CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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Mia
Mia’s phone rang while she was still in her childhood bedroom in Amberley—Christmas decorations still up, the faint smell of pine needles lingering. She saw Dana’s name and answered immediately.
“Hey Dana. You okay? Thought you’d be sleeping off turkey coma.”
Dana’s voice came through hoarse and stuffed. “Wish I was. Caught the worst cold ever. Mum’s been feeding me soup and guilt for two days. I sound like a broken foghorn.”
Mia winced. “Oh no. You do sound awful.”
“Yeah. Fever, cough, the lot. Doctor says I’m grounded—no travel for at least a week. Which means…” She coughed once, winced. “I’m out for the villa next week. I’m so sorry, Mia.”
Mia sat down on the edge of her bed. “Don’t be sorry. You need to rest. France can wait.”
“I know, but—” Dana sniffed. “I was looking forward to it. And I hate leaving you in the lurch. But at least Jax will be there. He’ll keep things light. You won’t be stuck with Lucas brooding the whole time.”
Mia laughed despite herself. “True. Jax alone could probably carry a conversation for seven days.”
“Exactly. He’ll have you both laughing at his terrible jokes by day two.” Dana’s voice softened. “You’ll be okay, right?”
Mia looked out the window at the summer garden—roses blooming. “Yeah. I’ll be okay.”
“Good. Text me photos. And if Lucas starts sulking, tell Jax to dunk him in the pool.”
Mia smiled. “Deal. Feel better, Dana.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
She hung up. Stared at the phone.
Jax would be there. That was the important part.
She told herself it would be fine.
* * *
The taxi crunched up the gravel drive just as the sun dipped behind the hills.
January in the South of France meant cool, crisp air and sharp evenings, the Mediterranean a deep, restless blue too cold for swimming.
But the villa’s infinity pool was heated, steam rising faintly from its surface like a quiet invitation.
Mia stepped out with her small suitcase and breathed in lavender, citrus, and salt air.
Lucas was waiting on the terrace steps—dark sweater over a long-sleeve tee, jeans, bare feet despite the chill. He smiled—small, real—and came down to meet her.
“Hey,” he said, voice soft. “You made it.”
“I made it.” She let him take her bag, felt the brush of his fingers against hers. “Place looks even better in person.”
He glanced around. “Yeah. Quiet this time of year. Perfect for… decompressing.”
Mia nodded. “Where’s Jax?”
Lucas hesitated—just a fraction too long. “About that.”
He led her inside, set her bag by the stairs. Took a breath.
“Jax bailed,” he said. “Last minute. Said the waves are pumping on the Gold Coast and he ‘can’t drag himself away from paradise.’ His words. Sent me a photo of him on a board at sunrise with a stupid grin and ‘Sorry mate—nature calls.’”
Mia stared at him. “So… it’s just us?”
The villa suddenly felt much larger. And much quieter.
“Just us,” he repeated.
He picked up her suitcase again. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”
He led her up the wide stone staircase, past framed black-and-white photos of old races and family holidays.
The guest room was at the end of the hall—high ceilings, white linens, French doors opening to a small balcony overlooking the pool and sea.
The air inside was cool, faintly scented with lavender from a small vase on the dresser.
Lucas set her bag down by the bed. “This one’s yours. Best view in the house. Bathroom’s through there—fresh towels, extra blankets if the nights get chilly. I put a heater in the wardrobe just in case.”
Mia looked around, then at him. “You thought of everything.”
He shrugged, a little sheepish. “Wanted you to feel comfortable.”
She gave a small smile. “Thank you.”
He lingered in the doorway for a second, then nodded. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Take your time.”
When the door closed softly behind him, Mia sank onto the edge of the bed. She pulled out her phone and texted Dana.
Mia: Just got here. Jax cancelled. It’s just me and Lucas.
Dana: Well fuck. Now you two can just fuck each other’s brains out without interruptions. No Jax cockblocking, no me third-wheeling. Go wild.
Mia’s cheeks heated. She typed back quickly.
Mia: You’re awful.
Dana: Seriously though—if you feel even a little uncomfortable, make an excuse and leave. Book a flight. Call me, I’ll talk you through it. You don’t owe him anything.
Mia exhaled, glancing around the quiet room.
Mia: No, it’ll be alright. We’re friends now. I can resist his charms. Probably.
Dana: Famous last words. Text me if you need an extraction. Love you.
Mia: Love you too.
She pocketed the phone, took a deep breath, and unpacked.
