Someone called his name from inside the garage. The spell snapped.
Lucas straightened, race face sliding on, his public self locking neatly into place. Before he turned away, his hand brushed hers — quick enough to look accidental, deliberate enough that she felt it long after he’d pulled away.
“Thanks, Mia,” he said quietly. “For believing when it mattered.”
She swallowed, forcing her voice steady. “Go win it.”
As he walked toward the car, she watched him go, heart pounding, painfully aware of everything they had not said out loud.
Five years ago, she’d sworn she couldn’t stand him.
SEASON I
???
CHAPTER ONE
Five years earlier
Mia
As Mia perched on the edge of her narrow sofa, laptop resting on her knees, her phone gave a short ping—a calendar alert. Rent due. Again. London didn’t care that she was fresh out of university, or that she’d crossed the globe on a scholarship, or that her parents in small-town New Zealand still talked about Oxford as though it were the finish line instead of merely the starting gate.
She clicked on the livestream anyway.
“And joining us this season,” the team principal said, “our newest driver — Lucas Moreau!”
The camera cut to him.
Young. Striking. Already wearing Ashworth Racing colours like they’d been waiting for him. He leaned back in his chair, arms loose, expression carefully unreadable — confident without being warm.
Mia frowned.
He was undeniably attractive. That, somehow, irritated her.
“I’m not here to make up numbers,” Lucas said smoothly. “I’m here to win.”
Mia huffed out a breath. “Subtle.”
There was something sharp about him, she decided. Not just ambition — performance. The kind that made sponsors swoonand everyone else brace themselves. She’d seen that confidence before. She didn’t trust it.
Her phone buzzed with the time.
“Oh no.”
She scrambled upright, heart kicking hard against her ribs. Interview.
Not just an interview — everything. First real job out of university. Communications assistant at Ashworth Racing. A role she’d applied for on a mix of audacity and necessity. If she didn’t get this, she wasn’t sure how long she could keep pretending she was fine.
She grabbed her blazer, pulled on her heavy wool coat—the one she’d bought second-hand because January in London demanded it, even for the short walk to the tube—and smoothed her hair. She rehearsed answers as the train rattled underground, the carriage heater blasting warm air against the chill still clinging to her skin. Be calm. Be capable. Don’t sound like someone who got lucky and knew it.
Inside the gleaming lobby of Ashworth headquarters, iced coffee in hand (a small act of defiance against the cold outside), she paused to steady her breathing.
You belong here; she told herself. Even if no one else knows it yet.
She turned the corner toward the reception desk — and collided hard with someone.
Icedcoffee sloshed over the rim of her cup, soaking the front of her blouse in seconds. The thin cotton turned translucent, clinging to her skin like a second layer. She felt the instant chill, then the betraying heat—her nipples tightening into taut points that pressed visibly against the damp fabric.
