We all textedafter the exam and agreed on a relaxing afternoon: no more medical talk, no Henric, no FIA. Just food, sun, and wine. By three o’clock, everyone had migrated back to the Frabois villa, to my and Aurélie’s dismay. We’d all changed into something breezy instead of hungover chic, and met in the drive for pickup.
The resort concierge pulled up in one XL SUV, all gleaming black paint and aggressively efficient air conditioning. We piled in like a very glamorous clown car—Aurélie and I in the front with her in my lap, Ivy, Marco, and Lucy taking the middle row, Kimi sprawling in the back like he owned the vehicle.
“The olive oil, lemon water, and B-vitamin supplement combo worked,” Ivy insisted as soon as we were on the road. She was holding court in the window seat, sunglasses on and legs stretched out across Marco’s lap while she read off her “hangover hypothesis” from her Notes app like it was gospel.
“I’m telling you,” she said, scrolling back. “Liver support, gut prep, hydration. The real Holy Trinity.”
“You also drank three cups of coffee and ate a fuck ton of carbs,” Marco pointed out.
She ignored him. “We should bottle it. Call it Dubois Detox.”
“Or Grease In Greece,” Kimi muttered from the third row, earning a wheeze laugh from Lucy.
“Ivy, you do realize that olive oil acts as a natural, mild laxative, right?” Lucy piped up, leaning forward between the seats. “Like… medically. That’s a thing.”
Ivy lowered her sunglasses just enough to glare at her. “Why would you say that to me?”
“I’m just saying,” Lucy giggled, then winced and pressed a hand to her temple. “In case you start ‘detoxing’ while we’re here.”
Marco snorted. “Please, she’d weaponize it. ‘Sorry I had to leave your meeting, I was too busy optimizing my organs.’”
“That’s actually a good line,” Ivy said thoughtfully. “I’m putting that in my comms doc.”
“I am not putting your bowel movements in an official document,” he said. “There are limits.”
Kimi hummed. “If this becomes a product, I want royalties.”
“I veto this decision altogether,” Aurélie snapped.
I glanced at her, curled in my lap in the front passenger seat, bare legs stretched across my thighs. She wore a soft, light green sundress with skinny straps and a low, scooped back that showed off the golden line of her spine. The skirt hit mid-thigh and rode up just enough when she shifted to make rational thought a challenge. Her skin was warm and glowing, kissed pink at the tops of her shoulders. Her head rested on my shoulder, but her fingers tapped a restless rhythm against my chest, all contained energy and barely leashed excitement.
“Excited?” I murmured, nuzzling her temple.
“Oui,” she beamed, barely keeping still. “This place is supposed to be stunning. I did some research before we left. Apparently it’s under new ownership. She’s new to the wine scene here, but people are already buzzing.”
“Do I need to be worried?” I teased. “You’re practically vibrating.”
Her hand slid down to squeeze my thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make my breath stutter. “You already put a ring on it, Fraser. You’re stuck.”
“Can’t wait,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair.
She rolled the window down, the breeze carrying the scent of thyme and sea salt. Out the windshield, the road curved along the hillside, winding between scrub brush and wild olive trees. It was all sunlight, dust and lazy summer colors. I felt the tension of the last two days finally ease in my shoulders. Not gone entirely, not after the doctor visit, but it was better.
She was okay. We were okay. And I was starting to believe this trip might actually hold.
Behind us, Marco offered his unsolicited rankings of F1 driver wine labels.
“I don’t care if it’s mass market,” he argued. “Ricciardo’s sparkling red slaps.”
“Because you like things that slap you in the face,” Ivy said.
“Exactly. That’s why I like you so much.”
Ivy made a noise of disgust. “You’re diabolical.”
“Not what you said last night.”
“Marco.”
