“You’ll get there,” she said simply, her voice softening. “You’ve got the heart for it—always have. Trust it. And if you need to vent more, you know where I am. Table’s always open.”
He left the session feeling marginally looser, the knots unravelled, his mind a bit clearer. Stepping into the lingering Austin heat, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
His manager’s name flashed on the screen.
“Jax. Interesting call just came in. From Aria Moon’s team—you met her in Singapore, right? The K-pop star.”
Jax stopped in his tracks, a spark of interest cutting through the post-debrief fog. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“Aria wants dinner. She’s heading to Mexico next week for some business gig—endorsements or whatever. Asks if you can meet the week before the race there. Low-key, just the two of you.”
He pictured her vividly now—that emerald dress from Singapore clinging to her like it was painted on, her dark hair cascading in waves, those warm brown eyes that held a mix of vulnerability and fire. Small next to him, but with a presence that filled the space. Sexy as hell. Their brief chat had been easy, genuine, a spark of connection amid the chaos. He found her intriguing, captivating—talented, beautiful, with a depth that hinted at more beneath the superstar facade. Wouldn’t mind spending more time with her at all, exploring that chemistry, seeing where a dinner could lead.
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Tell her yes. I’m in.
???
Chapter Six
Aria
Mexico City hummed outside the restaurant windows, the distant pulse of traffic and laughter filtering through the thick glass like background music. The place was everything she’d hoped for when she’d asked Robert to find somewhere quiet: tucked in a leafy corner of Polanco, no neon sign out front, just a discreet brass plaque beside a heavy wooden door and a valet who knew to keep cameras at bay. Inside it was all low amber light, dark walnut tables set with crisp white linens, and the soft clink of crystal against marble. Their corner booth was half-hidden behind a living wall of ferns and trailing vines that smelled faintly of earth and green, candles flickering in smoked-glass holders that cast warm, shifting shadows across the table. Private. Intimate. Perfect for a conversation she needed to keep professional—even if the air already felt charged.
She arrived early, sliding into the booth in a simple black tank top matched with a short silk skirt that skimmed her thighs, thin straps over bare shoulders, no bra beneath the cool, liquid fabric. Hair down in loose waves that caught the low light, minimal makeup—just enough liner to make her eyes pop, red lipstick that felt like armour. She wanted to look good, but not like she was trying too hard. This wasn’t seduction. It wasnegotiation. A calculated move in a game she was still learning the rules to.
Jax walked in five minutes later, scanning the room with that easy confidence until his gaze landed on her. He wore a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm to show the corded muscle and faint tan lines, dark jeans that fit just right across long legs, and that loping, unhurried stride that made the hostess glance twice before looking away. He slid into the booth across from her, grin already in place—slow, warm, the kind that probably melted most women on contact.
“You look incredible,” he said, voice low, Australian accent wrapping around the words like smoke.
She smiled—small, polite, controlled. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself. No race suit tonight?”
“Saving the hero costume for the track.” He leaned back, studying her with open appreciation that lingered just long enough to make her pulse kick. “I like this version. Less sequins, more… real.”
The waiter appeared with menus and chilled water infused with cucumber and mint. They ordered quickly—barbacoa tacos to share, grilled octopus with salsa verde for her, a mezcal old fashioned for him, a mezcal negroni for her. When the drinks arrived, Jax raised his glass.
“To unexpected nights in Mexico City.”
She clinked hers against it. “To unexpected conversations.”
They started light—Singapore still fresh enough to laugh about. The rooftop party, the way the infinity pool had reflected every light in the skyline like liquid stars. Jax told her about the debrief after Austin, the quiet tension in the motorhome when Claire slid that bar video across the table.
“They’re not wrong,” he admitted, turning the glass in his hand, ice clinking softly. “I’ve been coasting on charm too long. It used to work—podiums, points, sponsors happy. But this season…” He shrugged, the movement easy but the eyes serious. “Eighth, twelfth, DNFs. They want someone who looks like they’re starving for it again.”
Aria nodded slowly, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. “I know that feeling. Every album drop—people wait for you to slip. One off note, one weak single, and the narrative flips. ‘She’s lost it.’ ‘She peaked.’ I’ve spent years proving I haven’t.”
He tilted his head. “How do you keep going when the pressure’s that constant?”
She exhaled, gaze drifting to the candle flame between them. “I remember why I started. Not the fame, not the money—the feeling of a song coming together, when the world’s quiet and it’s just me and the melody. That part never changes.”
Jax watched her for a beat, something softening in his expression. “That’s it, isn’t it? The one place that still feels clean.”
“Yeah.” She met his eyes. “For you it’s the car. For me it’s the stage. Everything else is noise.”
They lingered there, the conversation easing deeper. He asked about her writing process—how she switched between Korean and English mid-verse, how some songs came in twenty minutes and others took months of bleeding on the page. She asked about his early days—karting in Brisbane, the long drives to tracks with his grandmother in the passenger seat, yelling at him to slow down even as she secretly loved the speed.
He laughed at that, low and real. “Nan still thinks I’m thirteen and invincible. Calls after every race to make sure I ate something green.”
