Chapter 38 #2
The way they spoke to each other, the way they listened, the quiet, unwavering love woven into every glance, every shared laugh, every story that spilled across the table. Malina’s dramatic commentary, Dougal’s gruff mutterings, Cal’s occasional eye-roll—they were crazy, but they were safe.
There was no competition. No one trying to one-up anyone. No one trying to dim anyone else’s shine.
Just a family that had loved so much over the years that it tore them apart and brought them right back together.
And sure, the Fraser name had been etched into motorsport royalty, painted with legacy in one of the most elite, cutthroat sports in the world. And yet… it meant more sitting around this table. With mismatched placemats and a pot of tea steeping in the corner.
I tightened my grip on Cal’s hand beneath the table, and to my delight, he squeezed back.
There was a quiet devotion in the way he rubbed his thumb over the tattoo on top of my wrist. The way he never let go of me. Not even now—especially now.
And God, I loved him.
I loved him so much it hurt.
“So you knew you wanted to race since you were, what, two?” I teased, nudging his foot under the table.
Cal smirked. “Probably earlier.”
His dad snorted. “That boy was driving before he could walk.”
His mother let out a soft laugh. “And giving me heart attacks before he could talk.”
Cal just grinned, relaxed in a way I rarely saw. At peace, so much so that it made my chest ache.
We talked about his childhood, about the endless hours at the karting track, about the way he would study races on TV, murmuring strategies under his breath like a little professor. His father beamed with pride. His mother scoffed with fond exasperation.
And then, as the conversation drifted, they turned to me.
“To be honest,” his mother said, reaching for her wine glass, “I wasn’t sure what to think when Cal told us he was seeing someone. He’s never been much for… sharing that part of himself.”
I blinked. “Really?”
She nodded, shooting her son a look. “I’ve met maybe one girlfriend in all the years he’s been racing. And he was just sixteen at that time. That didn’t last more than a month or so.”
I turned toward Cal, arching a brow. He just shrugged, smirking. “Haven’t met the right person until now, have I?”
God help me.
His mother sighed, a soft, affectionate sound. “But when I saw ye try to get to him in that wrecked car—” She shook her head. “When I heard the fear in yer voice, I knew. A mother always knows, and my dear, I knew even then that there was something special between the two of ye.”
Her voice wavered slightly, and she reached for my free hand across the table, squeezing, her blue eyes twinkling in the soft light. He looked so much like them. A perfect combination of two people.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For making sure our one and only baby walked away from this sport when he did.”
My throat tightened.
“You have no idea how badly that crash scared us,” she murmured. “And celebrating another one of his birthdays tonight—” She let out a breath. “It’s the greatest blessing we could have asked for. God answered every prayer I ever had for him.”
Something lodged itself in my chest. I looked at my husband then, at the way he was just sitting there, watching his mother with that unreadable expression he’d perfected.
And I wondered if before me, he ever truly let himself understand how loved he was. I gave his hand another squeeze. And when he turned to me, I just smiled.
He smiled back.
Cal’s childhood bedroom was small and cozy.
Perfectly preserved, like a time capsule frozen in the moment he had left home at seventeen.
The full-sized bed. The shelves lined with trophies, old race programs, stacks of books.
The faded posters on the walls, of drivers he once admired, of circuits he had dreamed of conquering.
My heart ached as I stepped inside, taking it all in.
“Didn’t change much, huh?” Cal’s voice was soft behind me.
I turned, watching him lean against the doorframe, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
My fingers traced over a stack of journals on the small desk against the wall.
“I didn’t know you journaled,” I murmured.
His lips twitched. “Used to. It helped to make sense of everything in my head. I could probably still benefit from it.”
I met his gaze. “Why don’t you?”
His shoulders lifted in a lazy shrug. “Life got too busy.” He paused, then added, “And I’m just now slowing down.”
My throat clogged with all the emotion I’d been pushing down tonight.
After a moment, he pushed off the wall, crossing the room toward me. He reached for the top journal in the stack—the least worn, the one that looked barely touched—and flipped through it, stopping at a page that had been dog-eared ages ago.
He turned it toward me. I took the book, my eyes scanning the messy scrawl, the handwriting younger, rougher—a seventeen-year-old boy’s thoughts captured in ink.
And my breath hitched.
It was about me.
The day he had seen me, the one he had talked about before the FIA Awards Ceremony. When we crossed paths. The moment he’d been referencing since I met him. Ten years ago.
I would have been thirteen.
August 23rd, 2015
Spa-Francorchamps, Belgium
There was a girl today.
I don’t know her name, but I know I won’t forget her.
She was standing in the paddock, just outside the F3 garages in a jean skirt and team shirt. I only saw her for a moment, just a glimpse as I was heading to the motorhome, but it was long enough.
She was tiny, barely coming up to my shoulder, her hair coming loose from her braids under her cap, face flushed.
What stood out to me that made me stop and stare was the determined look on her face. She looked focused. She looked killer, despite how young she appeared to be. She was watching the screens, standing on her toes to see the times popping up, lips moving like she was analyzing them.
She looked like she already knew what she was looking for. A young teenager, maybe thirteen or fourteen, but she carried herself like she already belonged here, in F1.
I don’t know why I noticed her.
Maybe because I recognized that look. That kind of hunger. That absolute, unwavering certainty that she was meant to be here. That she was already working through the steps she needed to take to get here.
I had done it. She could, too. I wanted to believe that for her.