* * *
Lucas
They ended up on the terrace after she’d settled—the sky turning deep indigo overhead, the pool lights flickering on automatically and casting soft blue ripples across the heated water.
The January air was chilly enough that Mia pulled a blanket around her shoulders, but Lucas barely felt the cold.
He was too aware of her sitting close, too aware of the silence that wasn’t awkward yet but could become anything.
He leaned against the railing, glancing toward the open-plan kitchen visible through the glass doors. “Right. You’ve had a long flight. What do you want to drink? I… stocked up.”
Mia raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Stocked up?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck—boyish, almost sheepish, hating how exposed the gesture made him feel.
Don’t look desperate. Don’t. “I’ve never actually seen you drink.
Not once. Not in Monaco, not in Vegas, not even when Jax tried to force tequila on everyone in Singapore.
So I made sure there was plenty of non-alcoholic stuff.
Sparkling water with lime, elderflower tonic, that fancy ginger beer you mentioned once. I’ve got options.”
She looked at him like she was seeing something new. “That’s… really sweet,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, like it was nothing, but inside relief flooded him. She noticed. Good. “Just didn’t want you to feel stuck with water all week.”
Mia glanced past him to the kitchen counter, where an open bottle of rosé stood sweating gently beside the non-alcoholic lineup. She hesitated, then met his eyes.
“If you’re having rosé…” she said, voice quieter now, “…I’ll take a small glass. Just here.”
Lucas paused, searching her face—looking for hesitation, for any sign this was a bad idea. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” She gave a small, steady nod. “I do drink sometimes. Just… in private. When I know who’s around me. Parties are different—too many eyes, too many variables. But here…” She gestured vaguely at the empty villa, the quiet terrace, the sea beyond. “Here feels safe.”
The word safe landed somewhere deep in his chest. He held her gaze a long moment—something soft and serious flickering behind his eyes. She trusts me. Here. Then he nodded once. “Here is safe.”
He stepped inside, poured two small glasses of the pale pink wine, and came back out. Their fingers brushed as he handed her one—brief, electric, enough to make his pulse kick.
“To unexpected group holidays,” she said, lifting her glass.
He clinked his gently against hers. “To unexpected group holidays.”
They both drank.
The first sip was crisp, cool, floral. Lucas watched her over the rim of his glass, the way her shoulders eased just a fraction. Neither of them spoke for a while. They just stood there—wine in hand, the villa quiet around them—letting the realization settle.
They were alone.
And for the first time in months, Lucas let himself admit how much he wanted that to mean something.
* * *
Mia
They eased into the rhythm of the place effortlessly.
The next day was lazy: a light meal of nicoise salad and chilled rosé on the terrace, then an afternoon exploring the grounds.
They wandered the olive paths, Lucas pointing out the trees his grandfather had planted decades ago.
Conversation flowed light at first—racing anecdotes, favourite off-season spots—but deepened as the sun dipped.
“You're different here,” Mia observed, as they paused at a viewpoint overlooking Nice. “Relaxed. No walls up.”
He shrugged, leaning on the stone wall. “No expectations. At home, it's always 'when's the championship coming?' Here... it's just me.”
She nodded, feeling the echo of that pressure in her own bones. I know exactly what that feels like. “I get that. Back in Amberley, I can breathe. No one cares about press releases or social metrics.”
Lucas smiled—small, almost wistful—and leaned his forearms on the stone balustrade, looking out at the darkening sea.
“You know, I’ve actually been to New Zealand once.
Summer after I turned eighteen. Dad flew us down—said it was time I raced somewhere that wasn’t crawling with European scouts and family expectations.
He acted as my manager for the whole trip.
No team, no sponsors, just us and a rented trailer. ”
Mia turned toward him, surprised and oddly touched. “You raced in New Zealand?”
“Yeah.” He glanced sideways at her, eyes catching the last of the sunset.
“Ruapuna, Teretonga, Hampton Downs. Then we entered the New Zealand Grand Prix. Won it, actually. Not quite the glamour of Monaco, but still… crossing the line first felt massive. Dad was screaming from the pit wall like a kid. I remember thinking, ‘This is what it’s supposed to feel like—no pressure, just the track and the wheel.’”
He paused, voice softening. “You know New Zealand is one of only two places in the world allowed to call a race the ‘Grand Prix’ outside of Formula 1? That’s pretty special.
The other’s Macau, and even they don’t get the same weight.
It’s like the country quietly earned the right to keep the name alive. ”
Mia watched him, the way the fading light gilded the edges of his profile. “I didn’t know that.”