Scene 28

Three seconds .

That was the difference in $6000 of prize money and seventy-five fewer points toward the championship. A runner-up result leading to hours wasted of second-guessing every choice made on the course.

Dillon had lost Bermuda to the French track and field sensation-turned-triathlete, Elyna Laurent. Just twenty-two years old.

But it was worse than that. Elyna wasn't just a rising talent in the sport.

She was Henrik's student.

His new hellster Stern. One that, based on her performance that morning, might actually prove to be his brightest star. Perhaps even a frontrunner for Los Angeles.

No athlete of Henrik's had come within fifteen placings of Dillon since she left him. Going into the race, no one expected Laurent to beat the established veteran. Most especially Dillon herself. But she'd surprised everyone with a sit-and-kick strategy, holding the middle of the pack until throwing it in high gear over the last half kilometer of the run. And, caught in an unexpected footrace, Dillon hadn't been able to hold the lead.

Three bloody seconds .

"We, uh, skipping the piss-up, then?" Kyle's gear bag bumped against his hip as he matched Dillon's stride, taking the stairs two-by-two to the entry of their hotel.

"You should go." Mad at the world, she shouldered through the revolving door in her rush to get to her room. "Harry and Georgina will be there."

"Come on, Sinc. Shower and ride back with me. You ran a solid race."

"Not solid enough."

He trotted to catch up with her. "You can't beat yourself up over—"

Dillon spun in the foyer. "He knew, Kyle! He knew he could bait me to chase her if she sprinted the hill and I'd run out of gas on the carpet. He fucking knew ."

"Yeah. He did." Kyle nodded, dropping his placation. It was a thing she loved about him. He knew when to quit with the bullshit. "There's no question that bastard knows you. He's just been waiting to have a competitor strong enough to put his knowledge to the test. He knew you wouldn't be able to deny your ego the effort to maintain the lead. But—" he held up a finger as she opened her mouth to tell him to piss off about her ego. "The thing is, Sinc, you, more than anyone, know you can't let him get inside your head. One race—that's all today was. First of the series. You learned a lesson and not the way you like to learn them. But you're not the only one who cocked up." The cleft in his chin deepened as he smiled. "Today they made two fatal errors: One—they showed their cards in the first round, and two—they forgot who the fuck they're dealing with." He thumped her chest with a knuckle. "You're still Dillon Sinclair."

What if that didn't mean anything anymore, she wanted to ask, but kept quiet . It wasn't so much that she'd been beaten that bothered her—it was that she'd been outplayed. By him .

But Kyle was right. One race. One mistake. She wouldn't let it happen again.

After showering, she met Kyle back in the hall, agreeing to let him drag her to the after party. They were in Bermuda, after all. No reason to sit in her hotel room and forgo the perfect weather. It was better than stewing over the loss.

On the way to the lobby, the lift dinged on the third floor. As the door opened, Dillon immediately regretted skipping the stairs. There was Elyna Laurent's expressionless face. And behind her, of course, was Henrik.

It had been nine years since she'd come that close to him. They'd seen each other—at races, at the Olympics, at various events. Most often with Dillon on the podium and Henrik in the crowd. But not once since she'd left Hamburg had she allowed him to come within arm's reach.

"What a pleasant surprise." His lips twisted into a smirk, his lean cheeks camouflaged by his five o'clock shadow. At forty-five, he was still handsome—more so, even, than when she had met him. There was no doubt an endless line of women who'd find his roguishness appealing, willing to throw themselves into his bed. But by the way Elyna's entire body tensed as he placed a hand at the small of her back, it was clear he'd still not developed a taste for women his own age.

"Hallo, Sch?tzchen ." They stepped inside.

Dillon said nothing.

"You ran like a weakling today," he continued in German as the doors took an eternity to close. "It was embarrassing to watch."

Dillon forced a long inhalation through her nose, unwilling to look at him. Elyna stared at the floor. There was nothing of the indomitable power and presence the Parisienne girl had displayed on the race course. She looked cowed next to Henrik, like she wanted to disappear. Dillon knew the feeling well.

"She is a force, is she not?" His eyes swept Elyna, speaking of her as if she weren't even there. "Built for speed. The lungs of a thoroughbred and ethics of a plow horse. She is going to demolish you in Japan, you won't even make top ten. She hasn't even hit her prime and is already challenging your records."

