Chapter Six
Lily
I palmed the inside of my blazer to check for my room key and suddenly felt the stiff edge of the note instead. I’d forgotten I’d thrown the note inside this jacket.
It’d been almost two weeks since I got it. Two weeks of me blatantly ignoring that terrible gut feeling that nagged at me. I’d memorized every word by now.
Next time, you won’t walk away.
The handwriting was neat, controlled, nothing like the chaos it promised. But I’d convinced myself my mother was right and had put it to rest.
This dinner with Ollie would be a good distraction.
Or, at least, a distraction. His social media had taken off over the past year, and I was happy to hear that F1 wanted him to run their Home Stretch podcast, a show that focused on drivers’ home races, or their chosen favorite race if they didn’t have one.
Between the podcast, his social media, and the published freelance articles, his name was all over motorsport.
Ollie had selected a place that had about half a dozen restaurant essays written about it from the sort of magazines you’d see in hotel lobbies. He was already seated at our table when I arrived, and I had to actively stop myself from gawking at him.
He sat with one leg crossed over the other, arm hooked casually over the back of his chair, blond hair catching the restaurant’s ambient lighting in a way that seemed almost unfair. He looked like he’d walked off a magazine cover instead of just arriving for a casual dinner between old classmates.
When did he become this handsome? My mother had been right about one thing.
He’d certainly grown up and filled out since school.
The scrawny kid with braces had transformed into someone who belonged in a modeling career.
Easily 6’1”, he had a lean athletic build, a sharp jawline, and blond hair that fell in perfectly ruffled waves.
But it was his eyes that really struck me: startlingly blue, almost unreal in the restaurant’s lighting, framed by unfairly long lashes.
No wonder his social media had exploded.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Little Miss Sunshine!” he called out as soon as he noticed me, standing to kiss each cheek before pulling out my chair. “Even after a full day of qualifying, you still look magnificent.”
My cheeks flushed as I took a seat. “Liar,” I laughed. “I look like I could be auditioning for The Walking Dead.”
“Rubbish!” His smile was warm and contagious. “If you were a zombie, I’d gladly let you take a chunk out of me.” He winked, and I found myself smiling at his cheesy joke.
The server appeared with a wine list. I reached for it, but Ollie closed it with a decisive snap that felt more confident than rude.
“The Solvang Cabernet, please. A bottle.” He placed the order with the easy confidence of someone who had thoughts on tannins and how assertive the taste of wine should be. I didn’t usually drink before races, but I figured one glass wouldn’t hurt.
“You like a cab, yes?” he asked, not bothering to wait for an answer before continuing. “Bold, structured, a little arrogant—”
“Ah, a bit like you,” I teased. He cocked his head, and for just a moment uncertainty flickered across his face, before it vanished behind that classic smile that had captured audiences across social media.
“Guilty as charged,” he laughed finally. “But this one has an excellent flavor profile, especially for the duck. Which you’re absolutely getting.”
“Oh, am I?” I raised a questioning eyebrow, amused by his presumption.
“Trust me.” The way he said it, with that disarming smile and those impossibly blue eyes focused entirely on me, made it very easy to want to.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about this dinner all day.
When your mother mentioned you might be free, I immediately moved my other plans.
” He leaned forward. “I mean, dinner with the Lily Blackwood, future F1 champion. Dream of a lifetime!”
I felt my cheeks flush. “Ollie—”
“I mean it.” His hand found mine across the table, thumb brushing my knuckles. “The way you drive? The way you handle the pressure? Most people would crumble, but you just shine brighter. It’s remarkable. You’re remarkable.”
The sincerity in his voice caught me off-guard. Before he could finish, the wine came, which I appreciated. I took a sip, enjoying how much it didn’t taste like cheap supermarket wine.
“Good?” Ollie asked, watching my reaction with obvious satisfaction.
“Annoyingly good,” I admitted. “When did you become a wine snob?”
“We prefer to call ourselves enthusiasts,” he corrected with mock offense. “And I’ll have you know I’ve spent considerable time developing a sophisticated palate.”
“You mean you Googled ‘impressive wines’ before dinner.”
His laugh was genuine, unguarded. “You wound me, Blackwood. I can’t show up to nice dinners like a complete philistine.”
He’d planned this. He wanted to impress me. The realization sent butterflies through my chest—something I hadn’t had since Las Vegas last year. It felt good.
