Chapter 4 Matteo
MATTEO
The first thing I noticed was the smell of a familiar perfume.
It was faint now, like it had faded into my sheets and my skin, but I’d know it anywhere.
Something floral, expensive, but not too sweet.
Like her. Sharp edges and a hidden softness you only get if she lets you close enough.
Something I’d noticed from afar because Nicola would never let me that close.
I relentlessly flirted with her any chance I could because I craved any response from her, irritation included.
I was addicted to her eye rolls, the pointed finger, and counting how many times she would mutter Fuck off in any given day to me.
Despite her being the most off-limits person I could be interested in, it didn’t stop me.
Nicola was the boss’s daughter. Not just the boss, the boss’s boss.
Mr. Moretti of Moretti Racing himself. I would be a fucking idiot to try anything, but I couldn’t help it; I was drawn to her over and over again no matter the absolute havoc she would wreck on my heart.
I kept my eyes closed for a second longer, wanting to stay in the dream.
Inhaling the dream, the perfume, her. I cracked open my eyes, sun gleaming in through the haphazardly closed curtains in my hotel room.
I wracked my brain for the ending of the night.
The gala was a huge success, flashes of Nicola in that sinful black dress, my hands on her waist. Then flashes of a bare waist, of skin touching skin, of lips and alcohol.
I sucked in a breath, feeling weight in the bed other than my own, the mattress dipping next to me. How drunk did I get?
It was a slow movement as I looked over to see who was in my bed. Long dark brown hair and that damn perfume.
Fuck.
Nicola Moretti was in my bed.
It was still early—the kind of soft light that makes everything feel quieter than it should. She was curled on her side, facing away, hair a mess across my pillow. The sheets barely covered her back, and all I could see was the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her spine. My fingers twitched.
Last night flashed through me like a match struck too close to dry skin. The hallway. The car. The way she said Fuck it like she was saying yes to more than just one night. The way she kissed me like she hated herself for wanting it—and maybe hated me more for making her feel it.
I shifted, pulling my arm back, slow and careful. Like she might wake up and punch me in the throat for daring to still be here. But she didn’t move. Her breathing was steady, soft.
She looked…peaceful like this. Unburdened.
Not like the Nicola I knew—the sharp, sarcastic, high-heel-wearing ice queen who’d been rolling her eyes at me since she walked into the paddock on the first day of the season.
She looked at me like I was an insect then.
She still did. Except last night she looked at me like I was something else entirely.
My chest tightened.
This would be chalked up to a bad decision. A mistake we’d both laugh off and pretend didn’t mean anything.
But now that it was quiet—now that she was here and not looking at me like she was already halfway to regretting it—I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell I’d done, whatever tiny shot I ever had died here.
Hell hath no fury like Nicola when she was mad, and there was no chance she would be happy about this.
I sat up slowly, scrubbing a hand over my face. My head ached, a dull reminder of champagne and whatever the hell we opened from the minibar after we got in. There was a faint lipstick stain on my chest. Her lipstick. Her mouth.
Jesus.
I glanced at her again.
We weren’t supposed to end up here.
Nicola and I? We flirted like it was a sport, fought like we were in the ring, and orbited each other like something was always just about to catch fire. But this? This was past the line.
And if she woke up and looked at me like it meant nothing—
I didn’t know what I’d do with that.
I stood, slipping into a pair of boxers, and moved toward the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling window. I pulled the curtain back slightly. Morning traffic moved sluggishly below with people going about their normal lives.
Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out how the hell to breathe next to a woman who’d been under my skin since forever, since the day she walked into the paddock and in my bed for exactly one night.
Behind me, I heard her shift. A faint sound. Sheets rustling. Breath catching.
My pulse spiked.
She shifted again. This time, the sound was sharper—like she’d sat up quickly, tugging the sheets with her.
“Shit.” Her voice. Groggy, hoarse, still thick from sleep. And panic.
I turned slowly. She was sitting up in bed now, clutching the duvet to her chest like it was a lifeline. Her hair was a mess cascading down her like a midnight waterfall, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, as strikingly beautiful as ever.
Her eyes went wide when she met mine.
“What the hell did we do?”