Dillon knew she should just get off the lift and walk away. He was only trying to slip under her skin, to find a way to provoke her. But her pride wouldn't allow it.

"She's a little old for your taste, isn't she?"

Henrik smiled. "Jealous, Sch?tzchen ?" He leaned against the mirrored wall. "You needn't be. You may be in the twilight of your career, but I'd still take you for a ride—"

"Fuck you!"

"What a lady. I'm sure your papa would be so proud—"

She lunged toward him, intent on wiping the smug smile off the bastard's face, but Kyle was quick to restrain her.

"Don't, Sinc!" He may not have understood a word of German, but it took little imagination to know what had transpired between them. "The wanker's not bloody worth it!"

The lift settled on the ground floor as the doors slid open to reveal the main lobby. Half a dozen competitors milled about in boardshorts and flip-flops, their attention casually shifting toward the commotion. Elyna quickly slipped into the crowd.

Watching her go, Henrik leaned over, his breath warm against Dillon's cheek. "See you in Yokohama, Drückeberger ." And then he was gone, disappearing behind Elyna.

"Sinc…" Kyle released her. "Just let it go."

"I don't need you to manage me," she snapped, knowing her anger was aimed in the wrong direction."I can handle myself!"

"And allow you to earn a suspension over a cunt like him? He wasn't worth it. Now let's go."

Dillon slapped the button for the fifth floor. "You go. I'm going to call it a night."

"C'mon, Sinc—"

A couple in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses approached the lift, waiting for Kyle to clear the door. He hesitated, shooting her a disapproving shake of his head. "Fine. Let him get your goat. It's exactly what he was after. Go hide upstairs and hand him his second win of the night."

"Sod off," Dillon muttered, but he'd already walked away.

Back in her room, she yanked the blinds shut, closing out the panoramic view of Hamilton Harbour. She wasn't in the mood for the turquoise waters or the beauty stretching across the bay.

She stood in the low light of the living room, staring at the silver medal she'd flung onto the coffee table.

Bermuda was her race. Unlike Yokohama, or Málaga, or even Montreal, where it was always a scrap to the podium, Bermuda was hers . She'd won it more times than any other athlete in the history of the sport. She owned the course record. She was the unquestionable favorite to win. It had never even crossed her mind that she'd fall short.

Henrik had played her perfectly.

But—and it was the but she had to force herself to focus on—Kyle was right. They'd shown their cards too soon. Elyna was a sprint finisher. Dillon knew now she couldn't match her closing speed, so she would simply have to adjust her strategy. Surge early and vary her pace. Make her chase her. Make it hurt.

It was this last part that mattered most. Elyna may be younger. She may physically be at an advantage with her height and physique. But there was one thing Dillon knew she didn't have. She didn't have her drive—or her capacity for pain. The entire success of Dillon's career had stemmed from her willingness to do more, to push harder, to commit herself to do the things others wouldn't. Even when they hurt. Especially when they hurt.

Striding across the room, she snatched up the silver medal, and dumped it in the rubbish bin.

Fuck Henrik Fischer .

She sank onto the couch, rubbing absently at her left knee. It had begun to grind halfway through the cycle, but she hadn't paid it much attention. She'd worry about it at the end of the season. Or after Los Angeles. Some other time.

Exhausted, she closed her eyes. Tomorrow she'd fly to London, where she'd spend two weeks before heading to Japan. Then it was back to Leeds. And after that, she wouldn't see home for a while.

When she opened her eyes again, the sunlight streaking through the edges of the blackout curtain had softened, the color warming to the golden hue of late afternoon. Her watch said it was four PM. Five PM in Nuuk. With the long daylight hours, Kam would probably still be working.

She rocked her stiff body forward, dragging her duffel onto the couch, and dug out her phone. She'd meant to text her earlier, before things had gone sideways.

As the mobile powered to life, she sat back and stared at the photo on her lock screen. It was a selfie Kam had sent her a few weeks earlier, standing on the ledge of a glacier overlooking the sea. She was bundled in a parka, her nose red and lips cracked from the cold, still somehow managing to look runway pretty.

The infamous ice sheet Kam had captioned the text, followed by a winking face. She told Dillon she'd had to spend two days filming ‘practically nude' on the ice-covered coastline, beneath the northern lights. Dillon had sent back a photo of her in a hot tub after an early morning training session, to which Kam had responded with an emoji of flipping the bird.

