[**ON HIATUS**]
Noah Wood is a Mercedes driver. Scrappy, charming, and far too handsome, Noah is one of the best drivers on the grid. But a newcomer is threatening to steal his seat, and Noah must win this year's Grand Prix - or risk being booted ou...
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This, Noah thought, may have been a mistake.
He shifted his paddle. He watched as Cedro and Matthew wrangled a two-person yellow raft into the water; Matthew was swearing around a paddle that was wedged between his teeth like a rose, hopping up and down in the freezing cold water. Next to them, Amelia was calmly buckling a blue helmet.
"Looks choppy," Peter said.
Amelia's eldest brother was leaning on his paddle, staring out at the water. He didn't look much like Amelia — tall, blonde, freckled — but they shared certain mannerisms, Noah thought. The constant fidgeting. The purposeful stride.
Oh, and the intimidating stare.
Peter had that down, too.
The Cartwell family had flown into Montreal yesterday. They'd spent the afternoon exploring the wet cobblestoned streets, stopping to duck into sidewalk cafes for fresh bread or coffee. At nine o'clock, they'd huddled under a red awning, eating warm poutine out of a cardboard box. Peter had accidentally spilled the rest of his dinner all over Noah's shoes.
Well, Noah hoped it was an accident, anyway.
Shame that Ethan wasn't here, Noah thought; Amelia had told him that her middle brother was sitting his final exams at university. Ethan liked fantasy football and gingernut biscuits and making his own candles in the shape of tiny whales. He seemed like a nice bloke. Approachable.
Alas.
"Have you been rafting before?" Noah asked.
Peter ground his shoe into the bank. "Twice."
"Any advice?"
"Watch out for rip currents," Peter said. "It's easy to drown in them. Sometimes they carry you straight out to sea; it's impossible to find a body."
Peter looked cheered by the thought. Noah tried not to notice the way the eldest Cartwell was sizing him up, as if assessing how well he could swim.
"Luckily," Noah said, "I'm not planning to fall overboard."
Peter shrugged. "Anything's possible."
Peter whistled, turning toward the water; his paddle smacked Noah in the left thigh. Noah bit back a curse, trying to ignore the sting of his leg. He refused to rub it. Not while Peter was watching, anyway.
"Wood!" Amelia called. "Come on." She patted the two-person inflatable raft, which was idling in the water. "Let's go."
She was shielding her eyes against the June sun, silhouetted against a rocky grey canyon dotted with greenery. A black wetsuit clung to the curves of her body. It was ridiculous, Noah thought, that a wetsuit could have this effect on him when he saw her in form-fitting gear every weekend. And yet...
Friends.
The word was a mantra in his head. Noah clung to it as he started for the water, his gaze trained on the banana-yellow raft. We're friends, we're friends, we're—
