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TWENTY-TWO

CHARLOTTE

On a regular day, I’m 100 percent a coffee slut. On a morning like this one, where I’m running on three hours of sleep because I was sewing ribbons on the outseam of what I’m calling my “paddock pants” at two a.m., I’m a straight-up coffee whore.

Willow’s eyes swim with amusement as she surveys me. “You might want to ease up on groaning like you’re getting railed by a ten-inch dick. People are staring.”

A laugh forces its way out of me, causing coffee to dribble down my chin. “I don’t think I’d be groaning at ten inches, Wills. I think I’d be running in the opposite direction.”

She giggles. “Regardless, you’re drawing attention.”

“Whatever.” Ignoring the likelihood that she’s right, I take another long sip. I can’t help my reaction. This coffee is crack. There’s a reason this spot is ranked on several best cafés in Melbourne lists year after year.

The moment I place my ceramic coffee cup on the table, Willow slides it out of my reach.

“What the hell?” I complain with a frown. “You have your own coffee. Don’t steal mine. It’s rude. ”

“You know what else is rude?” Willow counters. “Telling me you kissed the love of your life, then failing to elaborate. I need details. And make them good. I want to feel like I was there with the two of you.”

“Because that’s not weird,” I mumble, snatching my mug from her. I take three large gulps, relishing the roasted nut and dark chocolate flavor.

“Oh, shut up,” Willow says with an unoffended laugh. “You’re the one who drew a diagram of different types of penis piercings after you slept with that guy who had a frenum?—”

“Here you ladies go.” Our server suddenly appears with a tray full of food. If she heard the words penis or piercing , she gives no indication, which I consider ten out of ten service. Then she scurries off, leaving me alone with Willow and her unrelenting stare, which is a zero out of ten. Ugh .

“Talking about it isn’t going to change anything,” I tell her with a sigh.

Lucas isn’t the first guy to reject me or tell me he’s not interested, but he’s definitely the first to use Theo as an excuse. And then he goes and says shit like he’d happily listen to me talk about my grocery list. Joke’s on him, since I don’t make a list. No, I let my cravings fill the cart.

“Maybe not, but I wouldn’t be a good best friend if I didn’t properly condemn him,” she argues. “I can’t do that without knowing all the details.”

“It’s embarrassing.” I have no interest in rehashing my rejection. “Having to experience it once was bad enough. I don’t particularly want to live through the play-by-play.”

Willow rolls her eyes. “Embarrassing for Lucas, maybe. He’s the dumbarse not reeling you in like the catch you are.”

With a sigh, I bring my mug to my lips. I take a big sip, then spill more tea than the Boston Tea Party ever did .

Willow listens patiently, and once I’m finished, sums it up with a succinct “Well, that fucking sucks.”

I huff and lean back into my seat. “You think?”

“Hmm,” she says, cutting into her hotcakes. “Okay. Here’s the plan. We’ll go over all the reasons Lucas isn’t right for you. Then you’re going to go on a date with someone else to remind yourself that you’re a badarse boss bitch any man would be lucky to have.”

My chest tightens painfully at the idea. I hate first dates, and not because I’m bad at them. I dislike them because I’m great at them. That’s the issue. I can talk to a brick wall for seven hours straight and have a great time, so it’s tough for me to gauge how well a date actually went. It takes about three to five of them before I can tell whether a guy’s a dud.

“For starters, he’s eight years older than you,” Willow says, pointing her fork at me. “That’s a decent age gap.”

“My dad was twelve years older than my mum,” I point out.

“Sure,” she says, her tone dismissive, “but they got together when people didn’t even have cell phones. Now we’re in the golden age of social media. It’s very different. Our generation is chronically online, and Lucas is a millennial. They do weird shit like use hashtags and brag about being around when VHS tapes were a thing.”

I snort. “Fair, but I’m going to need something stronger than a slight age gap to convince me to move on.”

“Fine. He… um, he”—she waves her hands in front of her as if that will help her come up with a suitable reason to add to the list—“has tattoos! Lots of tattoos.”

The booth shakes as I giggle. “That’s a selling point, not a red flag, Wills. If anything, you’re making him sound like marriage material.”

Willow presses her lips together to stop her own laughter. She’s a huge Harry Styles fan and has each and every one of his tattoos memorized, so she’s not really one to talk.

“He’s also your brother’s best friend,” she says, pointing out the obvious. “And teammate.”

“I’m aware,” I say flatly.

“No, but think about it,” she insists with a wicked gleam in her eye. “You know I love your brother, but I have no idea how Josie deals with him. I mean, I do, he’s fucking hot as hell?—”

“Oh, gross,” I say, fighting back a gag. “Can you not say shit like that?”

She lifts a finger in an aha! motion. “See that reaction there? Can you imagine how weird it’d be for your brother to know his sister is fucking his best friend?”

