Chapter 3
Leesa
‘Let me know if you need any help – or if Colin gives you any trouble. I remember what it’s like starting out,’ Wil said – too kindly, because I was already struggling not to tear up.
‘What? Sending emails and making coffee?’ I joked, mostly to give me a second to pull myself together.
It was triggering, being back here.
I’d come to this exact hotel on two occasions, with the girls. It was a dreamy chalet, all wooden beams and lacy curtains, nestled in a sloping mountain meadow and surrounded by the peaks of the northwest Dolomites. Every view out of every window was heart-stirring.
But it wasn’t me pulling on the tight Lycra skinsuit this time. I didn’t even want to touch a bike.
‘Yep. I had those days too,’ Wil said with a smile. ‘You’ll need to meet with Tony and the directeur sportif to go over some conditions, but you know all about how things work. Tony was looking forward to catching up.’
That made one of us. I knew he’d be all father-like and comment on how good I looked – likely without meaning it – and I didn’t want to hear it. Plus, I couldn’t be certain how much he knew about what had happened in September.
That was when I heard it – that voice, coming from right behind me.
‘Fancy meetin’ you here.’
My throat closed and goosebumps whooshed up my arms. Here was the guy who’d brought down my entire career – okay, I knew that was unfair, but it was still difficult to swallow the bitterness he triggered in me.
Worse was the kernel of confusion – the memory of what had happened after my last race and how I’d felt… something that made no sense.
I tried to turn around, opening my mouth to speak, but only an inarticulate wheeze emerged. Oh, God, it was worse than I’d thought.
Wil came to my rescue. ‘Colin! Good, you’ve come straight to see me. You remember Leesa from the women’s team? What a coincidence, she’s back with us.’
He swallowed audibly. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences. Leesa must be back where she belongs.’
His words cut a tear somewhere only he could touch, stirring everything up. Forcing myself to face him, I found those dark blue eyes on me and an open-mouthed half-smile that strongly suggested he was remembering something different about me from what Wil had mentioned.
But, as my eyes dragged themselves to the familiar shape of his mouth, I noticed the bristle of hair above the top lip.
‘What is that fluff on your face?’ Oops, that probably wasn’t the best thing to say the first time I’d seen him after… everything.
He straightened, which only drew my attention to his eye-popping body, lean and strong with muscle definition up the wahoo – cords and ridges down his chest, scars raised on his skin.
Whatever his flaws, no one could accuse Colin Gallagher of not taking his fitness seriously.
My gaze snagged on the oozing wound on his elbow and then the rip in his jersey, exposing a scrape and a hint of more tight muscle on his abdomen.
‘What happened?’
He waved a hand in front of my face. ‘Just a little altercation with the road. Nothing Doc Angie can’t patch up – unless you want to give me a hand with that?’
Phew, I needed to work up some immunity to him. He was good-looking at first glance, but the shock of his deep voice ramped him up to devastating. At least so much shit emerged from his mouth that I had a chance. A couple of days and I’d be back to busting his balls like before.
Rubbing his fingers thoughtfully over the moustache, a shade redder than his hair, he gave me a world-class pout.
‘But don’t you like the ’tache? I thought it gives me a certain…
je ne sais quoi.’ I knew he could actually speak decent French, so he either had a terrible accent or he’d mangled the pronunciation on purpose.
‘You look like a serial killer.’
He laughed, propping his hands on his hips. ‘Is that a compliment?’ he drawled with a wink, ducking his head until he was a little closer – close enough to suck some of the air out of my lungs. ‘Who would I be killing at this altitude?’
My composure.
‘I’ll leave you two to get re-acquainted,’ Wil said with a smile, hopefully as oblivious to the churning undertones between Colin and me as she appeared.
When she’d left, his smile was back. ‘Re-acquainted?’ he repeated with a lift of his brows.
‘Colin, can you drop the act for a moment. We need to talk.’ Without thought, I grabbed his forearm and steered him towards a table.
