I was only trying to loosen her up—no one who's "fine" goes for a run in the rain after a race—but doing it with alcohol may not have been the best idea. The other riders left the bar hours ago. Only a few of the older techs are left nursing their beers and catching up on the day's football highlights on a muted TV in the corner. That Schnapps hit Lauren hard and even though we stuck to weaker stuff after, those should have stopped much sooner, too. But I was really enjoying hanging out with her. I honestly didn't want the night to end.

When she starts shaking from exhaustion, I decide to walk her back to her room. It's really fucking late to worry about earlier bad decisions. I just have to keep myself from making any new ones.

Putting my arm around her waist, I guide her to the lift. "What is your room number?"

"Are you coming with me?" she asks with doe-eyed innocence.

I smile. She's a cute drunk. "I will walk you to the room to make sure you get there okay. What number?"

"Uhm, five-something." She scrunches her nose like it will help her remember.

I press the button for the fifth floor. First things first.

The carriage slowly moves upward. I keep my eyes on the digital numbers above the door as they count the floors, but it's not enough to distract me from the girl pressed against my side. With her arms wrapped around my body and her head against my shoulder, she's breathing deeply. I can't see her face, but another minute and she'd probably fall asleep like this. I wouldn't even mind.

The lift dings as it comes to a stop on the fifth floor. The doors slide open, and I nudge Lauren to attention. She lets go of me abruptly, like she'd just realized she's been doing it. Her steps are unsure, as if she's walking on a swaying deck, but she catches herself on the wall, and I follow her out. As we head down the hallway, her walk normalizes as she uses decorative landmarks to navigate. Turning right at the large vase of fake sunflowers, then backtracking at the door to the emergency stairs when we go too far, we finally stop in front of room five-twenty.

I'm relieved when her keycard triggers a green light and the door clicks open. Stepping back, I'm ready to wander to my room when she turns and leans against the door to keep it open.

"Do . . . do you want to come in?" she asks, biting her lip and playing with the drawstring of her sweatshirt's hood.

Of course I do, which is why I shouldn't. "Thank you, but I need to get sleep," I say with such conviction that I nearly believe it myself.

"Thank you? THANK YOU?" She repeats the phrase increasingly louder as a wide-eyed expression of disbelief replaces her previous flirty one. "I didn't offer you a goddamned stack—fuck, I mean stick—of gum for you to say 'thanks, but no thanks.'"

"Ssh." I throw up my hands to shush her while looking around to see if we are still alone. So much for cute drunk. The fight I first noticed in her eyes in Malaysia—and have seen again on other occasions since—can't be banished with a little alcohol. We don't have an audience yet, but that will change if she keeps up this racket. "Please. Just go inside. I will come too."

We go in, but I stay by the door. Leaning against the wood panel, I use it to keep steady—the last time I checked, I've been up for nineteen hours straight—and to put distance between us. Of course that last part would have worked even better if she'd actually gone across the room, yet here she is still lingering in the entry an arm's length away.

It's not hard to guess what she wants because I want it too. She did ask me into her hotel room in the middle of the night, after all. What else could it be for? Helping pack up her suitcase for tomorrow's flight out? Fuck no, and it feels great.

But I can't do it. It's hard as hell to resist her—especially if she keeps pushing—but this isn't right. Not now. Not like this. Lauren has to see that.

"Are you sure we are not too drunk for this?" I ask, hoping she'd catch on.

"Of course not." She shakes her head with a grimace like the suggestion is totally out of the realm of possibilities, but it ends up looking like she needs to puke. I shift from one foot to the other not quite knowing what to do when she comes closer. "I am so not drunk for this," she says, squeezing my biceps with both hands and making me jump. "I mean. Look. At. You."

"Lauren," I whisper, reaching to push her away, but she lets me go first and fiddles with the hem of her hoodie.

"Is it hot in here?" she asks, intending to be provocative, but ending up sounding pretty damn funny especially when she tries to pull the sweatshirt over her head and it gets stuck.

"Wait." I tug it back down and—still holding back a laugh—smooth out the fabric before unzipping it. "By we, I actually mean you. You are too drunk for me to be here."

She purses her lips, making them even fuller than usual. "No, I'm not." Wriggling her arms out of the damp clothing, she lets it fall to the ground.

Her tank top and bra are skin tight, and I can't stop staring. I could have her right here. All I have to do is shut up and do it. Maybe this isn't such a bad idea.

