“This villa,” he said quietly, “was my grandfather’s. He built it in the ’70s—just before he died—loved the light here, the way the sea changes colour every hour. When he died, my grandmother—English, proper, very British—took my dad back toEngland to raise him. But they kept coming back once or twice a year. Family holidays. Mum, Dad, my brothers, me. She loved it, but I think it brought back favourite memories of him. The pool was her idea—heated so we could swim even when the ocean was too cold. She’d sit on the terrace with a book and watch us like we were the best thing she’d ever seen.”
Mia listened, heart soft. “Sounds like she loved you all very much.”
“She did.” He glanced at her, eyes warm in the firelight. “She’d have liked you. Sharp. Kind. Not afraid to call bullshit.”
Mia smiled, warmth spreading through her. “I’d have liked her too.”
They sat in easy silence for a while, the night deepening around them.
They left it there, the unspoken promise of more hanging in the air. Mia felt it like a current under her skin—terrifying, thrilling.
* * *
Lucas
Lucas woke first, the villa quiet except for the distant cicadas and the faint rustle of breeze through the olive trees. He’d lain awake longer than he should have last night, replaying the way Mia’s laugh had caught in the candlelight over dinner, the easy way she’d leaned in when she spoke, her knee brushing his under the table.The pull between them had thickened with every shared glance, and he was tired of pretending it wasn’t there.
He made coffee in the big kitchen, the rich scent filling the air, then carried two mugs out to the terrace. The pool shimmered below, still and inviting in the morning sun. He set the mugs on the low table, stripped down to his trunks, and slipped into the water to clear his head before she appeared. The warm enveloping water helped—a little—dulling the restless edge that had kept him up.
The terrace door clicked open behind him. He turned in the water—and his breath snagged hard in his chest.
Mia stood at the pool’s edge in a red bikini that hugged every curve like it had been painted on. The colour blazed against her sun-kissed skin, the top straining just enough to outline the full, soft swell of her breasts. As she stretched her arms overhead to dive, the cool morning air tightened her nipples into sharp peaks against the thin fabric. Dark. Hard. Impossible to ignore.
Heat slammed through him, instant and brutal. His cock thickened in a rush, pressing painfully against the inside of his trunks.Fuck. Not now.He ducked lower in the water fast, gripping the edge of the pool with both hands, knuckles bleaching white as he willed his body to behave. The cold helped—a little—but the ache only sharpened.
She dove in with a clean, practiced arc, surfacing a few metres away with a bright, breathless laugh. Water streamed from her hair as she swam toward him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re already in here and you still look like you’re moving in slow motion,” she teased, splashing lightly in his direction. “What, afraid I’ll beat you to the other end?”
“Afraid?” He arched a brow, finally turning to face her fully while the water did its job concealing him. “I race cars for a living.”
“Then prove it.” She tilted her head, grinning. “First to the far end and back. Loser makes lunch.”
They raced lazy laps after that—splashing, laughing, elbows bumping underwater like kids who’d forgotten they were supposed to be careful around each other. When they surfaced close—too close—his hand brushed her arm beneath the surface, skin sliding against skin in a spark that made them both pause for half a heartbeat.
“You’re a shark,” he teased, voice lower than he meant it to be, eyes locked on hers as they treaded water, faces only inchesapart.
She tilted her head, water dripping from her lashes. “And you’re still moving like you’re in quicksand.” But her gaze flicked down his chest, lingering on the water beading over his muscles, then darted away again. Her cheeks flushed pinker than the morning chill could account for.
She’s looking. The realization sent fresh heat through him.
Lucas leaned in just a fraction, grin lazy. “Hey. Serious question, Mia Brookes.” He drew out her last name with mock gravity, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Does anyone actually call you Amelia, or are you Mia to literally everyone? I noticed you were pretty quick to set me straight on that first day.”
Mia laughed softly, the sound rippling across the water. She pushed a strand of wet hair from her face. “Yeah, pretty much everyone calls me Mia. Have done since I can remember.” She kept treading lightly. “When I was little—and nowhere near as articulate as I am now—whenever anyone asked my name, I couldn’t quite manage ‘Amelia.’ It came out sounding like ‘Mia.’ So everyone just… assumed that was it. After a while my parents stopped correcting people and rolled with it. Easier that way. Been Mia to the world ever since.”
She gave a small, thoughtful shrug, sending tiny waves toward him. “When I went to Oxford, a few people tried calling me Amelia. I was so desperate to fit in that I let it slide for months. Didn’t correct them. Looking back, it felt like I was handing over the pen to my own story—letting someone else decide how the main character should be addressed. I hated that version of myself.”
Her gaze met his again, wry smile tugging at her lips. “So when I started at Ashworth Racing, I went the other way. I was probably a bit aggressive about it—introducing myself as Mia right out of the gate, correcting people. I wanted to get in early, control the narrative before anyone else could. No more handing over the pen.”
Lucas watched her for a beat, eyes softening even as he treaded water beside her. “Mia suits you. It’s cute.” Then his grin turned wicked. He dropped his voice into an exaggerated, terrible Kiwi accent—broad vowels, all wrong. “Not as articulate, eh? Little baby Mia, eh?”
She gasped, mock-offended, eyes widening. “Excuse me—are you mocking my New Zealand accent right now?”
“Nooo, I would never,” he said, still in the ridiculous accent, holding both hands up in surrender while somehow managing to stay afloat.
Her eyes narrowed playfully. Without warning she scooped a handful of water and flicked it straight at his face. He yelped—genuinely startled—and retaliated instantly, sending a bigger wave splashing over her head. She squealed, laughing so hard she almost went under, and within seconds they were in full chaos: water flying in every direction, hands scooping and splashing, legs kicking to keep them both upright as they tried (and failed) to dunk each other.
When they finally called a truce—panting, grinning, hair plastered to their faces—they floated closer again, shoulders almost touching, breaths mingling with the chlorine scent. His hand brushed hers under the surface—barely there, but neither pulled away.
They stayed like that a little longer, the playful energy simmering down into something quieter. Warmer.
