CHAPTER SEVEN
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Lucas
The Miami press room smelled of coffee and expectation.
Lucas sat at the long table between Jax and Marcus Lang, lights hot on his face, microphones angled like accusatory fingers.
He’d prepped with Mia the night before—short answers, no edge, a smile if it didn’t hurt.
He’d rolled his eyes at the time, muttered something about not needing a script. Now the questions came fast.
“How’s the car feeling this weekend?”
“Strong,” he said. “We’ve found some grip in the low-speed corners. Should be competitive.”
A journalist leaned forward. “You’ve been quiet off-track lately. Fans are saying you’re all ice. Anything you want to say to them?”
Lucas paused. The old reflex kicked in—shrug, deflect, let the silence do the talking. But Mia’s voice cut through the noise in his head: Show them something. Anything. Not a performance, just… enough.
He leaned into the mic.
“I’m not big on the chit-chat,” he said. “Never have been. But I’m grateful to the people who make this possible—the engineers, the mechanics, the fans who show up no matter what.” He exhaled once, short. “I’ve been a bit of a dick lately. Sorry. Working on it.”
The room laughed—warm, surprised, not mocking. Jax elbowed him, grinning wide. Marcus’s shoulders dropped a fraction, the tension he’d carried since Melbourne easing visibly.
Lucas felt it then: relief. Not the explosive kind, not fireworks. Just a quiet unclenching in his chest, like a knot that had been there so long he’d forgotten it could loosen. The words hadn’t felt forced. They hadn’t felt fake. And for once, the room hadn’t turned on him.
He knew exactly who was responsible.
Mia was waiting in the corridor when the session ended, arms crossed, expression neutral but eyes sharp.
“That was decent,” she said, voice low.
He raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”
“You didn’t sound like you were reading from a script. It worked.”
He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
Something moved behind his ribs—gratitude, mostly.
But also, something else, quieter, harder to name.
She’d seen the worst of him for months: the clipped answers, the shut-down silences, the way he’d bitten back every time she tried to help.
And she’d kept showing up anyway. Kept pushing.
Kept believing there was something worth pulling out.
“Thanks,” he said. The word came out rougher than he intended. “For… yesterday. The prep. It helped.”
Her brows lifted slightly—surprise, quickly masked. “You’re welcome.”
He nodded once, throat tight.
Sunday, race day, everything clicked. Clean start.
Bold strategy call. Precise, ruthless overtakes.
He held off the charging pack in the final stint and crossed the line in P9—his first points in Formula 1.
The radio erupted in static and cheers; the garage lost its collective mind.
Jax had finished P7, a solid haul that kept the team buzzing.
Lucas climbed out of the car, helmet off, sweat running into his eyes. The noise hit him like a wall—cheers, horns, the team chanting his name. For the first time in months the sound didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like… possibility.
He caught Mia’s eye across the pit lane. She was standing near the monitors, clipboard in hand, watching him with that steady, unreadable look she always had. No big smile, no dramatic reaction. Just a small nod. Acknowledgment.
It landed harder than any cheer.
He looked away first, jaw tight, but the feeling stayed. Relief. Gratitude. And underneath it, something warmer, something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. Not just that she’d helped him sound human in a press room. That she’d seen him—really seen him—and hadn’t walked away.
* * *
By the time the team took over the rooftop bar in South Beach that night, the knot in his shoulders—the one that had lived there for months—had finally started to loosen. Neon lights sliced through the dark, bass thumped hard enough to rattle glasses, champagne popped like gunfire.
Lucas let the drinks come. One became three. The day hadn’t felt like a fight he was losing.
He spotted Mia near the edge of the room, half in shadow, standing a few feet away from the bar rather than claiming it.
A glass of water sat untouched in her hand, her posture angled toward the exit more than the dance floor.
She looked out of place—too still, too watchful in the middle of all that chaos.
He pushed through the crowd until he reached her.
“Come on,” he said, voice gravelly from yelling over the music, close enough she had to tilt her head up. “Come and dance.”
She met his eyes, then flicked them toward the dance floor where bodies moved in a sweaty tangle. “I don’t do this scene.”
“Okay.” He stepped closer instead, invading just enough to make her breath hitch. “Then at least stand somewhere better than the emergency exit.”
Before she could argue, he guided her back a step until her spine met the edge of the bar—solid, grounded, no longer hovering at the perimeter. Close enough to the dance floor to feel the bass under her skin. Far enough to keep distance.
“Stay here,” he said quietly. “Don’t run away just yet.”
He threw himself back onto the floor. The alcohol made everything loose, reckless.
A blonde in a silver dress pressed against him first—hips rolling slow and deliberate, hands sliding up his chest. He matched her rhythm, hands low on her waist, pulling her in until there was no space left.
She laughed into his neck; he barely heard it over the music.
Another woman slipped in behind him, sandwiching him, fingers trailing down his spine.
He let it happen—grinded back, let their bodies slide and catch, sweat and perfume and heat everywhere.
He told himself it was easy. Mindless. The release he’d needed after months of being wound tight.
But every few seconds his eyes found her.
Mia hadn’t moved from her spot near the bar. Water untouched, watching. Not glaring, not judging—just watching. Her expression was still, almost clinical, but her eyes were dark, fixed. Heat hit him harder than the tequila. His stomach twisted—arousal, guilt, something sharper he couldn’t name.
He pulled the blonde closer, rolled his hips harder, tried to lose himself in it. But the more he moved, the more aware he became of Mia’s gaze like a physical touch on his skin. Every grind, every forced laugh, felt performed. Wrong. His pulse kicked up—not from the women, but from her.
He glanced back again. She was still there. Unblinking.