Lauren moves closer. Her scent—a mix of fruity shampoo, salty perspiration, and alcohol—fills my nostrils, but it's the touch of her nipples against my chest that root my feet to the floor. Stroking my shirt collar with her finger, she leans in until her warm breath tickles my earlobe. "But even if I was a little tipsy, why would that matter?"

I squeeze my eyes together and inhale. In my mind, I cup her face in my hands and kiss her. Hard.

My dick twitches. God, even imagining it is getting me excited.

Exhaling slowly, I clench my fists and look up. "I do not want you to do anything you would regret later."

She pulls back just far enough to look me in the eyes. "Do you really mean you as in me or are you talking about yourself this time?" The two, vertical lines between her dark brows could have meant confusion, if it weren't for the unmistakable attitude in her voice.

"What?" I ask, gently grabbing her upper arms—careful not to squeeze the edges of the dark bruise visible under the pain relief patch covering most of her right shoulder—and push her away so we aren't touching. Avoiding doing something in the heat of the moment that wouldn't seem like such a good idea tomorrow doesn't strike me as odd. If she's too out of it to even realize this, then my point is doubly made.

Lauren leans her head down and begins to mess with her hair. Taking out the rubber band holding up her ponytail, she sticks it between her teeth and—still upside down—shakes the whole thing free. "I can understand if you are looking out for yourself," she says through clenched jaws while flipping her head back and trying to scoop up the loose hair again. "I mean, what if things got awkward. You can't have a distraction now that you're back in the running for the championship."

"I did not even think of that, but maybe then it is two reasons. Hey, would you stop that?" I pull her hands from her hair—which she still hasn't managed to properly put back again—and add, "You look perfect."

With her long, brown hair covering her shoulders, she looks up at me. "Really? What is it then?" She steps closer. "Do you not like me? Because if you can't tell, I like you. I like you a lot, Seb."

Her lips are practically grazing mine, which makes resisting—and hell, even breathing and thinking—nearly impossible. And while her desperation is hopefully just the alcohol talking, hearing her admit a certain level of affection is a definite ego-booster. "No, that is clear. But you are making this really hard."

Her hand moves down. "You're not kidding!" she exclaims, squeezing my junk.

I jump and push her away. "Mamma mia! I know you are drunk, but that was not cool. Merda," I curse, raking my fingers through my hair. It wouldn't have been my choice, but that was certainly one way to completely kill the moment.

Lauren flees to the bed, sits on the edge, and covers her face in her hands. "Oh my god. That was awful of me. I'm as bad as he is."

"Who do you mean? Diego?" I ask, going to her. He'd been a recurring topic of our conversation earlier, but the Spaniard had pushed himself on her when she clearly didn't want it. I want it. The problem is, I can't give in to it. For both our sakes. "No. This is very different."

She looks up. Her eyes are rimmed with dark circles and her mouth is turned down in a frown. I wonder if they'd feel as soft as they look. "I thought you liked me, too," she whispers.

I sit down next to her, close enough to appear genuine without actually touching. I don't think I could resist further temptation. "You already say that. And I do. You are great."

"Great?" she repeats it with a sarcastic laugh, but there isn't anything funny about the tear flowing down her face. I immediately regret my choice of words as she sniffles. "I guess I should be flattered, right? Since you clearly hated me when we first met."

I want to reach up and wipe her cheek, but I hold back. I need to stop being a dick about sending mixed messages. "No, I never hate you," I say. Without thinking—it must still be the Weissbier talking—I also add, "But I do hate how you make me feel."

"How?" Lauren asks.

Scared. Confused. Angry. I can't admit any of it without an explanation. And I sure as hell am not about to get into that now.

I stand and wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs. "Like I should not be here."

"What? That doesn't make sense. You just said you liked me," she says.

True, but my head is at least clear enough to see how quickly this all could go to shit. Or maybe I'm simply a fool. "I do, and that is why I do not want you to make a mistake."

"Oh, okay. Sure," she says. "Or maybe you don't want to make a mistake. Did you even consider that? Blame it on me again. I see how it is." She stands, walks past me, and opens the door. "I agree: you should go."

Why doesn't she get it? Sure, even I can hardly believe I'd think it, but am I wrong to assume that drunken sex would lead to more trouble than it's worth? Or is she just that insecure to actually consider this a blanket rejection? At this point, I probably can't say anything to save the situation, but I can't leave with her feeling totally shitty.

"Lauren, you—" I begin, but she shakes her head.

"Get out." She points toward the hallway.

It's the right move, yet leaving like this feels so wrong. Still, I have no choice, but to go. Checking my fly outside the door one more time to make sure I'm zipped up, I walk to the lift as the door slams behind me.