Sienna was the opposite. Blonde where Mia was dark. Loud where Mia was quiet. Easy where Mia was careful. He could touch her without second-guessing every inch. No rules, no team optics, no debrief waiting to judge him.
What he felt for Mia was attraction—stupidly, dangerously strong attraction. The kind that hit him low and hard: his cock twitching to attention the second she walked into a room, pulse slamming in his throat, heat coiling tight in his gut like he was five seconds from dragging her into the nearest dark corner. Every time her voice came through his earpiece during media prep—calm, clipped, running him through talking points or correcting his phrasing—he felt it stir again, thickening against the seam of his jeans, demanding attention he couldn’t give.
And yet it wasn’t only that. Being near her settled something restless in him. She was sharp without ever turning cruel, sweet in ways that disarmed him when he least expected it, steady when the rest of his world spun too fast. She listened—really listened—like what came out of his mouth mattered, not just the polished version the sponsors paid for. He craved her company the way he craved air after a long stint in the cockpit—necessary, grounding, impossible to ignore.
But that was just… compatibility. Chemistry. Unfinished business from one stupid, heated moment when her mouth had opened under his and her body had arched just enough to make him ache for days. Nothing more.
So he kept seeing Sienna. Let her post the subtle couple-y shots—coffee in the snow, her hand on his arm. Let the tabloids pick it up. Let it look like he was moving on, living a normal off-season life. It was easier than admitting the truth: that every time Sienna’s lips met his, he was waiting for the same electric snap that had cracked through him in Abu Dhabi. And it never came.
He told himself it was just bad timing—adrenaline, hormones, nothing more.
He could move past it the way a driver slips into clean air after a perfect pit stop: fresh tires biting, undisturbed flow over the wings, everything suddenly sharper and faster.
Until today.
He walked into the pre-season team meeting—the first big gathering of the year, all key department heads and whiteboards waiting for the new messaging frameworks—and there she was.
Mia. Talking to Claire in the media corner, tablet in hand, dark hair falling across her cheek as she pointed something out on the screen. She was wearing the navy team jacket he’d seen her in a hundred times, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, posture straight but not stiff. Professional. Composed.
She looked up as he entered.
The hurt in her eyes hit him like a brake failure at 300 km/h. Sharp, real, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t dramatic—no gasp, no tears—just a flicker. A quick tightening around her mouth, a blink that lasted half a second too long, then her gaze sliding away like she’d been caught staring at something she shouldn’t.
Lucas’s stomach dropped.
He hadn’t seen her since that night. Hadn’t messaged. Hadn’t called. Hadn’t even let himself think about her too hard, because thinking led to remembering: the way her fingers had curled into his race suit, the soft sound she’d made when he deepened the kiss, the way she’d pulled back first and said, “We can’t,” like it physically cost her.
He’d told himself he was doing the right thing. Protecting the team. Protecting her career. Protecting his own focus for the season ahead. Sienna was proof he could move on. Proof it was just physical want he’d been fighting, nothing deeper.
But the proof was lying.
Because standing ten metres away, watching Mia force her attention back to the tablet while Claire kept talking, Lucas feltit—the same current that had snapped between them in Abu Dhabi. Stronger now, because it had been denied. Because he’d tried to drown it in someone else and failed.
His chest tightened. Not with anything soft or sentimental—he refused that. This was need. Raw, physical want. The kind that made him itch to cross the room, pull her aside, finish what they’d started just to prove it was only that—heat, friction, release. Not because he missed her voice in quiet moments, or the way she looked at him like she saw past the helmet, or how being near her made the constant noise in his head quiet down for once.
He didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
The room carried on around them—Marcus Lang’s low voice calling the meeting to order, Claire laughing at something on the screen, department heads shuffling papers—but Lucas felt the shift like a grid position slipping away. Like he’d just flat-spotted a tyre on turn one and knew trouble was coming.
He took his seat at the far end of the table. Forced his eyes to the whiteboard. Told himself to focus.
But every few minutes, against his better judgment, his gaze drifted back to the media team corner.
And every time, Mia was looking anywhere but at him.
???
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lucas
The pre-season team meeting wrapped up with the usual buzz—engineers scribbling notes, strategists debating tyre compounds, and the media team finalising the rollout for the car launch. Lucas lingered at the back, his mind not on the details but on the brief, charged eye contact with Mia earlier. The hurt in her gaze had lingered, but she hadn’t said a word. Professional as ever.
As the room cleared, Claire Whitman clapped her hands. “Alright, Lucas—media prep session in ten. Mia, you’re on point for the driver Q&A mock-ups. Jax, you’re with me on the team overview script. Let’s make sure our stars don’t trip over their words this year.”
Jax gave a lazy salute from across the room. “Aye aye, boss. I’ll keep it charming and Australian.” He shot Lucas a quick grin before following Claire out.