“But explain this to me,” I argue, trying not to let defeat win. “Logically speaking, wouldn’t your best friend be the perfect candidate for your sibling? You already think they’re great and amazing, and you enjoy spending time with them. Plus, they’re vetted and close to the family.”

Willow grimaces. “Yeah, but there’s a level you’re forgetting. If you and Lucas got together, Theo becomes a third wheel rather than maintaining two important, separate relationships. Plus, they’ve been friends forever. Your brother probably knows all the naughty, scandalous things Lucas has gotten into over the years. I hardly think he’d want that person dating his sister.”

I sink farther into my seat. Yeah, I get her point. But understanding it doesn’t make me feel any better. Why should Theo’s feelings trump mine? I guess it’s a moot point, regardless. Lucas would have to think I’m worth the risk to pursue anything, which clearly, he doesn’t.

“All right, let’s change the subject. This is getting you all espresso depresso instead of cold brew happy-roo,” Willow says, stealing a piece of guava from my plate. “Show me the pants. ”

Heart lifting, I pull out my phone to show her the photo of my full ensemble. We’re heading to the track soon, but I didn’t want to risk spilling on them during brekkie, so I’m waiting until we pay the bill to change.

Her jaw drops, causing a piece of fruit to fall out and land on her plate. “Holy shit, Lottie.”

Tingles of elation zip through me at her reaction. It feels really good to have my hard work appreciated.

Holding the phone closer to her face like my mum does when she’s reading small text, she lets out a gasp. “Did you make a belt out of your dad’s old ties?”

“Mm-hmm,” I confirm.

My dad had an eclectic tie collection, and growing up, Willow and I would use them when we played dress-up. A tie would become a sash when we played Miss Universe, or we’d use it as a sling for a fake broken arm if we were playing doctor. For years after my dad passed, I considered using them, but it never felt right. If I was going to rework items he loved, I wanted to make sure I found an idea I loved just as much.

I finally made it happen.

If only moving on from Lucas could happen that easily.

Wanting to surprise Theo at his home race, I didn’t mention my paddock pants beforehand. And when he spots me, I’m thankful I waited. As I approach him and Josie in the motorhome cafeteria where they’re finishing up lunch, he does a double take. His eyes light up as he takes in the details of the vintage patches, the lightning symbol from the AlphaVite logo, and the pocket designed after his racing suit. By the time I’m standing beside their table, Theo’s on his feet, nearly bouncing in place.

“You’re finally supporting me and wearing AlphaVite,” he says, his smile blinding .

Without holding back, I punch him in the arm. I don’t have a lot of muscle, but he takes a surprised step back anyway. “Some would consider attending every race supportive, but far be it from me to?—”

He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me, cutting off my tirade. He spins in circles so quickly that when my feet finally touch the floor again, I have to hold a hand out to steady myself.

“They’re amazing,” he says, squatting to get a better look at the beading on the pockets.

My cheeks heat at his proximity to my ass. I give Josie a pleading look, but she simply laughs and rests a hand on his head, ruffling his hair.

“Those are proper fit, babes,” Josie says in her posh British accent. The sound of it makes me wonder what type of accent their kids will have—British or Australian? Probably British if they live in London. Though my brother gabs a lot, so there’s no doubt there’ll be a little Aussie in ’em. “Where are they from?”

“Oh,” I say, awkwardness seeping into me. “I made them.”

Josie’s eyes widen. “You made them?”

“I didn’t make the actual denim,” I clarify with a laugh. “I reworked an old pair of Levi’s with materials and fabric I had on hand.”

“I knew you could sew, but damn.” She lets out an impressed whistle. “Are you going to make any more pieces?”

“I’d love to.” I rock back on my heels, willing the heat in my cheeks to dissipate. “Wearing a new bespoke piece on each race day would be the dream.”

And a difficult task. But despite my non-athleticism, I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. I’d have to buy a sewing machine, have my mum ship me my collection of scrap fabric, buttons and appliqués, along with all the other baubles in my desk, and sketch out and design pieces I feel proud of, but it’s doable.

“You definitely should,” Josie says, her smile genuine and encouraging.

“You’re going to make that many new pieces?” Theo’s question is a legitimate one, but the skeptical tone makes my hackles rise. “Really?”

“Maybe,” I say, doing my best to shrug off the sensation. “Why not?”

With an imperious brow raised, he scoffs. “There’re fifteen or so races left in the season.”

There’s no extinguishing my irritation now. With my hands on my hips, I cock my head. “So?”

“Lottie, c’mon,” he says with a casual smile, clearly clueless as to how he’s riling me up. “Remember when you were super into jigsaw puzzles? And then there was the time you collected fountain pens and inks, not to mention your obsession with karate. Your interests change on a whim.”

