Page 95 of Knot So Lucky
I snicker—a nervous sound that breaks through my shock—and try to dodge away from whatever retribution he's planning.
But he's faster.
Has always been faster when it comes to physical confrontations.
His hands close around my waist and suddenly I'm airborne, the world spinning as he lifts and swirls me around in a circle that makes my stomach lurch and my ribs protest and my heart soar with the kind of joy I didn't know I was capable of feeling.
"We fucking won?!" I laugh, the sound bright and genuine and completely unguarded. "How?! And why did you speak Italian?"
Cale sets me down but keeps his hands on my waist, steadying me while the world stops spinning.
"You weren't responding to anything else," he explains, grin splitting his face in ways I've rarely seen. "Italian's the only thing that seems to get through to you and Roran's heads when you're in full focus mode."
The observation is too accurate to deny.
I take off my helmet with hands that are still shaking from adrenaline, hair plastered to my head with sweat in ways that probably look terrible but feel like victory.
Then I punch Cale's chest with my free hand—not hard enough to hurt through the racing suit padding, but enough to make a point.
"So where's my 'I just saved your fucking career' praise, huh?"
He groans, trying to brush my hand away like I'm an annoying insect.
"Don't push your luck?—"
"Come on!" I'm taunting him now, riding the adrenaline high into reckless territory. "Admit it. I'm amazing. Spectacular. The best pit tech slash secret driver you've ever worked with?—"
"You're insufferable?—"
"Say it. Say 'Aurora Lane is incredible and I'm lucky to know her'—"
Cale gives up on maintaining any semblance of dignity and just ruffles my hair with both hands, messing up the already-destroyed helmet hair until I probably look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.
"You're lucky the world is watching," he mutters, but his eyes are warm with affection. "Or I'd gladly start this bromance everyone keeps accusing us of properly."
I huff, shooing his hands away and trying to restore some order to my appearance.
"Get off me, you?—"
Movement in my peripheral vision makes both of us tense.
An opposing team approaches—multiple figures in racing suits moving with purpose that reads as either congratulatory or confrontational, depending on interpretation.
Cale immediately positions himself in front of me, body language shifting from playful to protective in the space of a heartbeat. His Alpha pheromones spike with territorial aggression, burnt cedar mixing with something sharper that speaks to barely controlled violence.
The approaching team stops a few feet away, and the lead driver pulls off his helmet to reveal features that I recognize immediately, despite never having met him in person.
Luca Thorne.
The reigning Formula One champion. The Alpha who overthrew Auren Vale and Lachlan Wolfe's dominance last season. The one I beat in the virtual qualifier, and apparently just beat again in an actual race.
I frown and look back at the scoreboard, scanning for his placement.
3RD PLACE - LUCA THORNE - THORNE RACING
Third place. Which means I didn't just beat him—I demolished him, put two positions between us in a race where every tenth of a second counts.
And he looks furious.
