Chapter Thirty-Three
Luca
I could tell Georgia had been nervous through most of the shoot.
She was very good at learning to work through her anxiety, but I’d learned how to read her.
The stiff shoulders. The twitchy hands. The way she bit the inside of her cheek between takes.
So I did what I could, kept the banter flowing, slipped in that little whisper about Sunday night just to make her squirm in my arms. She’d relaxed, just slightly, and I filed that away with everything else I’d learned about her lately.
And now, back at my London apartment, all I could think about was how good it felt to be near her when no one else was watching. About how excited I was to get her onto my family’s yacht, itching to have some more private time with her so that I could finish what I started in Monaco.
She mumbled something about needing to change, disappearing down the hall.
After I finished my shower, I slipped into my favorite set of sweatpants and a comfortable V-neck, heading back into the kitchen so I could prepare our dinner.
Ironically, after her joke in Monza, I’d decided to make her a fancy mac and cheese tonight, a fact I was slightly embarrassed by since she’d told the journalist it was my favorite food.
I was stirring the sauce when she stepped out of the bedroom. And promptly gave me a heart attack.
Black dress. Hair half up, wearing the lightning bolt necklace I’d given her at Monza.
Shit. Did she think we were going out? Did she want to go out?
I cleared my throat and raised an eyebrow.
“I know my cooking is pretty good, amore, but I think you might be a little too formal for mac and cheese.” The look on Georgia’s face was priceless.
A general mix of shock, relief, then happiness.
“I figured after the last two weeks you wouldn’t want to go out to eat. I certainly don’t.”
“So, we aren’t going out?” she clarified in a quiet whisper.
“Nope.” I turned back to the cheese grater, hiding a grin. “Figured you’d be as tired of the cameras as I am.”
“Oh.” She vanished again, only to return with black leggings underneath her dress.
“So, I, uh…” She pointed to her leggings. “I forgot to pack a comfortable shirt. Only packed workout clothes and beach items. Do you mind if I borrow one?”
“Of course,” I said, perhaps a little too excitedly, heading to my room.
Pulling out my deepest purple Hermes shirt, I tried to control my giddy excitement. I felt like a high-school boy whose crush had just asked to borrow his letterman jacket. The idea of seeing her in my shirt stirred something within me, and my chest felt tighter.
A minute later, I handed her the soft purple Hermes polo.
“Really?” she deadpanned. “This is the only shirt you could find? I’m not wearing your team shirt, Luca.”
“I mean, no shirt is always an option.” I winked.
Georgia groaned, but grabbed the shirt anyway and headed to the guest room. When she re-emerged, my polo hanging loosely off one shoulder, her leggings clinging to her legs, I let out an involuntary whistle.
She scoffed, barely hiding a grin. “Absolutely no photos, Rossi.”
“Spoilsport,” I laughed, before pointing to my wine cabinet. “Want to open a bottle?”
She nodded, pouring us each a glass of Tempranillo from my collection. “Thanks for not making us go out to eat. I’m exhausted.” I handed her a piece of grated cheese, which she took happily. “Plus, it’s nice to see I didn’t lie to the journalist today.”
Georgia grabbed her wine and wandered into my open-plan living room, taking a moment to review each of my photos and trophies scattered across the wall. I watched her as she traced a finger along one of the framed photos of my dad and me from an old race of his.
I loved watching her here, in my space. Barefoot, wine glass in one hand, wearing my shirt like she’d done it a thousand times before.
It felt easy. Right.
“You know, I saw a clip recently of you racing Monster Trucks the other day. Was that back in the US?”
Georgia smiled that beautiful big smile, nodding.
“Sometimes I miss being in America. There was such a comfort in knowing what to expect. A comfort in knowing the team, the car, the crowd, even the journalists. There were no surprises in IndyCar,” she whispered as she stared at the photo of me and my father.
“I was just another driver, no different than the boys.”
“But you’ve done incredibly in Formula 1. You look so comfortable in the car, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was easily your third year in the sport. A real natural.”
“Say that to all the girls, Rossi?” she joked.
“Just the pretty ones.”
