CHAPTER THREE
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Mia
Mia’s first official day at Ashworth Racing began with the sharp realisation that no one was waiting for her.
She’d caught the early train from her London flat that morning, leaving the city’s familiar hum behind for the quiet countryside ride up to Motorsport Valley.
After her interview weeks earlier in the polished central London office, this felt different—the vast factory complex sprawled under open skies, more operational nerve centre than executive suite.
She stepped into the expansive reception area, clutching her notebook like a lifeline.
People in team polos and branded kit moved with easy purpose: some heading toward the media suite, others carrying briefing packs or laptops toward the sim bays and strategy rooms. The faint buzz of activity—distant radios, the occasional whir of a door—filled the air.
Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going.
“Amelia!”
She turned to see Claire Whitman striding toward her, heels clicking against polished concrete, hair perfectly controlled despite the undercurrent of chaos. Claire wore the team’s navy blazer over a crisp white shirt—professional, unflappable.
“Oh—hi.”
“Come on then,” Claire said briskly, already turning toward the lifts. “Let’s throw you in at the deep end. Comms suite first—your home base.”
They rode up to the third floor in silence.
When the doors opened, Mia stepped into a bright, open-plan space: banks of monitors cycling through social feeds, press clippings, telemetry snippets, and live schedules.
Desks clustered around a central island where two assistants were already fielding calls.
Glass walls overlooked the atrium below, giving a bird’s-eye view of the facility’s controlled frenzy.
Mia felt a flicker of pride—this was exactly where she wanted to be. She’d imagined it a hundred times: fast, unpredictable, vital. This was it.
Claire gestured to a desk near the window.
“Yours. Laptop’s already set up, credentials loading.
Most mornings you’ll be stationed there—tracking what people are saying about us before the world convinces itself we’ve said something else.
” She paused, giving Mia an assessing look.
“But today we’re doing the rounds. You need faces to names—and context—before the real work starts. ”
They headed back to the lift, Claire leading the way like she’d walked these corridors blindfolded. “We’ll start with the drivers’ briefing room. Lucas and Jax should be there pretending to listen to strategy. Spoiler: they won’t be.”
The lift descended one floor. They emerged into a quieter corridor lined with framed race wins and sponsor logos, then pushed through double doors into a glass-walled meeting room that doubled as a mini war room.
Screens dominated one wall; a long table held laptops, coffee cups, and half-eaten pastries.
Lucas sat sprawled in a chair at the far end, scrolling his phone.
The team kit hung off him like he was doing the fabric a favour.
Sleeves pushed up, forearms corded with muscle, veins tracing paths she shouldn’t notice.
His fingers—long, precise—moved over the screen with careless grace.
He looked utterly untouchable. And entirely aware of it.
“Lucas,” Claire announced. “This is Amelia. Your new communications assistant.”
He didn’t look up immediately. “Already met.”
Mia kept her expression neutral. “Yes. Briefly. And I prefer Mia.”
Lucas finally glanced at her, eyes scanning like he was assessing an unfamiliar corner for the first time.
They lingered on her blouse—clean now, dry, but the memory of it clinging wet and translucent flashed between them unspoken.
His gaze paused for a heartbeat, tracing the curve of her breasts before snapping back to her face.
Subtle. Controlled. But she felt the heat of it like a brand.
“Careful today?” he said, voice low and measured, the words carrying just enough edge to make her pulse jump.
Claire sighed. “Play nicely.”
Before Mia could respond, the door banged open. Jaxon “Jax” Callahan strode in, hoodie half-zipped, cap backwards, protein shake in one hand, a bag of freshly baked pastries in the other, apologetic grin splitting his face.
“Sorry, sorry—traffic was mental.” He raised the pastries like a white flag. “Brought peace offerings. Who wants?”
Claire’s mouth twitched. “You’re late, Callahan.”
“Fashionably,” Jax corrected, dropping into the chair beside Lucas. He leaned over, stage-whispering, “Mate, you look like someone just told you the car’s made of cardboard.”
Lucas didn’t smile. His posture stiffened, arms folding tighter. Jax either didn’t notice or didn’t care—he turned the grin on Mia.
“You must be the new comms wizard. Amelia, right?”
“Mia,” she corrected automatically.
