Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 by Robin Lovett Read Free Book Online Page A

nothing else to deter me from my insane urge to stalk Braker.
    The morning rain clears, leaving the sky washed in blue. La Promenade des Anglais sera parfait ! The Promenade will be perfect. I’d be going down there anyway. It’s not just to see Braker. I don’t think.
    On the way to the tram stop near the school, I pass the bar where I met Paul and his friends before Mardi Gras. It’s overflowing with people. I peep in the windows.
    A crowd huddles around a TV.
    A bike race flies across the screen. With riders in blue in the lead.
    I hustle through the door and squeeze between people.
    An aerial shot shows a massive group of more than fifty cyclists riding through the French countryside. The train of bicycles moves in communion like a school of multi-colored fish, spilling down the road like water over rapids. The scenery, the hills and valleys of picturesque Provence, wrap the race in beauty.
    I wander closer, drawn to the screens.
    “These tricky descents are a ripe place for crashes,” the TV announcer says in French. “And with the American sprinter Terrence Braker off the front, the main group is getting very nervous.”
    Braker hunkers over his handlebars, and his legs spin in a blurring circular rotation. The riders thin into a long line and round a U-shaped turn so fast they could careen off the edge.
    But not only does Braker make the corner, he stands in his pedals and passes two others.
    “And there he goes! With his teammate Gary Ransome on his wheel! Oh, I tell you, those two make for the most unstoppable team in cycling. Unless one of them cracks, none of the other teams will stand a chance at victory today.”
    “That’s right. They’ll draft off each other all the way into Nice. A perfect strategy for the infamous ‘Terror’ to steal a win on the Promenade des Anglais this afternoon.”
    I can’t believe I didn’t know about this.
    The TV says, “After eight days of racing that began in Paris, the final finish is just hours away.”
    That’s why they haven’t been to the café. They were racing.
    “Aurélie?” a voice says in my ear. Paul stands beside me. I didn’t notice him. “Hello.”
    “Hi.” I struggle to look away from the race, until the coverage breaks to a commercial.
    “You decided to come out, huh?” he asks.
    “Are you here for the bike race?”
    “Yes,” says another guy, one of Paul’s friends from Mardi Gras. “The whole town will be, how you say, ‘going crazy’ tonight.”
    The race announcers return. “We’re back for more coverage of the Paris-Nice Tour, the Race to the Sun.”
    The aerial view sweeps over the sparkling Mediterranean. It shows the Promenade des Anglais lined with cheering fans near a finishing banner, and the grand villas of the Côte d’Azur dotting the blue coast of the French Riviera.
    “Braker’s early lead is no real surprise. This young man, at only twenty-three years of age, is proving to be one of the fastest men on two wheels.”
    There’s another close-up of Braker and, as though he can hear the announcers, he turns to the camera and winks.
    It’s so cliché, but—I love it.
    Gary speeds ahead, and as he passes, Braker pushes him, his hand on Gary’s butt.
    I lean closer.
    Braker falls into Gary’s slipstream, charging in his pedals. His magnificent legs spinning, the muscles straining under the spandex covering his thighs, and the smooth skin of his glistening calves.
    I’ve never seen a guy’s legs so smooth.
    The skin waxes golden in the sun and pulls taut over the bulging sinews. They’re definitely shaved, waxed, something, but it looks—good. His narrow hips rock in the saddle. A brutal determination shines from his eyes. A single-minded focus that I want directed at me.
    His expression leaves no doubt: he’s going to win today, and I pity anyone who tries to beat him.
    “With these boys speeding at sixty kilometers per hour,” the announcer says, “we should expect them at the finish line within the