For a while, conversation flowed effortlessly.
Ollie told stories about advertisers demanding he wear branded socks on camera, about the chaos of managing his growing social media presence while trying to maintain journalistic integrity.
I countered with tales of my neighbor’s cat, who’d somehow learned to unlock windows back at my condo in London.
Somewhere in the corner, a table of tourists erupted into another round of laughter that bounced off the exposed brick walls.
By the time the plates were cleared, I felt genuinely relaxed.
The note tucked in my blazer pocket seemed less threatening, the championship pressure less suffocating, the world less complicated.
“So,” Ollie said, leaning back in his chair, “was the duck as good as promised?”
I nodded, resting a hand on my stomach, glad that the race was in the afternoon tomorrow. “You win. The duck was incredible.”
“Of course it was.” His grin stretched wide, self-satisfied in a way that should’ve been obnoxious but somehow wasn’t. “I have impeccable taste. You’ll learn to trust me eventually.”
Eventually. Like this was going to be a regular thing. The thought sent another pleasant flutter through my chest.
I rolled my eyes, laughing, reaching for my glass. From our little table outside, you could see the bustling walkway next to the restaurant. After a few more glances, movement on the sidewalk caught my attention.
An unmistakable figure emerged from the stream of pedestrians. Floppy brown hair caught the breeze and lifted slightly, framing features I’d come to know far too well. His purple jacket was draped effortlessly over one arm, his bag slung across his shoulders.
Henri.
He must have been on his way back from Georgia’s. My eyes watched him, and just as I was about to excuse myself to the restroom in order to avoid the potential awkwardness of him seeing me, his gaze lifted. Our eyes met, and for a heartbeat, I didn’t breathe.
I suspected Ollie noticed. His hand brushed mine where it rested on the tablecloth. To anyone passing, we must’ve looked like a couple leaning in for a private joke.
Henri slowed, just barely. His eyes flicked from Ollie’s hand to my face, then back again, before his jaw tightened. He didn’t stop, didn’t say a word, just strode past, shoulders rigid.
“Hey, Henri!” Ollie called out cheerfully, voice carrying on the sidewalk.
Henri stopped, and for a moment I wondered if he might ignore us completely.
But he didn’t. He turned, that same neutral expression from this afternoon’s press conference strewn about his face.
“Ollie,” Henri said finally. “Blackwood.”
What is it with the last names?
Ollie beamed, leaning back with deliberate ease. “Henri Dubois, in the flesh. Been a while, mate! Come, pull up a chair.” His hand brushed mine again on the table. Casual, but clearly intentional.
Henri’s eyes lingered on that point of contact a second too long before lifting to mine. Something flickered in his expression—something I couldn’t quite read.
“I don’t want to interrupt,” he said, the words polite but distinctly cold.
“Nonsense!” Ollie turned to me for approval, but I cast him a look that clearly said, Stop while you’re ahead.
“How was your sister’s?” I asked, injecting false cheerfulness into my voice.
“Fine.” Henri’s face remained studied, solemn, giving absolutely nothing away.
“We were just saying how Montreal has a way of surprising you. Fantastic food, great company.” His eyes cut to me as he picked up his wine, toasting it in the air.
Henri gave the faintest nod, his eyes on Ollie’s drink. “Enjoy your wine.” With that, he adjusted the bag on his shoulder and continued on, disappearing into the crowd without a backward glance.
“Now, Henri is someone I cannot figure out. You know we used to race together in F3 and F2. Brilliant driver, but a mystery of a person. He was always so… closed off.” Ollie chuckled as he shook his head.
“That was a rough free practice he had on Friday… and an even rougher press conference.” Ollie leaned in, eyes glinting.
“If you ask me, he’s circling the drain. ”
“Ollie!” I gave him a small rebuff. “He’s just stressed because he finally has a chance to win this season. He spent so many years coming in second to his sister.” Even though Henri had been a thorn in my side all season, hearing how others talked about him still irked me.
Maybe because I knew what it felt like to be talked about that way. Or because he used to be my friend, and there was a small part of me that still felt some loyalty to the friendship we once had.
“Well, that’s very kind,” Ollie said, studying me with those blue eyes, “considering he tried to ruin your free practice.”
“That wasn’t intentional,” I sighed, surprising myself by defending him. “Henri’s a lot of things, but he wouldn’t deliberately block someone during a flying lap.”