“Mia.” He tested it, nodded once like he approved. “Claire’s hoping you might stop me saying anything too stupid to the press.” He leaned back, legs sprawled. “Good luck. I’ve got a gift.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Jax is our resident Aussie chaos agent. Lucas is our resident ice sculpture.”
Jax laughed—loud, easy, filling the room. “She’s got her work cut out with this one.” He jerked a thumb at Lucas. “He thinks silence makes him mysterious. I keep telling him it just makes him look constipated.”
Lucas exhaled through his nose. “Keep talking, Callahan. See how long it takes me to lap you.”
“Promises, promises.” Jax winked at Mia. “Don’t worry. He’s all bark. Deep down he’s a teddy bear. Just needs someone to remind him how to hug.”
Mia felt the corner of her mouth lift despite herself. Jax was everything Lucas wasn’t—loose limbs, quick laugh, effortless charm that made rooms feel lighter. She glanced at Lucas. His neck corded, eyes fixed on the table, but there was something almost fond in the way he didn’t snap back.
Claire clapped once, sharp and efficient. “Enough. Mia, your job is to focus on thawing our ice man; I’ll take the larrikin. Let’s keep moving.”
They stood to leave the meeting room, Jax calling after them with a cheerful, “Welcome to the family, Mia! Try not to quit in the first month.”
Lucas stood as they passed, filling the space without trying. He stepped closer—close enough that she caught his scent: clean sweat, faint cologne, something darker and warmer underneath. Her nipples tightened against her bra; an unwanted response she prayed he couldn’t see.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he said quietly.
“I’m not here to babysit,” Mia replied evenly, forcing her voice steady even as awareness pooled low in her belly. “I’m here to help you not get fined, flamed, or fired.”
Something flashed in his eyes—amusement? annoyance? hunger?—gone before she could name it.
“We’ll see,” he said, grabbing his jacket and walking out. His stride was casual, deliberate—the kind of ease that made confidence look effortless. And infuriatingly attractive.
Mia exhaled slowly. She was already aware of one unavoidable truth: he would be impossible.
Claire glanced at her watch as they stepped back into the corridor.
“One quick detour before we head back upstairs. Dana’s expecting me—Lucas flagged some neck stiffness after yesterday’s sim run, and she wants to rule out anything that might knock him out of Thursday’s sponsor photoshoot or the press pen.
Can’t have our star driver looking like he’s got a crick in his neck on camera.
Might as well introduce you properly while we’re here; you’ll be coordinating with her a lot anyway—scheduling conflicts, injury updates that affect media availability, all that fun crossover stuff. ”
Mia nodded, falling into step. It made sense.
In a world where every minute of a driver’s time was monetised, physical niggles weren’t just medical—they were PR landmines.
A tweaked neck could mean a cancelled interview, a grumpy quote, or worse, a visible grimace that social media would dissect for days.
They turned down a quieter wing, the air shifting to that faint mix of liniment, rubber, and antiseptic that screamed “performance recovery.” Claire pushed through a door into the bright physio suite: treatment tables lined up like surgical bays, monitoring screens flickering with telemetry overlays, a neck brace on a stand mid-calibration.
Dana glanced up from adjusting the brace, warm brown skin catching the overhead lights, ponytail swinging as she straightened.
Fine lines at her eyes hinted at frequent smiles, even when the job demanded steel.
She carried the calm, unhurried purpose of someone who’d talked down more egos than most people met in a lifetime.
“Dana,” Claire said as they stepped into the bright physio suite, “this is Mia—the miracle we’ve been waiting for.
Figured I’d kill two birds: get your update on Lucas’s neck and introduce her properly while I’m here.
Meet Dana Reyes, our lead physiotherapist—she’s been keeping drivers in one piece for years, through crashes, sim overloads, and every ego bruise in between. ”
Dana extended a hand, her grip firm and steady.
“Mia. Bloody brilliant. I’ve been begging Claire for someone who can make Lucas sound like less of a prick to the outside world.
” Her Midlands accent rolled out warm and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world despite the monitors humming with telemetry feeds behind her.
“And yeah, Claire—his traps are tighter than a drum after yesterday’s sim session.
Classic stubborn bastard, ignoring the warm-up cues like usual.
Nothing structural, just overuse. If he doesn’t loosen up by tomorrow, I’m taping him like a Christmas present and he’ll sulk through the whole thing. ”
Mia laughed—the sound surprising even her after the morning’s knots of tension.
