She sat back on her heels, expression shifting from surprised to annoyed. "Seriously?"
He didn't answer. Just stood, smoothing his shirt, avoiding her eyes. The booth suddenly felt suffocating—the music too loud, the lights too bright, the scent of her perfume choking.
He muttered something vague—thanks, sorry, enjoy the rest ofthe night—and pushed past the rope, ignoring the way heads turned as he descended the stairs. The crowd parted automatically; people always did when they recognized him. He didn't look back to see if the blonde was still kneeling there or if she'd already moved on to someone else.
Outside, the Soho night air hit him like a slap—cold, damp, laced with exhaust and distant kebab grease. The street was alive: taxis idling, laughter spilling from doorways, groups staggering arm-in-arm toward the next bar. He pulled his jacket tighter and started walking, no real direction, just away.
He needed a few days, that was all. Time to let today's disaster fade. Time to reset. The media would move on to the next story. He'd do better next time—smile more, deflect less, give them the version of him they wanted.
And the girl—she was nothing. A fluke collision. A moment. He'd never see her again. No reason to. He'd be back to normal. Focused. In control. Ready to drive.
He turned toward the quieter streets leading home, telling himself he believed it.
???
CHAPTER THREE
Mia
Mia’s first official day at Ashworth Racing began with the sharp realisation that no one was waiting for her.
She’d caught the early train from her London flat that morning, leaving the city’s familiar hum behind for the quiet countryside ride up to Motorsport Valley. After her interview weeks earlier in the polished central London office, this felt different—the vast factory complex sprawled under open skies, more operational nerve centre than executive suite. She stepped into the expansive reception area, clutching her notebook like a lifeline. People in team polos and branded kit moved with easy purpose: some heading toward the media suite, others carrying briefing packs or laptops toward the sim bays and strategy rooms. The faint buzz of activity—distant radios, the occasional whir of a door—filled the air.
Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going.
“Amelia!”
She turned to see Claire Whitman striding toward her, heels clicking against polished concrete, hair perfectly controlled despite the undercurrent of chaos. Claire wore the team’s navy blazer over a crisp white shirt—professional, unflappable.
“Oh—hi.”
“Come on then,” Claire said briskly, already turning toward the lifts. “Let’s throw you in at the deep end. Comms suite first—your home base.”
They rode up to the third floor in silence. When the doorsopened, Mia stepped into a bright, open-plan space: banks of monitors cycling through social feeds, press clippings, telemetry snippets, and live schedules. Desks clustered around a central island where two assistants were already fielding calls. Glass walls overlooked the atrium below, giving a bird’s-eye view of the facility’s controlled frenzy.
Mia felt a flicker of pride—this was exactly where she wanted to be. She’d imagined it a hundred times: fast, unpredictable, vital. This was it.
Claire gestured to a desk near the window. “Yours. Laptop’s already set up, credentials loading. Most mornings you’ll be stationed there—tracking what people are saying about us before the world convinces itself we’ve said something else.” She paused, giving Mia an assessing look. “But today we’re doing the rounds. You need faces to names—and context—before the real work starts.”
They headed back to the lift, Claire leading the way like she’d walked these corridors blindfolded. “We’ll start with the drivers’ briefing room. Lucas and Jax should be there pretending to listen to strategy. Spoiler: they won’t be.”
The lift descended one floor. They emerged into a quieter corridor lined with framed race wins and sponsor logos, then pushed through double doors into a glass-walled meeting room that doubled as a mini war room. Screens dominated one wall; a long table held laptops, coffee cups, and half-eaten pastries.
Lucas sat sprawled in a chair at the far end, scrolling his phone. The team kit hung off him like he was doing the fabric a favour. Sleeves pushed up, forearms corded with muscle, veins tracing paths she shouldn’t notice. His fingers—long, precise—moved over the screen with careless grace. He looked utterly untouchable. And entirely aware of it.
“Lucas,” Claire announced. “This is Amelia. Your new communications assistant.”
He didn’t look up immediately. “Already met.”
Mia kept her expression neutral. “Yes. Briefly. And I prefer Mia.”
Lucas finally glanced at her, eyes scanning like he wasassessing an unfamiliar corner for the first time. They lingered on her blouse—clean now, dry, but the memory of it clinging wet and translucent flashed between them unspoken. His gaze paused for a heartbeat, tracing the curve of her breasts before snapping back to her face. Subtle. Controlled. But she felt the heat of it like a brand.
“Careful today?” he said, voice low and measured, the words carrying just enough edge to make her pulse jump.
Claire sighed. “Play nicely.”
Before Mia could respond, the door banged open. Jaxon “Jax” Callahan strode in, hoodie half-zipped, cap backwards, protein shake in one hand, a bag of freshly baked pastries in the other, apologetic grin splitting his face.