Her cheeks flushed, the freckles across her nose brightening.
She rolled her eyes, but I saw the twitch at the corner of her mouth.
The one that meant she was secretly pleased.
I refilled her glass before motioning for her to take a seat on the couch next to me.
Dinner was in the oven, and we had some time before it was finished.
“By the way, I read that engineering book you recommended me,” I confessed. “Figured if you could use it to beat Henri, then I could too.”
She blinked in surprise. “Oh?”
“I meant what I said at the podcast back in Monza. You really are making me a better racer.”
Georgia’s cheeks turned a deep shade of pink, highlighting the small freckles scattered across her nose. Her blushes always melted my heart, and after each one, I found myself desperately looking for the next one. She looked embarrassed by my praise, but she had no reason to be.
It was all true. At the start of the season, it was impossible to picture myself on the podium again. But now? Now I had another winning trophy to add to my collection.
My dad had spent years trying to get me to focus on racing, and here was Georgia, convincing me to read engineering books after just a few months of getting to know her.
That was the big difference between Georgia and my father in their motivations in encouraging me to love racing.
My dad wanted to continue living his glory days.
Georgia wanted me to be happy and fulfilled.
“What kind of music do you listen to?” she asked, taking another sip of wine. “I notice you have a lot of records in your spare bedroom.”
“I like a good mix of things,” I said honestly. “I don’t really have a favorite band, but recently, Bon Iver after seeing them in London. Beach House is pretty good, too. Saw them at a festival back in France.”
She quirked her eyebrows, clearly surprised at my answer. “Didn’t expect party boy Luca Rossi to have a secret love of indie music.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Dubois.”
She thought she had me all figured out, assumed that I didn’t care about art or music or reading. But I was determined to show her a different side of myself.
“A man of mystery, apparently,” she teased. A beat passed, and I saw something shift in her. The humor softened into something more reflective. She leaned forward, fingertips playing with the edge of her wineglass.
“There is something I wanted to ask you, actually.”
Georgia nodded for me to continue.
“Several years ago, I overheard my father offering to be your coach. Why did you turn him down?”
She hesitated, her expression unreadable.
“I wondered if you knew about that. Honestly? It was tempting. Your dad’s a legend.
But I didn’t want to owe anyone my career.
In IndyCar, people said I only got ahead because of Anthony’s family.
I wasn’t about to start my F1 chapter with people saying I rode in on Michael Rossi’s last name. ”
I nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. A luxury I didn’t have, but would have loved. “You wanted it clean.”
“I wanted it to be mine,” she said quietly. “And mine alone. Whether the reputation was failure or success, I’d own it.”
“You’ve definitely earned your place here through your own talent and hard work.”
Georgia smiled gratefully before taking another sip of wine. “You know, I was going to tell you during our dinner that night, but you never showed.”
The guilt sat heavy. She didn’t need to clarify which night. We both knew, had both been dancing around that elephant since Miami.
“I’m sorry I never showed, Georgia. I was young and stupid, and as terrible as this apology sounds, I was jealous and angry at my father. And, somewhat you. After hearing his conversation, I felt oddly betrayed and instead of asking, I did what I do best, I ignored it.”
She reached out and squeezed my hand. “I was hurt that night. Everyone had told me to stay away from you. But I wanted to see the real Luca. The one who wasn’t just a headline or a smirk.” She smiled softly. “The Luca I’m getting to know now.”
Something cracked open in my chest at that. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Not because I was caught off guard by her kindness, but because I didn’t realize how much I’d been waiting for her to say something like that.
This was the same woman who’d nearly shoved me into the barriers a few races ago.
Who used to look at me like I was something to be scraped off her tire.
And now she was sitting across from me, sipping my wine, wearing my shirt, and slowly letting me see all the parts of her that weren’t for public consumption.
I raised my glass of wine to hers, feeling a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
There was a beat of comfortable silence before she shifted on the couch, tucking her leg underneath her, looking at me again, this time a little more serious. “Well, since we’re talking about forgiveness…” She shifted in her seat, eyes flickering away. “Anthony apologized to me in Monaco.”
“Oh?” I asked curiously.