‘What act?’ he prompted as he sank into a chair. Palms up, arms wide, he continued, ‘What you see is what you get.’
Fuck my life.
‘You know what I’m talking about.’
‘If you mean when I brought you a cake and I asked if we could—’
‘I mean it!’ I snapped. ‘If we have any hope of a good working relationship, I need you to be an adult about this!’
‘Because I’m a boy in a man’s body who likes making trouble for other people for his own amusement, right?’
There was still a wobble of a smile on his lips, but the accusation in his words struck me in the chest. ‘If the shoe fits,’ I said defensively.
‘How’s your arm? No lasting effects? That’s a pretty nice scar.’
The concern in his voice made me lose my train of thought. ‘I needed some physio, but it’s fine now. I know it wasn’t really your fault.’
‘But you resent me for it anyway,’ he said with a nod, as though he wouldn’t try to change my mind.
He chewed on the inside of his cheek, a gesture I surprised myself by recognising.
The action showed up the sharp lines of his jaw.
‘We don’t have to talk,’ he finally said, lounging back into his chair and stretching his long legs out. ‘You said enough back then.’
I ripped my gaze away. ‘But what happened after—’
‘Nothing happened.’
I wasn’t sure I agreed with his definition of ‘nothing’, but I could see how he got there.
‘Don’t worry. I know the whole thing was my fault. You’re here to do a job now. If you promise to insult my moustache and keep me in my place, I’m sure I won’t get any more ideas about you and me. I’ll try at least.’
He was joking – surely he was joking – but the flutter in my chest didn’t care. ‘I just think it would be better if no one knows about the…’
‘The what?’ He paused, working his top lip between his teeth. Damn, I was looking at his mouth again.
‘The cake,’ I finished in a hurry.
There was a definite twitch of amusement on his lips. ‘The slagroomtaart? I thought that was a nice gesture.’
‘You’re mocking me,’ I muttered, annoyed that his teasing was heating my insides.
‘Now I am, yeah,’ he admitted.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard that gruff tone in his voice. It had certainly never made me weak-kneed before.
‘But I get it. You can be mad at me. Nothing happened. We can forget about it.’
He was lucky if he could. ‘Good,’ I said, blowing out a breath. ‘And I hope you haven’t told anyone about…’
‘What I asked you?’ He shuddered, as though I’d just told him to drink one of those disgusting ketone drinks – or the orange-flavoured PowerFuel gel. ‘Why would I? That moment wasn’t exactly worthy of my trophy room.’ He shot me a broad smile to paste over the awkwardness in his tone.
‘I do not want to know about your trophy room,’ I mumbled, disturbed by the unexpectedly intriguing prospect of appearing in it.
If my answer had been different in September…
I had to get a grip. I wasn’t interested in being a notch on anyone’s bedpost and my buzzing mind would never let me get that far anyway.
But when he spoke next, his voice was steady. ‘But I get it. Nobody knows I was at the hospital at all. I understand you’re not here for me – well, only with professional interest. I can be professional, Lees.’
For better or for worse – undoubtedly for worse – I believed him and ignored the squeeze of intimacy at the way he shortened my name.
‘Except maybe when I swear on camera.’
‘You’re lucky I have great editing skills.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing all your skills.’ He gave me another wink.
‘Five seconds, Gallagher! You managed five seconds of professional.’
Tugging off his fingerless gloves, he rested his hand on the table next to my forearm, not quite touching, but close enough that the fine hairs on my arm felt him there. ‘I was wrong. Insulting my moustache and keeping me in my place still gives me ideas. Maybe you should flatter me instead.’
‘Except that you’re good enough at flattering yourself,’ I quipped, but my voice was thick from the lump in my throat.
‘Is that right?’ he replied as he stood. But he grimaced, and my gaze flew to his scraped-up skin. Just looking at the patches of angry red road rash made me shudder.
‘You should go and get that looked at.’
‘’Tis but a scratch,’ he replied with a warped smile and a wave. He was gone before I’d managed to place the quote. Monty Python and the Holy Grail?