It had been two months since they parted in Hollywood, but they'd managed to talk almost every day. Dillon looked forward to Kam's texts in the morning, and had made it a habit to call her—if even just for a few minutes—before she went to bed at night.

It hadn't been like that with Kelsey. When they were in the middle of their respective seasons, they could go days—weeks, even—without speaking. It had frustrated Kelsey, Dillon's inclination to grow reclusive, but it was simply how it had always been.

This, with Kam, was different from the start.

I miss you. Dillon typed out a text and hit send.

Her phone immediately rang.

"I thought you might still be on set," she answered, watching a palmetto bug scurry up the wall.

"I hate this place." Kam sounded like she was in a tunnel. "It finally stopped snowing, and instead rained all day. We couldn't get anything done."

Dillon tried to repress her disappointment. Kam's filming in the Arctic had been close to a wrap, on track to finish two weeks early—a windfall which would have allowed them to meet in Aberdeen for at least a day before she left for Japan. But a late spring storm had hit the southwest coast of Greenland, halting the production, and now they were behind schedule, dashing the hopes of a rendezvous in Scotland.

"Well, if you look on the bright side, you're going to love Scotland's weather compared to what you've been through these last two months."

"I'd have loved it more if I'd gotten to see you in it."

Dillon couldn't help but smile.

Kameryn continued. "Tell me about the race."

"I lost."

"I followed the feed on Twitter. Coming in second isn't losing ."

"It's losing to the winner."

"And beating forty-seven other women in the process."

"It still isn't a win."

"Oh, please." She could practically hear Kam's eye roll. "Even if you'd won you wouldn't be happy with the result."

Dillon half laughed, and turned the subject back to filming. She didn't want to talk about the race.

They chatted for over an hour as the sliver of light from the curtain narrowed its stretch across the floor. Usually, their conversations were brief, interrupted by timezones and conflicting schedules, but tonight Dillon lingered, loath to say goodbye.

Kam seemed to understand.

"Is everything okay?"

Dillon suppressed a sigh. "I'm just tired." She swung her legs over the side of the couch, stretching. "That's probably not something I should be saying after the first race of the season."

Kam quieted. "I saw that he was that girl's coach today."

Dillon pressed a finger into the sore spot on her knee. "Yep." She blew out a long breath. "But whatever. Today they just got lucky." Standing, she went to the window and drew back the curtain to look out over Pitt's Bay. "So—tell me something you're not allowed to tell me."

Kam laughed. So much of what she did was kept under wraps. She'd explained how the entire production had been managed as carefully as a special ops mission, complete with fake scripts, multiple takes, and last-minute rewrites to entire scenes. The producers were taking no chance with leaks.

"You just want to know if I had to film any more scenes without my clothes on."

"Obviously." Dillon smiled. "I'll accept photos as proof."

"Wouldn't you like to get so lucky," Kam returned, but despite the playfulness, she couldn't hide her wistful sigh. "I really do miss you, you know? I wish I could have been there for you today."

"I wish Aberdeen had worked out."

"Me, too." A brief silence ensued. "You promise you haven't forgotten me yet?"

"It's still freezing on Cairn Gorm, last I checked."

"You should have promised on the Greenland Ice Sheet. Then I wouldn't have had to ask you twice."

"I like when you ask me."

Another beat passed as Dillon watched the beachgoers scattered across the white sand, their silhouettes bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. She turned back to the emptiness of her room. "Will you text me tomorrow when you're finished filming?"

"You'll be traveling."

"I like to get your messages when I land."

"Okay. If I survive another night in subfreezing temperatures."

"You'll survive. You're Addison Riley, after all."

"I don't know—it's Margaret Gilles. Her heroes tend to die in the end."

"Not in the books I read."

"Ha," Kam scoffed. "You've never even read Sand Seekers ."

"I hadn't," Dillon admitted, "until…" she paused. What? Until she started to fall in love with a girl halfway across the world? She couldn't say that. "Until I heard a hot tip the actress playing the lead was just my type."

"Frost bitten toes and all?"

Dillon laughed. "Ten digits not required."

"I'll text you."

"Send me a photo."

"Oh yeah?" Kam singsonged.

"Yeah. Make it a good one."

"I'll expect recompense."

"You know I always pay my debts."