“Sorry, sorry—traffic was mental.” He raised the pastries like a white flag. “Brought peace offerings. Who wants?”
Claire’s mouth twitched. “You’re late, Callahan.”
“Fashionably,” Jax corrected, dropping into the chair beside Lucas. He leaned over, stage-whispering, “Mate, you look like someone just told you the car’s made of cardboard.”
Lucas didn’t smile. His posture stiffened, arms folding tighter. Jax either didn’t notice or didn’t care—he turned the grin on Mia.
“You must be the new comms wizard. Amelia, right?”
“Mia,” she corrected automatically.
“Mia.” He tested it, nodded once like he approved. “Claire’s hoping you might stop me saying anything too stupid to the press.” He leaned back, legs sprawled. “Good luck. I’ve got a gift.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Jax is our resident Aussie chaos agent. Lucas is our resident ice sculpture.”
Jax laughed—loud, easy, filling the room. “She’s got her work cut out with this one.” He jerked a thumb at Lucas. “He thinks silence makes him mysterious. I keep telling him it just makes him look constipated.”
Lucas exhaled through his nose. “Keep talking, Callahan. Seehow long it takes me to lap you.”
“Promises, promises.” Jax winked at Mia. “Don’t worry. He’s all bark. Deep down he’s a teddy bear. Just needs someone to remind him how to hug.”
Mia felt the corner of her mouth lift despite herself. Jax was everything Lucas wasn’t—loose limbs, quick laugh, effortless charm that made rooms feel lighter. She glanced at Lucas. His neck corded, eyes fixed on the table, but there was something almost fond in the way he didn’t snap back.
Claire clapped once, sharp and efficient. “Enough. Mia, your job is to focus on thawing our ice man; I’ll take the larrikin. Let’s keep moving.”
They stood to leave the meeting room, Jax calling after them with a cheerful, “Welcome to the family, Mia! Try not to quit in the first month.”
Lucas stood as they passed, filling the space without trying. He stepped closer—close enough that she caught his scent: clean sweat, faint cologne, something darker and warmer underneath. Her nipples tightened against her bra; an unwanted response she prayed he couldn’t see.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he said quietly.
“I’m not here to babysit,” Mia replied evenly, forcing her voice steady even as awareness pooled low in her belly. “I’m here to help you not get fined, flamed, or fired.”
Something flashed in his eyes—amusement? annoyance? hunger?—gone before she could name it.
“We’ll see,” he said, grabbing his jacket and walking out. His stride was casual, deliberate—the kind of ease that made confidence look effortless. And infuriatingly attractive.
Mia exhaled slowly. She was already aware of one unavoidable truth: he would be impossible.
Claire glanced at her watch as they stepped back into the corridor. “One quick detour before we head back upstairs. Dana’s expecting me—Lucas flagged some neck stiffness after yesterday’s sim run, and she wants to rule out anything that might knock him out of Thursday’s sponsor photoshoot or the presspen. Can’t have our star driver looking like he’s got a crick in his neck on camera. Might as well introduce you properly while we’re here; you’ll be coordinating with her a lot anyway—scheduling conflicts, injury updates that affect media availability, all that fun crossover stuff.”
Mia nodded, falling into step. It made sense. In a world where every minute of a driver’s time was monetised, physical niggles weren’t just medical—they were PR landmines. A tweaked neck could mean a cancelled interview, a grumpy quote, or worse, a visible grimace that social media would dissect for days.
They turned down a quieter wing, the air shifting to that faint mix of liniment, rubber, and antiseptic that screamed “performance recovery.” Claire pushed through a door into the bright physio suite: treatment tables lined up like surgical bays, monitoring screens flickering with telemetry overlays, a neck brace on a stand mid-calibration.
Dana glanced up from adjusting the brace, warm brown skin catching the overhead lights, ponytail swinging as she straightened. Fine lines at her eyes hinted at frequent smiles, even when the job demanded steel. She carried the calm, unhurried purpose of someone who’d talked down more egos than most people met in a lifetime.
“Dana,” Claire said as they stepped into the bright physio suite, “this is Mia—the miracle we’ve been waiting for. Figured I’d kill two birds: get your update on Lucas’s neck and introduce her properly while I’m here. Meet Dana Reyes, our lead physiotherapist—she’s been keeping drivers in one piece for years, through crashes, sim overloads, and every ego bruise in between.”
Dana extended a hand, her grip firm and steady. “Mia. Bloody brilliant. I’ve been begging Claire for someone who can make Lucas sound like less of a prick to the outside world.” Her Midlands accent rolled out warm and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world despite the monitors humming with telemetry feeds behind her. “And yeah, Claire—his traps are tighter than a drum after yesterday’s sim session. Classic stubborn bastard, ignoring the warm-up cues like usual. Nothing structural, just overuse. If he doesn’t loosen up by tomorrow,I’m taping him like a Christmas present and he’ll sulk through the whole thing.”
Mia laughed—the sound surprising even her after the morning’s knots of tension.
“Welcome to the madhouse. You’re not allergic to caffeine or sarcasm, are you, love?”
“I like my coffee strong,” Mia said, grinning back. “And I can handle sarcasm. Grew up with it.”
Dana’s grin widened, crinkling the fine lines at her eyes. “Good. You’ll need both. These lads think they’re fucking invincible until their neck seizes mid-briefing, then suddenly I’m the villain for insisting they stretch.” She tilted her head toward the screens showing driver data—heart rates, g-forces, session logs. “You any good at talking sense into over-inflated egos when they start whining about having ‘no time’ for recovery?”