“Welcome to the madhouse. You’re not allergic to caffeine or sarcasm, are you, love?”
“I like my coffee strong,” Mia said, grinning back. “And I can handle sarcasm. Grew up with it.”
Dana’s grin widened, crinkling the fine lines at her eyes.
“Good. You’ll need both. These lads think they’re fucking invincible until their neck seizes mid-briefing, then suddenly I’m the villain for insisting they stretch.
” She tilted her head toward the screens showing driver data—heart rates, g-forces, session logs.
“You any good at talking sense into over-inflated egos when they start whining about having ‘no time’ for recovery?”
“Working on it,” Mia said, a slight flush creeping up under Dana’s steady, appraising gaze. “But if it keeps a media headache off the table—or gets him in front of cameras without looking like he’s got a rod up his arse—I’ll learn quick.”
“Too many bloody years in this game, love,” Dana replied, tone light but laced with the knowing edge of someone who’d seen every flavour of driver drama.
“Trust me—if you can get Lucas to admit he’s actually fucking human without him biting your head off, you’ll be my new favourite person.
” She leaned in a fraction, conspiratorial.
“Stick close. I’ve got the best coffee stash in the building—none of that vending-machine rubbish.
We’ll need it when the drama kicks off.”
Mia felt something loosen in her chest, the knot of first-day nerves unwinding just a little.
Dana’s presence was like a steady hand on the wheel—older, grounded, like she’d already navigated every hairpin this place could throw at you and was happy to point out the safe lines.
“Deal. As long as you don’t judge me for taking it black and bitter. ”
“Black and bitter’s the only way,” Dana said, mock-serious, eyes twinkling. “We’re practically soulmates already.”
Claire checked her phone, already half-turning toward the door.
“Right. I’ll leave you two to bond over caffeine and contusions.
Mia, Dana will walk you through the driver schedule board—it’s gold for your side of things, especially when injuries start messing with media slots.
Marcus Lang, Team Principal, isn’t due until later, so you’ll meet him properly this afternoon.
Heads-up: keep him on side. He’s old-school, doesn’t suffer fools, and if Lucas keeps rubbing people the wrong way—or ignoring physio—he’s the one who decides how much rope we all get. ”
“I’m on it,” Dana called after her, winking at Mia. “She’s already one of us.”
Mia smiled—properly this time—as Claire’s heels clicked away down the corridor. For the first time since stepping into the building, the place didn’t feel quite so foreign.
Welcome to Ashworth.
* * *
Lucas
Half a floor away and ten minutes later, Lucas was navigating the long stretch of corridor past the engineering bays, the faint hum of machinery vibrating through the floor.
Expression carefully neutral. Calm. Controlled. Nothing out of place.
Except it was.
Seeing her again—upright, coffee-free, composed in a way that didn’t ask permission—had unsettled him more than he liked.
The memory of their first meeting surged back: the collision, the splash, the split second where wet fabric had clung and revealed the full shape of her breasts, nipples peaked hard like they were begging for attention.
He’d looked because he was human. He’d looked again because he’d wanted to taste them.
And she hadn’t given him a thing for it. No fluster. Just brisk adjustment and a look that said this isn’t about you.
Now she stood there in dry clothes, chin up, steady—and his cock had still thickened the second his eyes dropped to her chest. He could feel it now, heavy and insistent, pressing against the seam as he walked. He adjusted subtly, jaw tight.
He dropped his gaze to his phone, scrolling without registering. A habit. Always give people something else to look at so they didn’t look too closely at him.
But she had seen him. Not the polished version. The one underneath.
The way she’d spoken to him just now—measured, unafraid, not impressed—scraped under his skin. Most people treated him like something fragile or valuable. She treated him like a problem she intended to solve.
It annoyed him.
It also interested him, in a way that made his pulse beat low and steady in his groin.
He exhaled slowly and shoved his phone into his pocket, tension corded along his jaw.
Professionalism first. That was the rule. He didn’t blur lines. Didn’t complicate things. Didn’t let himself get distracted by sharp mouths, steady eyes, and bodies that didn’t match expectations.
Especially not with someone who worked for the team.
Because whatever Amelia Brookes was—clever, precise, quietly infuriating—she was trouble.
And he was not about to let himself want trouble.