Page 20 of Drive Me Home (Drive Me #3)
TWENTY
CHARLOTTE
“You’re being quiet.”
A few hours later, Lucas and I are sitting on the guest room floor, repacking my suitcase. Or, more accurately, Lucas is doing that while I supervise. It’s endearing, watching him organize my clothes like he’s a mini-Marie Kondo.
“Everything okay?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, bringing my water bottle to my lips.
“Blood sugar high?”
My stomach dips at the question. “Why would you think that?” I ask, twisting the cap back on. “Because I ate three pieces of sweet corn soufflé?”
Not only can Lucas drive a million-dollar car with skill and precision and sail a boat like he’s a descendant of Magellan, but he can grill a ribeye that would impress Gordon Ramsay. He seriously undersold himself when he said he likes to cook. I had to stop myself from groaning multiple times during dinner.
“As honored as I am that you enjoyed it, no.” He chuckles. “You get thirsty when your blood sugar spikes.”
I go still at his words, and a mix of unease and maybe something like appreciation winds through me. Unless my pump makes a noise or I announce it, it’s rare anyone realizes that my blood sugar is high or low. The only people in my life who recognize the symptoms are my mom, Willow, and Theo. My dad, too, before he passed. With Lucas, I now have a full handful of people.
“I’m okay,” I reassure him, settling on touched by his concern. “I took more insulin halfway through dinner when I realized you could win Master Chef .”
“If you say so.” His green irises are darker than usual as he studies me with an intensity that makes me squirm. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re being quiet, though.”
Because your brother insinuated that I make you happy and relaxed .
Rather than admit that, I merely wave off his concern. I’m a relatively confident person, but that doesn’t mean I don’t overanalyze and overthink absolutely everything when it comes to men I’m attracted to. Why did he use fewer emojis in his text than he usually does? Why is he taking so long to respond? Does he sound annoyed? Why did he watch my Instagram story but not text me? It’s silly, true, and self-sabotaging, and a relationship worth its salt shouldn’t cause these constant thoughts, but that’s what therapy’s for, right?
But I’m not dating Lucas, so the tips and tricks I usually depend on to decode a man’s actions and words mean diddly squat. And I have zero clue what to make of Grayson’s comment about how Lucas doesn’t like museums. Because he spent four hours listening to people cosplay as colonial Americans and talk about the Revolutionary War, and he didn’t complain once.
“Oh, want me to show you what I was talking about before?” I had no intention of showing him when he brought it up, but it’s guaranteed to be a distraction.
A slow, shy smile spreads across his lips. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
I search through my plane bag—if my purses are Mary Poppins bags, this thing is a suitcase—until I find my sketch notebook. It was a birthday gift from my dad, and I take it with me everywhere, in case inspiration strikes, but don’t use it that often. The day I run out of pages will be devastating.
I flip through designs and patterns for Theo’s racing helmets until I find the design I started working on after the Canadian Grand Prix.
“Here.” I hand him the notebook. “They’re pants.”
Lucas glances up and raises an amused brow. “I’m aware, Roo. It’d be a little worrisome if I wasn’t.”
He ignores my huff of laughter and turns back to the design, taking his damn time studying every detail. The custom cargo pants have one pocket that’ll replicate the front left chest of an AlphaVite racing suit, another that I’ll cover with patches, and a third adorned with beads I’ll sew into AlphaVite’s logo. I’ve thrifted tons of buttons, chains, and pendants over the years, so I’ll add those as hardware and maybe a blue patterned scarf as a belt to tie the look together.
At his continued silence, my mind takes off, running like it’s in a marathon. Does he think they’re stupid? The concept sounds great in my head, but can I really pull it off? I haven’t sewn in a few years, and I certainly haven’t constructed anything from scratch, so the end product may look like a potato sack. If Lucas doesn’t see the potential ? —
“These are fucking sick,” Lucas finally says, breaking the silence that was bordering on unbearable.
“Sick as in ‘cool and amazing’ or sick as in ‘these make me want to throw up like I have the flu’?”
“The first option,” he confirms, biting back a smile.
My stomach clenches at his praise. “Yeah? It’s kind of hard to get the full vision since I drew in pencil—hence why I needed the markers—and the concept isn’t fully fleshed out yet, but it’s a start. Obviously, once the lights go out, Formula 1 is all about the race, but the fashion in the paddock is becoming so much more popular. And since I’ve never found team merch that resonated with my style, I figured why not try it out myself?”