But maybe it was something else? Because when I saw her, when I really looked, I had a strange, ridiculous thought.
That girl is going to change things.
That girl is going to shake this whole world up.
That girl is going to be someone.
And God help everyone when she does. I hope I get to see it happen one day.
My heart stuttered, tripped and stumbled down whatever descent was left for me to hand myself over to this man. As if I could love him more.
Hands gripping the journal like a lifeline, with my pulse thudding in my ears, I stared at the ink in disbelief.
I knew that day.
I remembered that day.
I had just finished my first season in Italian F4 and had been given special permission to tag along with my brother’s team in F3. I was supposed to be observing. Watching. Learning.
But I had been glued to the monitors the entire time, analyzing data, whispering to myself, dreaming.
I had no idea he had seen me, or that the man I was destined to spend my life with was there, noticing me and writing about me in his journal.
I was special to him, even then. Special in a way I had never been to anyone before.
My lips pressed together to stop a quiet sob from escaping, but Callum reached forward, gently closing the journal, his hand warm over mine.
He didn’t say anything. He just lifted my chin pressed the softest kiss to my lips, and held me there.
And then he whispered against my lips, “Take off your rings.”
I blinked up at him, dazed. “What?”
His thumb brushed the underside of my chin, tilting my face up until my eyes met his. There was nothing teasing in his expression. Nothing careless.
Just depth and intention.
“Mrs. Fraser,” he murmured, almost reverent, almost sinful, “I’m asking you nicely to take off your rings.”
A confused laugh caught in my throat. “Callum, what are you—”
“Trust me,” he said softly.
My fingers trembled as I slid my wedding band and engagement ring from my hand. The sudden absence of their weight felt wrong, like I’d stepped out of my own skin. I didn’t like it.
He took only the band from my palm. For a moment he just held it between his fingers, turning it slowly beneath the warm glow of the bedside lamp, platinum and diamonds catching light.
Then he angled it toward me.
“There,” he said quietly.
I leaned closer, squinting through the sheen of gathering tears.
At first I saw nothing. Then the light hit just right. Tiny, precise, and etched into the inner curve of the band I had worn every day since we eloped. A secret pressed against my skin for months without my knowing.
Two words.
Since Spa.
My breath left me in a broken sound.
Since Spa.
Since the day he saw me. Since the day he wrote about me. Since the moment a seventeen-year-old boy looked at a teenage girl and somehow saw the future of the sport. Saw me.
“You…” My voice cracked. “You did this before we got married.”
He nodded once, eyes glassy but steady on my reaction. “Before the rings ever touched our hands.”
Tears blurred the engraving until the words swam.
“I wanted something that was just ours,” he said. “Something that started before we knew where any of this would go. Before titles. Before headlines. Before anyone else got a say.”
My lips trembled. “I’ve been wearing this the whole time.”
His mouth curved in the softest, most wrecked smile. “You’ve been carrying that moment with you every day. You just didn’t know it yet.”
A sob slipped free, quiet and helpless and full of wonder. My shoulders shook, tears falling freely. “Callum…”
He slid the rings back onto my finger with careful, trembling hands. His thumb lingered over the diamond of my engagement ring as if sealing a vow all over again.
“Since Spa,” he whispered. “Since the first time I saw you and knew the world was about to change.”
I shook my head, laughing through tears. “You ridiculous, hopelessly romantic, sentimental man.”
“And you married me anyway,” he teased with a smile so big it revealed that dimple I loved so goddamn much.
I surged forward and kissed him, wet cheeks, broken breaths, the taste of salt and warmth and forever between us.
He met me like gravity. Like home.
Our foreheads pressed together, rings touching where our hands tangled between us.
“You were there,” I whispered. “All that time ago. You saw me before I ever knew you.”
“I told you. And I’ve been chasing that glimpse ever since,” he said softly. “Turns out she caught me first.”
I kissed him again, slower this time, deeper. Not hungry. Not frantic.
Just certain.
The journal lay forgotten on the desk. The past open and witnessed. The present warm in my hands.
Since Spa.
Since the beginning.
Since always.
The house had gone quiet by the time we emerged from his room. Callum grabbed my hand, lacing our fingers together as he whispered, “Come on.”
I blinked. “Where are we going?”
He just smirked. “Birthday drive.”
I rolled my eyes but let him tug me toward the door. The moment we stepped outside, the cold nipped at my cheeks, the scent of wood smoke and pine thick in the air.
His father’s old red truck was parked in the driveway, dusted in fresh powder. My husband opened the door for me, helping me in, his hands lingering at my waist.
I shivered—not from the cold.
“Cal, mon c?ur,” I purred. “Happy birthday. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life celebrating you the way you deserve.”
“Mmm,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to my jaw. “I like the sound of that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course you do. You’re a dramatic little slut.”
His piercing blue gaze flicked to mine, dark and knowing as he chuckled. “You know,” he mused, brushing snowflakes from my hair, “there was something you told me once. About getting caught with your pants down on the hood of a car.”
Heat slammed through me. “Oh mon Dieu.”
He smirked. “Reckon I should help you… finish what you started?”
My breath hitched.
And when he climbed into the driver’s seat, shifting the truck into gear, I knew exactly where this was going.
And I couldn’t wait.
Especially when I thought about what was beneath this dress. What I had been waiting to ruin him with all night.
But as always, it was never about one of us wrecking the other, but about us wrecking each other, equally, and always.