Page 82 of Rogue Riders Duet

I open my mouth, then close it again, grinding my teeth. “It’s not about the damn race,” I hiss out.

It should be. That would be simpler.

And that should worry me, shouldn’t it? That the race, the loss, isn’t the thing clawing at my brain. The bruised ego isn’t even in the top three on the list of reasons I didn’t sleep last night.

Otis raises one eyebrow, and Piper’s smile reminds me of a cat that’s found something twitching under a box.

“Oh,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Now I’m actually interested.”

“I hate both of you,” I mutter.

“You love us,” Otis counters.

“No. I love my rat. You’re just here.”

Toulouse flicks his tail and promptly burrows deeper into my hoodie, which I take as agreement.

“So?” Otis leans toward me, dropping his voice like we’re at a confessional. “What’s going on? Is it illegal?” His eyes shift around us as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Are you doping?”

Piper gasps and slaps the back of my head.

“Merde,” I mutter, running a hand over the spot. “Can you wait for my answer before assaulting me?”

She just shrugs. “Not as fun.”

“It’s not that. It’s…” I sigh and place my hand on my chest. “A matter of the heart.”

And other places.

Piper and Otis exchange the most annoying look known to man.

“Oh my God.” Piper’s eyes widen. “Has someone finally not fallen for your shit?”

I bite my lip, because, well, yeah.

“Jesus,” Otis breathes. “It’s worse. He likes her.”

“No.” And it’s a him, I correct mentally, then groan into my hands. “It’s not even real.”

Because Petit doesn’t want me back.

“So what is it, then?” Piper asks.

“A disaster,” I say flatly, dropping my hands. “Un petit désastre.”

Otis is slack-jawed for a moment before finding his words. “Fuck, he’s really in love, isn’t he?” He chuckles, making Piper snort.

I’m about to tell them both to go choke on a handlebar when a shadow moves past us on the edge of the setup.

A petite frame and blue hoodie with the hood up, walking fast, like he’s late for something or doesn’t want to be seen.

My pulse skips, then kicks into overdrive, and I place my hand over my heart again. It just won’t calm the fuck down.

“I’ve got something to do,” I say by way of farewell, already moving toward my fixation. Otis yells something after me, but I don’t pay him any attention. I step over cables, dodge a half-built scaffold, and nearly trip on a rogue bottle that skitters across the gravel, but none of it slows me down.

Toulouse squeaks from my sleeve, offended by the motion. “I know,” I mutter. “I’m being pathetic.”

I can be charming and pathetic at the same time. I’m Luc-fucking-Delacroix.