“It’s one hell of a start.” He gives my thigh a light squeeze, his warm palm seeping through the fabric of my pants. “People are going to want a pair of their own once they see these. Guaranteed.”
“I don’t know about that, but at least this way I can dress in my own style while supporting the team.”
“Where’d the idea come from?” he asks, hand still on my leg.
“I didn’t know about AlphaVite’s team history until Finn told me?—”
“ Finn inspired your pants?”
“God no,” I say, a laugh bubbling out of me. “After he mentioned it, I looked for Alpha Arrow or ViteRomeo shirts I’d want to wear, but to no one’s surprise, I wasn’t wowed by what I found. I started thinking about what you said to me during the Hot Lap, about combining style and support, and it hit me. What’s stopping me from creating my own team merch? Why can’t I take AlphaVite team shirts and transform and incorporate them into pieces that I’ll actually wear?”
A boyish smile spreads across his lips as his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You continue to amaze me, Roo.”
With a tingling warmth blossoming in my cheeks, I check my shoulder against his, and in the process, I get a whiff of his cologne. It brings me back to our almost kiss , which then causes me to stare at his lips. He notices quickly, his eyes widening a fraction.
Feeling awkward about getting caught checking out his lips , I announce, “You smell good.”
Those eyes go soft instantly. “Not like a forest, right?” he teases.
“No,” I laugh, rolling my eyes. “I wouldn’t be sitting next to you if you did. ”
He chuckles, but his features turn more serious. “Thank you for visiting. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal for you, but to me, it is. You made Boston feel like home again, rather than a chore.”
My cheeks flush, and I straighten, not bothering to fight a smile. “Even though I knocked your brother in the nuts?”
“While I can’t condone it, I do appreciate the support.”
Lucas pulls me tight against him, burying his face in my hair. Then he presses a gentle kiss into my mass of curls, and I melt a little inside. That’s a lie. I melt a lot. And when he pulls back, rests his hands on my face, and brushes his thumbs over my cheeks in a soothing motion? It’s a miracle I’m not a puddle of adoration on the carpet.
He studies my face, his attention moving from my eyes to my lips and lingering there. I struggle to control my breathing, almost hypnotized by him. This close, I can see a small freckle under his right eye and a nearly invisible scar on his jawbone. If I had to bet, he got it while sparring. Or maybe it’s a childhood battle scar from fighting with his brothers.
Lucas tugs on the end of one of my curls, and when my eyes meet his, the naked desire radiating from him crashes over me in scorching waves. Every ounce of longing in my body rushes straight between my thighs. Like we’re magnets with no hope of fighting the pull, Lucas closes the distance between us, and when his breath ghosts over my face, I know there’s no maybe about what’s going to happen. Even so, I still let out a tiny sound of surprise as his lips finally meet mine. Looping his arms around my waist, he drags me closer, then slips his tongue between my lips, twisting and tangling it against with mine in a dance of desire.
I knew he’d be a good kisser, but boy oh boy, does he knock my expectations out of the water. As it continues, slow and sensual, I glide my hands through the soft hair at his nape, desperate for more of his touch.
The thump, thump, thump of footsteps on the stairs has us pulling apart. And where I expect to find a smirk or smile on Lucas’s face, like the one overtaking me, all I find is regret.
“Shit. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he says, his lips parted in apology. “Can we forget that happened?”
His words are a bucketful of water over the flames of need licking over my body. I press my lips together in a forced smile. “Yeah, because that’s exactly what every woman wants to hear after she’s been kissed.”
“Shit, sorry,” he says, rubbing his brow. “I like you, Roo, but I shouldn’t have done that. You’re Theo’s sister.”
Every rational thought in my minds screams at me to keep my expression neutral, to gather some shred of dignity, and miraculously, I firmly shut the door on the hurt before it escalates into something I can never recover from. Anything else— it was the heat of the moment , you’re a bad kisser , I don’t like you like that , I don’t want to lead you on —would’ve been better than “you’re Theo’s sister.” The title that’s followed me around my whole life like a childhood bully. The title that reminds me that no matter how much I try, no matter what I do, I’ll never be just Charlotte. And fuck if that doesn’t sting, especially coming from him.
While I can’t anatomically confirm this, I’m certain his words hurt more than a punch to the dick.