“I’ve always liked design,” I remind him, chin tipped up. “That’s not new or impulsive, Theodore.”

“You could’ve studied it at university but chose not to,” he points out with a nonchalant shrug.

That statement is like a punch to the stomach. He has no idea how deep his words cut. How could he?

“I’m not saying the pants aren’t phenomenal,” he continues. “I’m just saying making something new for each race is a big undertaking when your track record hasn’t proven to be great.”

Throat burning, I blink back tears. “That’s not fair, Theodore. Not everyone magically discovers their lifelong passion at the age of six.”

“I know.” He holds up a hand in defense. “I’m not trying to upset you, but is spending your time designing race outfits going to help you figure out your future, your career? I don’t want to see you waste time on a hobby that won’t lead anywhere.”

“That’s enough,” a peeved voice interrupts from behind me.

As if Lucas has appeared out of nowhere, he steps up to my side and glowers at Theo. “You can apologize for being a dick now.”

“What?” my brother asks, his brows furrowing in genuine confusion. “I wasn’t being a dick.”

“Yes, you were,” Lucas snaps. “Charlotte put in a ton of time and effort into creating clothing that reflects her style while incorporating something important to you. But instead of appreciating that and encouraging her to pursue her passion, you shut it down like what she’s done isn’t incredible. Sharing a last name doesn’t give you the right to be an ass about her hobbies, whether they stick around for a short time or forever. That’s fucked up, and you owe her an apology.”

Theo gapes at his friend. “I—” he stutters. “That’s not?—”

“It’s fine, Theodore,” I say, wrapping a curl around my finger. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“That doesn’t make it okay, Roo.” Lucas’s eyes are soft as he focuses on me. “And next time someone tries to censure you instead of support you, whether it’s your brother or a random man on the street, give him a piece of your mind. Or call me and I’ll do it for you.”

The knot in my stomach loosens at his tone. I have no issue standing up for myself, but having someone in my corner, backing me up when I didn’t realize I was in a situation that warranted it? Fuck, that’s nice. Overwhelmed by Theo’s criticism, but more so by Lucas’s regard, I make a hasty exit, claiming I need to check my blood sugar. I don’t often use my diabetes as an excuse like this, but if I’m stuck with a faulty pancreas, I might as well use it as my scapegoat on occasion.

I’ve just stepped into the paddock when I run into Cooper. The red shade of McAllister’s racing suit doesn’t do his complexion any favors, but he’s still hot as hell, with his curly auburn locks, sky blue eyes, and constellation of freckles. He looks like Outlander ’s Jamie Fraser, which is ironic because they share a last name. I only know this because my mum fangirls over that actor like a prepubescent teen does with a boy band.

“Hey,” I say, giving him a friendly wave.

“Charlotte,” he replies in his rough Scottish accent. “How are ye?”

“Been better,” I admit, my heart sinking a little. “Are you ready for the race?”

“Aye,” he says, his shoulders back and chin held high. “How about Theo? Can’t speak from experience, but I’ve got to imagine a hometown race can be nerve-racking.”

The last thing I want to do is chat about my brother, so I shrug and go with “My whole family’s here. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and all. So he’s got a lot of support.”

He dips his chin in understanding. “Is your boyfriend here, too?”

My first reaction is to laugh, because what the fuck? But when his expression remains serious, that instinct evaporates. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Cooper rears back, his eyes going wide. “Oh… I, uh, thought you were in a relationship. Maybe I heard Lucas wrong, though. Ah dinnaeken.”

Spine snapping straight, I blink up at him. “I’m sorry. Did you just say that Lucas told you I was in a relationship?”

“Aye, in Barcelona. I asked him and Blake what your deal was, and Lucas said you had a boyfriend. He was rather adamant about it, too.”

That cockblocking fucker .

My blood heats, and red crowds my vision, but I keep my tone even. “He was probably being overprotective since he’s close to my brother,” I say through a strained smile. “I can confirm I’m single, though.”

“Hmm,” he says, almost to himself. “Well, if ye want to grab drinks or something, I’d quite like that.”

Affection washes through me at his unsure demeanor. “Like a date?”

His cheeks flame, and he lowers his focus to a spot somewhere near my throat. “Aye, that’s what I mean.”

Cooper’s great on paper—sweet, sexy, and an overall good guy—but he definitely doesn’t warm my chest or make my heart race simply by smiling in my direction. Thoughts of late-night conversations, shared laughter, and the way Lucas’s eyes sparkle when he looks at me flash through my mind, but I quickly push those thoughts aside. Lucas made his decision, so why should I hold myself back? Willow’s right: I need to remind myself that I’m a badarse boss bitch any man would be lucky to date.

With a deep breath in, I tell Cooper I’d love to grab drinks with him. Why not give him a chance? It’s one date, and who knows what might come of it? I may find out whether he has a penis piercing.