Something snapped. He disentangled himself mid-beat—muttered an excuse to the women, ignored their protests—and cut straight toward the bar.
He stopped in front of her, breathing hard, sweat slick on his brow and the back of his neck, shirt clinging to his chest in damp patches. The scent of other women’s perfume clung to him—sweet, cloying, wrong now in a way it hadn’t been five minutes ago.
“You’re still here,” he said. His voice came out rough, scraped raw from shouting over the music.
“So are you.” Quiet. Steady. Too fucking steady.
He braced one hand on the bar beside her, caging her in without touching. Close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes.
“You’ve been watching,” he said.
Her gaze flicked down to his mouth—just half a second—then back up. “Hard not to.”
The admission landed like a punch. His blood roared, heat surging low and fast. He felt it everywhere: in his throat, his chest, between his legs.
He leaned in, voice dropping low enough that only she could hear it over the thump of the bass. “Does it bother you?”
She set her glass down. The movement was deliberate, controlled. Her eyes never left his.
“I’m going back to the hotel.”
Before he could answer—before he could even decide whether to reach for her wrist, to pull her back, to say something stupid and honest—she slipped past him. Her shoulder brushed his chest, light but deliberate, the contact sending a jolt straight through him, electric and sharp.
He watched her disappear into the crowd—dark hair catching the neon, posture still straight, still composed even as she walked away from him. The knot in his gut twisted tighter, a mix of frustration, want, and something uncomfortably close to regret.
He stayed where he was, hand still braced on the bar, breathing like he’d just run a qualifying lap. The music pounded on. Bodies moved around him.
Lucas dragged a hand over his face. His heart hadn’t slowed. His body hadn’t calmed. If anything, the ache was worse now—sharper, more specific.
He exhaled hard.
He wasn’t drunk enough to pretend he didn’t want to follow her.
* * *
Mia
Mia’s ears still throbbed with the loud bass from the club even as she made her way back down the quiet hotel corridor.
She entered her room, hearing the door softly click behind her, sealing out the last faint traces of the night.
She leaned against it for a second, eyes closed, breathing shallow.
The images wouldn’t leave—Lucas on the dance floor, shirt clinging to his chest, hips rolling slow and deliberate against the blonde in silver, then the brunette sliding in behind him, hands dragging down his back while he pushed back into her, unhurried, shameless.
The way their bodies locked and slid, sweat-slick, laughing like it was nothing.
Like he hadn’t just looked straight at her across the room and let her see it all.
Her skin felt too tight. Heat pooled low in her belly, insistent, unwelcome.
She hated how her thighs clenched at the memory, how her nipples tightened under the thin fabric of her top just thinking about the flex of his hips, the casual strength in his hands on those women’s waists.
It wasn’t jealousy—not exactly. It was worse.
It was want, raw and physical, the kind that made her thighs press together when she shouldn’t.
She stripped off her clothes in the bathroom, stepped under the shower, turned the water cold.
It didn’t help. The spray hit her skin like needles but couldn’t wash away the ache.
She braced one hand on the tile, head bowed, let the water pound her back while she tried to breathe through it.
Her free hand hovered over her stomach, then lower—then stopped. No. Not tonight. Not because of him.
She wrapped herself in the robe, sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed tight. The city lights glittered outside the window, indifferent. She stared at them until her breathing evened out, until the throb between her legs dulled to a low hum instead of a roar.
The knock came—soft, almost reluctant.
Lucas stood there, shirt untucked and damp at the collar, hair mussed, eyes dark and glassy from the drinks. He still smelled like sweat, tequila, and perfume. It should have turned her stomach. It didn’t.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough.
“You’re drunk.”
“A bit.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the motion pulling his shirt tighter across his chest. “Can I come in?”
She stepped aside. He walked past her—close enough that his arm brushed hers, sending a fresh jolt straight to her core. He stopped in the middle of the room, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t trust them.
“You left,” he said.
He took a step closer. Then another. Close enough she could see the flush on his throat, the way his chest rose and fell a little too fast.
“I kept feeling your eyes on me,” he said, low. “Every time I moved, every time someone touched me—I was thinking about you. Whether you were still there. Whether it pissed you off. Whether it turned you on.”
The words landed like a hand between her legs. She swallowed, felt the heat climb her neck.
“I find you fucking hot, Mia. Watching you watch me tonight? Made it worse.”
Her breath hitched. She could smell him—salt, alcohol, arousal—and it made her dizzy. Her body responded before her brain could catch up: thighs squeezing, pulse throbbing low and insistent.
He lifted a hand, hesitated, then let his fingers graze her jaw—rough, calloused from the wheel. She didn’t pull away. His thumb brushed the edge of her lower lip, slow, deliberate.
She tilted her head just enough. Their mouths were inches apart. She could smell the tequila on his breath, feel the tremor in his hand.
Then he stopped.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling back half a step. “I’m pissed. This isn’t….”
She exhaled shakily, the ache between her legs sharpening at the sudden loss of contact. “No. It isn’t.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, a muscle ticked in his cheek.. “I should go.”
“Yeah.” Her voice was steadier now, but only just. “You should.”
He lingered at the door, hand on the frame, back to her. “Mia?”
She didn’t answer right away. “What?”
He exhaled, quiet, almost to himself. “Today… for the first time in months, I actually felt like I can do this. Like I might not fuck it all up.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond. The door clicked shut behind him.
She locked it, pressed her forehead to the wood, heart slamming. The room felt too quiet, too empty. Her body still hummed—skin hot, core aching, thighs slick with the evidence of how badly she’d wanted him to close that last inch.
She didn’t sleep much after that.