Page 43 of Off the Mark
She was silent for a moment. “I don’t have to see it more than once to know it’s important to you, Rowan. And, uh…” She cleared her throat. “My dad and I did get donated breakfast boxes that were similar when I was in high school. I can’t even remember where they came from, but they always came right when we needed them too. It’s just a small thing.”
“It was a big thing,” I said firmly. “Thank you.”
I could sense, more than hear, the smile spreading across her face. “Any time. I’ll see you tomorrow in the lobby?”
“Looking forward to it,” I replied, forgetting it was all fake.
Forgetting that a relationship between me and Charlie could never be real.
And goddamn if I didn’t spend the rest of the day with the stupidest grin on my face.
12
CHARLIE
Ireached the end of my five-mile run on the treadmill and decreased the speed for a cool down. My heart slammed against my rib cage, and my chest heaved. The giant mirror in front of me reflected my bright red face and shoulders, shining with sweat.
There was a legitimate reason that I’d been here for two hours, grinding my way through a grueling workout. The authorized account was something likeI’ve got an important race in two weeks, so I better focus up and hit the gym since I’ve been sucking on the track, big-time.
The unauthorized account wasI’m unbelievably horny, and it’s all Rowan’s fault.
Three days had passed since we’d experimentally touched each other at that bar—strictly for fake relationship purposes—and I was deeply concerned about my inability to rein in my body’s reaction.
Seventy-two hours later and there was still this deep, lingeringachethat wouldn’t leave me alone.
This was brand-new territory for me, and I desperately hoped it was normal to obsess over the way Rowan had caressed the shell of my ear. Tenderly. But also confidently, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Like he would know how to caress other parts of my body too.
It was unnerving, the way my knees had weakened at his touch. Those hands gripping my waist, his thick thighs boxing me in, the way his muscles flexed and twitched beneath my fingers.
Weaknesswas a new sensation for me. Weak knees most of all.
I already knew I couldn’t let it happen again.
The treadmill slowed to a full stop, and I stepped off, my legs trembling from exertion. I dragged a towel over my face and guzzled half my water bottle, feeling a bead of sweat slide between my shoulder blades. Still out of breath, I glanced at my phone in search of distractions from remembering the way Rowan’s lips had tipped up as he’d saidI’d happily break the speed limit to get to you.
The thing was, pretend or not, it was a scenario that feltrightto me. Because obviously he would, andobviouslyI’d be waiting, and once inside the house, we wouldn’t even wait to get our clothes off before he’d be hauling me up against the door and—
There was a sharp chirp from my phone—a Google alert for my name—and then I got the distraction I needed.
And wished I hadn’t gone searching for one at all.
It was from the page ESPN had devoted to covering the women’s moto championships, and it was nothing but an opinion article from some staff writer, giving predictions that he clearly believed were “hot takes.”
Halfway down, I found my name in bold:Charlie Maddox has been the rider to watch for the past couple years, and she’s got a string of exciting wins, and a devoted fan base, to back up this claim. But the notorious party girl—daughter of Malcolm Maddox, whose reputation isn’t much better—has been on the receiving end of a string of bad press, made worse by the losses that have hounded her since racing season last year. Sure, Charlie’s style is flashy, and her confidence is fun to watch, but is it just me, or do athletes like this always flare up fast…then burn out quick?
Blood roared in my ears. I wasn’t a masochist on purpose—I steered clear of the places where internet strangers dissected every single thing I did just to find fault in it. And I usually knew better than to read anything without Dempsey reviewing it first.
Shesurelywouldn’t have sent me this, because the last thing any athlete needed was discovering that the “experts” expected you to fail.
Bettencourt was going to hate this.
“Notorious party girl, my ass,” I muttered, totally pissed. I tossed my towel in the gym laundry basket—more angrily than I meant to—and spotted a few of the riders I’d chatted with yesterday over breakfast. Riley and Quinn were there with other team members and women I hadn’t met yet. They were in the middle of a weight-lifting session with a trainer, but I still raised my hand to wave.
Even as I did, I knew my face was much too hopeful, my posture too bright, the speed of my hand waving set tois it glaringly noticeable that I’m trying too hard.
And thankgodthey hadn’t seen me, because in my desperation to seem friendly I narrowly avoided tripping over a barbell. I careened around it, just barely, already picturing the snarky headline on one of those sports gossip sites that I hated:The Bad Girl of Moto tries, and fails, to make friends; looks like a lost puppy while doing it.
