The room laughed, but I caught sight of Lucia shaking her head, a small smile playing on her lips.
As the session wrapped up, I made my way back toward her. She was talking quietly with Anna, her expression relaxed despite the attention she’d received.
“Ready to head out?”
Lucia turned to me, her eyes searching mine. “You handled that well.”
“Comes with the territory,” I said with a shrug. “But it helps when I have good material to work with.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered.
“Come on,” I said, holding out my hand. “Let’s get out of here, I miss the mini version of you.” Her fingers slipped into mine, and I couldn’t ignore the way my chest tightened at the simple gesture.
“Me too.” She nodded. I wasn’t sure what was happening between us, or if it was just me, but for now, it was oddly comforting to have her with me. I mean, she had always been a comfort, had always made me feel as loved and welcomed as all the DeLucas, but this…her hand in mine. It was different. And it felt like a damn good different, I didn’t want it to end.
17
LUCIA
Fake dating a five-time world champion race car driver was surprisingly easy. Fancy dates, amazing food, traveling the world, and having literally everything I needed delivered to me. I was quickly descending into spoiled territory. Gianna was having the best time, we explored on off days, cheered on the boys during practices and race days. Gianna was now telling everyone she would be a driver when she grew up. Matteo was thrilled. Alexander had been busy helping with the F1 Academy Driver & Youth Development programs. He played a big part in the driver program, mentoring young drivers on their racing journeys, and was a passionate advocate for increasing women’s involvement in motorsports.. Nicola has been volunteering as well to help get them more exposure and funding.
It was two months into this journey, one month of fake dating Alexander Wright. I was beginning to feel like I had a front-row seat to a version of myself I hadn’t seen in years. Like I was finding myself again, the part that was buried, or lost along the way. The part my past relationship had stomped out, then everything needed to be focused on having a baby, then raising said baby. But here, out in the world doing things for me, I was enjoying this new, fast-paced life. And Matteo, Alexander, Anna, and Nicola were the village to help me along the way, making sure I was participating in all the fun parts. I had now been to enough parties that they didn’t feel overwhelming because I had my people. And slowly I could feel my walls breaking down, feel my old self reemerging, newer and braver, ready to take on the world.
Maybe it was the quiet assurance in the way Alexander always looked at me, like I belonged exactly where I was. Or the way he touched my hand in crowded rooms, steadying me when I felt overwhelmed. Or the ridiculous amount of wine he insisted I try on our not-so-real dates.
Whatever it was, I couldn’t deny it anymore—I was starting to feel alive.
* * *
We were on a break before the next race in Texas, taking a rare moment to enjoy the lull in the relentless Formula One schedule. The five of us went to Spain. Nicola was ecstatic. She had literally shopped till we dropped the first day we arrived. Gianna was decked out in a new matching set, new shoes, and the cutest mini leather jacket you’ve ever seen. Matteo was his normal happy-go-lucky self, pulling us along on planned outings to see the sights.
Nicola and Matteo, ever the planners, had finally reached exhaustion and said they would stay in with Gianna for the night. Alexander had insisted we go out for dinner at a little place he swore had “the best paella you’ll ever eat.”
He wasn’t wrong. The meal was divine—a medley of saffron, seafood, and rice cooked to perfection—and the wine flowed as freely as Alexander’s easy charm. The restaurant itself felt like stepping into a postcard. The space was cozy and warm, with low, golden lighting casting a romantic glow over every surface. The walls were adorned with endless frames, each holding black-and-white photographs, colorful sketches, or vintage posters that told stories of the past. Strings of dried peppers and garlic hung along the beams, and shelves lined with wine bottles filled the space above the bar.
Soft Spanish guitar music played in the background, just audible over the happy murmur of people talking and laughing. Waiters glided between the tables with plates piled high, their voices warm as they greeted regulars. The smell of garlic, herbs, and fresh bread filled the air. Across the small table, Alexander was in rare form, teasing and playful, looking truly relaxed. His smirk was a weapon he wielded with ease.
“You’ve got sauce,” he said suddenly, gesturing to the corner of my mouth.
I frowned, reaching for my napkin, but he shook his head, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“No, here.” Leaning forward, he brushed his thumb gently across my lips, his touch lingering just a second too long.
It was such a simple gesture, but it left me frozen, my heart skipping a beat as heat crept up my neck. He leaned back, the smirk deepening, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. He nodded slyly to a paparazzo across the street. I sighed, trying to keep the butterflies in check. Alexander would flirt without cameras around, he would take me out to dinner with the prose of fake dates but then not take out his phone once and order everything on the menu and make me laugh all evening. It was so easy to be around him; he made me feel things that were creeping out of the box where I had long since shoved my crush.
After dinner, we decided to walk off the meal. The city was alive in the way only European cities could be at night, cobblestone streets glinting under the glow of lanterns, couples strolling hand in hand, and the faint hum of life around every corner.
The wine had left me warm and a little giddy, and Alexander seemed perfectly content to match my leisurely pace, his hand occasionally brushing against mine as we walked.
“What do you mean no one has ever bought you flowers for no reason?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve been given flowers, but they were always for something—‘I’m sorry’ flowers, birthday flowers, but never ‘just because’ flowers. I feel like those are the ones that count, you know? There’s something so romantic about your person being out, seeing flowers, and thinking of you, and then getting them for you.”
“If it was any flower, which one?” he asked.
“Happy flowers, bright and full of life,” I responded easily.
Somewhere along the way, we heard it: a soft, hauntingly beautiful melody drifting through the cool night air. We followed the sound to a small square, where a group of street musicians played under the glow of a single lamppost. The music was slow, romantic, and utterly enchanting.