I blinked. “Good morning to you too.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Matteo.”
She said it like a curse. Her screaming my name came back to me and went straight to my cock. I was hard just thinking of it again. The images alone were already burned into my eyelids.
I crossed my arms, leaning against the window frame.
Play it casual. Be disarming.
I’d perfected that look. The lazy smile, the easy charm. She didn’t need to know I’d been staring at her like a lunatic for the last twenty minutes trying to figure out what the hell last night meant.
“You don’t remember?” I asked, cocking a brow.
“I remember enough,” she snapped, voice tight. “I remember the gala. And the drinks. And—God—your hands.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking. That would not help right now, but the blush creeping up her cheeks was so damn cute.
“Right,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “This didn’t happen.”
The inevitable crush was there, but I didn’t let it show. I kept the same mask on as I always did.
“Pretty sure it did, Princess.” I gestured vaguely at the bed, at us. “Happened all over this room, in fact, and over that table.” I smirked. “Twice.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’ve always called you that.” The whole crew called her the paddock princess, and I was pretty sure even when she acted annoyed, she loved the endearing nickname from the crew.
It also always made her roll her eyes at me, sometimes even the tiniest of blush crept up her cheeks before she would slam down her designer glasses to block it.
I craved that reaction like a drug.
She glared. “Well, you don’t get to now.”
She was angry. Not really at me, I think—but at herself. The way she was holding the sheets tighter, not meeting my eyes. Embarrassment. Shame. It twisted something in my chest. This was worse than what I expected. I’d rather her rage be focused on me.
I wanted to tell her she didn’t need to feel any of that.
That last night was fucking amazing. That she was a literal dream.
But if I said any of that, she’d run.
So I forced a shrug. Forced the smile.
“It was just a night, Nic. You’re allowed to have a little fun.”
Wrong move.
Her head snapped up, her expression icy. “Fun?”
I nodded, slow, trying not to flinch. “Isn’t that what it was?”
She didn’t answer. She just slid out of bed, sheets tangling around her as she fumbled for her dress from last night. Her back was to me, and I caught the line of her spine, the faint trail of my fingerprints I was almost sure I imagined. My mouth went dry.
This wasn’t what I wanted. Not like this. I dragged a hand through my hair, jaw tight.
“Nicola—”
“Nope.” She held up a hand without turning. “We’re not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“The post-disaster debrief. This was—” she paused, found her dress, and pulled it on over her head with a violent tug “—a lapse in judgment. One I’d really like to forget.”
I laughed, short and sharp. “Right. Because sleeping with me is so unthinkable.”
She spun to face me. “Matteo.”
I met her eyes. “Nicola.”
And then we just…stood there.
I wanted to go to her. Wanted to kiss her again just to prove that last night wasn’t a fluke. That there was something real under all that hatred and history and heat.
But I didn’t.
Because she was already rebuilding her walls, brick by brick, and I could see it happening in real time.
So I backed off.
“Fine,” I said, voice too light, too easy, “It never happened.”
She blinked at that. Like she wasn’t expecting me to say it. Like maybe a small part of her did want me to fight her on it.
But I was not going to beg her to feel something she was not ready to admit.
So I let her walk out of my hotel room with her chin high, heels clicking, and armor locked back in place.
And when the door clicked shut, I sat down on the edge of the bed she had just left.
Her perfume clinging to the sheets, I fell back into them, deciding today was shit. I would try again tomorrow.
Smiling was second nature by now.
Not the real kind—the ones that creased your eyes and made your chest ache with something close to joy—but the practiced version. The one that felt like muscle memory. Easy. Effortless. Automatic.
It was what people expected from me, after all. The chill one. The funny one. The driver who didn’t take life—or racing—too seriously.
And maybe that was the problem.
I stood in front of the mirror in my hotel room, tugging on my team jacket, the embroidered Moretti Racing logo catching the morning light.
The day’s schedule was already pinging on my phone, and Anna had sent a cheerful reminder about being “camera ready.” Which—in my head—was code for, ‘Be the version of you people like.’
“Big smiles today, Matty boy,” I said to myself. Gotta make ’em forget you’re running on three hours of sleep and a heart full of anxiety.