came from a five-star brunch menu.
He's naked except for boxer briefs—apparently, he found enough modesty to put on minimal clothing while I was absorbed in racing—and his hair is still mussed from sleep and sex. His tattoos are stark against his skin in the morning light filtering through the windows, and the smile on his face is soft in a way that makes my chest do complicated things.
"Special delivery," he says, lowering the plate to my desk with careful precision.
I almost forget to mute myself—almost let the voice chat hear my real voice, feminine and unguarded and absolutely not what they're expecting fromGhostShift88.
My hand shoots out to slam the mute button with more force than necessary, and I hear someone on the voice chat say, "Yo, did he just?—"
I disconnect entirely, closing the software with prejudice.
Then I turn my full attention to the plate Cale's presented like an offering.
It's gorgeous. Perfectly cooked scrambled eggs with that slightly creamy texture that means he added cream cheese. Three strips of bacon, crispy enough to snap but not burnt. Fresh fruit—strawberries and blueberries and those expensive Rainier cherries that are only in season for about three weeks per year. A stack of fluffy pancakes with butter melting between each layer.
And coffee.
Glorious, steaming hot coffee that smells like it has hazelnut creamer and perfectly steamed milk, topped with a delicate foam art heart that he definitely learned how to make just to show off.
I normally don't like sweet things—too much sugar makes my Omega instincts uncomfortable in ways I can't quite articulate—but the way Cale makes coffee is different. It's balanced. The sweetness enhances rather than overwhelms, and the hazelnut adds depth instead of cloying artificial flavor.
It's one of the few exceptions I make to my general rule against sweet beverages.
"Did you beat their asses?" Cale asks, voice warm with amusement.
I nod excitedly, unable to contain my grin.
"Twelve races. Twelve wins. First place overall by a two-point-eight-second margin."
"Damn." He whistles appreciatively. "That's my girl."
