Cross the Line

Her brother’s best friend sends her heart racing in this sparkling Formula 1 romance. Formula 1 driver Dev Anderson’s career is on the line. After a social media disaster leaves him with an angry team and sponsors threatening to jump ship, he needs someone to help save his image. At a party in Monaco, he bumps into the woman who can fix it all. There’s just one problem: she’s his best friend’s little sister. And, okay, maybe there’s another problem--he kissed her last year and hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since. Recent college grad Willow Williams needs a job. She may have a talent for seeing the bright side of any bad situation, but it’s hard to stay positive when she’s struggling to get hired. So when Dev offers her a temporary solution, she can’t help but say yes. Even if it means ignoring the crush she’s had on him since childhood. Willow and Dev are determined to keep things strictly professional, regardless of old feelings and the blazing chemistry between them. But in the glittering and high-stakes world of Formula 1, some lines are meant to be crossed…

Texte du rabat

"Formula 1 driver Dev Anderson's career is on the line. After a social media disaster leaves him with an angry team and sponsors threatening to jump ship, he needs someone to help save his image. At a party in Monaco, he bumps into the woman who can fix it all. There's just one problem: she's his best friend's little sister. And, okay, maybe there's another problem--he kissed her last year and hasn't been able to stop thinking about it since. Recent college grad Willow Williams needs a job. She may have a talent for seeing the bright side of any bad situation, but it's hard to stay positive when she's struggling to get hired. So when Dev offers her a temporary solution, she can't help but say yes--even if it means ignoring the crush she's had on him since childhood"--

Échantillon de lecture
Chapter 1

Willow

Seven months later, May

New York City

I've nearly set my apartment on fire. Again.

Making macarons should not be this hard. They're small and cute, and the recipe calls for super simple ingredients-it's just egg whites, almond flour, and sugar. So why, oh why, can't I make a single batch without completely messing up?

"Oh no, oh shit," I mumble as I snatch an oven mitt off the counter and pull out the now-smoking confection. According to the timer, they shouldn't be done for another five minutes, and yet these are nearly burnt to a crisp. Either the recipe was wrong about the baking temperature, or my oven was sent straight from hell. I'm betting on the latter.

I'm desperate to re-create the infamous Stella Margaux Bakery's classic macaron because, as of a month ago, New York City's one location closed for renovations, and I simply can't live without them. The news was enough to make me consider moving back to the West Coast, where there's a Stella's practically every hundred feet.

Then again, I might not have a choice about returning to San Diego to live with my family if I can't find a job in the next couple of months. I came to New York four years ago for college and had plans to stay for possibly the rest of my life. My education was bankrolled by my amazing parents, with the stipulation that after graduation, I'd support myself. Truthfully, they'd have no problem continuing to help me, and they absolutely have the means, but it's the principle of it all. I made a promise, and I'm going to keep it. I just didn't think it would be this difficult.

I busted my ass during undergrad with a double major in communications and sports marketing, a minor in English, and a new internship every semester. With all that experience, I thought it would be easy to find a full-time position working in the marketing department of a professional sports team-a.k.a. my dream job. But after dozens of flat-out ignored applications, zero callbacks after interviews, and endless We'll be in touch lies, I'm still unemployed.

It would be so much worse if I'd graduated ages ago instead of just last week, but I've been applying for positions for months now, hoping to have a job in place by the time I was handed my diploma. My brother landed one in his field months before graduation, so I figured there was no reason I couldn't do the same.

Ha. Joke's on me, because here I am with no job, a dwindling sum in my bank account, and a two hours' drive from the closest Stella Margaux's. This is not what I call living my best life. But damn if I'm not trying.

"What's on fire?" Chantal asks from the doorway to the kitchen, grimacing at the smell.

I sigh and move to open the window, sparing a glance back at my roommate as I do. "My hopes and dreams."

"Figured. Smells awful."

Can't argue with that.

"This is the fourth batch I've ruined today," I lament as I shuffle over to her. Seeking comfort, I rest my temple against her upper arm. It's not quite her shoulder, since I'm five foot nothing and she's a six-foot-one angel. "The first ones weren't sweet enough. The second ones were flat as crepes. The third were underbaked, and these are-"

"On fire."

"Singed," I correct, pulling back and giving her a warning look. I can't be too mad, though, because they were kind of on fire at some point. "I can't get it right and I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"Take a break," Chantal instructs. Her tone is firm, but there's a tenderness in it. "You can try again tomorrow."

She's right, and I'll absolutely pick myself up and dust myself off for yet another attempt, just like I always do. But she knows my frustration isn't just about macarons. She knows how badly I want my life to be perfect and how upset it makes me that I'm struggling to pull it off. As my roommate since our freshman year, she's witnessed plenty of my highs and lows, and is well-versed in all my hopes and dreams. I'm lucky that her own dream job as a financial analyst-go figure-is keeping her in New York, because I don't know what I'd do without her.

"I'll order takeout so no one has to enter this disaster zone," she says, pulling her phone out of the back pocket of her denim shorts that showcase her long, deep brown legs. "And check your phone, would you? It keeps buzzing in your room, and it's driving me nuts."

I flash her a bashful smile. "Sorry. I didn't want to get distracted, so I left it in there."

She cocks a brow playfully. "You mean you didn't want to risk dropping it in the batter again."

My face flames at the mention of that specific baking attempt. "It only happened one time!"

She flips her braids over one shoulder as she strolls out of the kitchen, the delicate beads at the ends clicking together as she goes. I helped her pick them out last week, the gold and deep azure perfect for the warming temperatures and one last hurrah before she starts her new job and has to have a "professional" hairstyle. It'd be great if the world could stop telling Black girls what's appropriate when it comes to our hair, but today is not that day.

Sighing, I undo my apron and hang it on the hook by the window. The pastel pink cotton flutters in the warm breeze, silently mocking me and my failure. I don't even bother looking at the charbroiled macarons as I leave the kitchen and pad down the narrow hallway to my bedroom.

I pass Grace's open door along the way, catching a snippet of the conversation she's having on the phone. Judging from the occasional groan and the (very few) words in Cantonese I understand thanks to the lessons she's given me over the years, she's talking to her mother. She's probably assuring her that she won't miss her flight to Hong Kong tomorrow, which she's done twice before.

She gives me a finger wave as I walk by, and I blow her a kiss in return before slipping into my room next door. The sun s…