Page 21 of Formula Freedom (Race Fever #3)
Lara
F rom the airplane window, I stare slack-jawed at the endless stretch of Mediterranean so clear it almost doesn’t look real.
The plane dips lower, skimming just above the sparkling water, and for a second, it’s as if we’re going to land right in the bay.
But then tarmac replaces surf, and we touch down with a smooth bounce and a rush of engines.
Even as we taxi, I can see yachts bobbing in the distance and the curve of the coastline studded with sun-washed villas and terraced gardens. It’s all so surreal—the kind of place people dream about but never actually visit.
The salty air greets me as we step off the plane at the Nice C?te d’Azur Airport. The journey from Melbourne was long, but my excitement kept me energized. I’m eager to soak up all the Riviera’s promised charm.
Reid strolls through the terminal with a familiarity that suggests this is routine for him.
In the parking garage, he leads us to a sleek, impossibly low sports car with glossy red paint.
I can’t tell you what it is—only that it’s the kind of vehicle that looks like it should come with a security escort or its own movie score.
Long, muscular lines and an engine that you know will growl, I’m sure it comes with a price tag I probably shouldn’t ask about.
Reid pops the trunk with a click of his key fob, revealing a surprisingly roomy cargo area, and I blink. “Wait, this thing has actual luggage space?”
He grins. “It’s a Ferrari GTC4Lusso. V12.”
I stare at him blankly. “And… that means?”
“It goes fast and still fits your shoe collection,” he replies with a grin as he hefts our suitcases inside.
I can’t help but laugh. “Sounds expensive.”
He hesitates like he’s deciding whether to lie. “About three hundred grand.”
My jaw drops. “In what world is that a casual airport pickup car?”
“This one,” he says, opening the passenger door for me like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Welcome to Monaco. Impressed?”
I nod, speechless. “This was not what I expected.”
He chuckles. “The French Riviera has its standards.”
The engine purrs to life, and as we glide along the coastal highway from Nice to Monaco, the scenery is blindingly spectacular.
Around every curve, my breath is robbed over and over again.
The road twists through sleepy hillside towns, every turn revealing another postcard-perfect view of shimmering water, pale stone buildings, and the frequent luxury car.
By the time we descend into the polished streets of Monte Carlo, it seems like another world entirely. One where the air smells not so much like sea salt but rather extreme wealth.
I understood it in theory. I’ve seen pictures of Monaco.
But being here now, seeing the yachts, the high-rise terraces, the gleaming supercars parked like they belong on every corner?
It hits different. This isn’t just Reid’s home base—it’s a whole other world, and I would have never thought he’d be comfortable here.
It doesn’t reconcile with the fun-loving surfer boy who races cars at breakneck speed and pounds beers with his friends at night.
As we pull into a narrow, pristine street lined with towering palms and sleek glass structures, Reid says, “Welcome to Larvotto. It’s the beachfront district—tons of high-rise luxury towers, private terraces, rooftop pools. You’ve probably seen it in a Bond movie without realizing.”
I gawk at the buildings, the fashionably dressed pedestrians. “I think I’m going to be seriously underdressed here.”
He shoots me a sideways grin. “Trust me… all these fancy people wear their joggers and T-shirts in the privacy of their own homes.”
I chuckle, but I highly doubt what he’s saying. “You live in a postcard.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s quiet and I can walk to the beach in about thirty seconds.”
I glance out again, stunned by the sparkling sea framed between ultra-modern buildings. “Well, it can’t be all that bad if it has a beach. I want to go sit in the sand and pretend I belong here.”
“You do,” he says simply, and I don’t know if he’s talking about Monaco… or something more.
Reid pulls in front of a clean-lined structure with expansive glass windows. A valet greets us as we exit and Reid hands him money, saying something in French.
I’m stunned he speaks the language and I ask him about it as he leads me inside, his hand on my elbow.
Reid laughs. “I know just enough to get by, but I can’t carry on a long conversation. Don’t worry, English is common enough here.”
Reid’s apartment is a study in understated opulence.
I practically have to pick my jaw up off the floor when we walk in.
Marble floors, minimalist décor and floor-to-ceiling windows offering an uninterrupted view of the sea.
His furniture though is plush, covered in a soft white material I’ve never felt before.
It looks like you could sink into it and never get out.
The living area flows seamlessly into a state-of-the-art kitchen, and a grand piano sits in the corner, hinting at a side of Reid I hadn’t known.
“You don’t play the piano,” I say, confident in that assessment.
“No, but it came with the place when I bought it. Makes me look more sophisticated than I am.”
I snort in amusement, trailing a finger across the granite countertop as I ponder this wealth that is part of Reid’s life.
“This is… incredible,” I breathe. “But… it’s shocking. I know you so well, and while I know in my mind that you make an ungodly amount of money, the fact that this is your lifestyle now is a bit hard to wrap my brain around.”
Reid leans an elbow on the counter. “I’m still the same me.” He watches me for a beat, then adds, “The views are phenomenal, and everything here is very expensive. But I still eat too much cereal and forget to buy new socks until I’m down to the ones with holes.”
I laugh softly, but the feeling doesn’t quite reach all the way through me. I wander to the window through which the Mediterranean glimmers like it’s been staged for effect.
“You say you’re still the same,” I murmur, “but everything about this world is… different. Big. Intimidating, even.”
He steps up behind me, not quite touching.
“It’s just life. Mine happened to go in this direction because I was good at something and lucky enough to make it work.
But I still think about the same stuff. Still worry about my parents.
Still get nervous before a race. Still crave fish-and-chips from that dodgy place near Bells Beach. ”
I smile faintly, then turn to face him. “I guess I don’t know what it means for me… being here. In this.”
Reid studies me. “It doesn’t have to mean anything yet. You’re here for a few days. You’ll get a taste of it. If it’s still foreign after that, we’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t want to feel like I don’t belong,” I admit, the words escaping before I can edit them.
His expression softens. “Lara… you’ve always belonged. With me. Doesn’t matter what the backdrop is.”
It’s a beautiful sentiment, one that sits somewhere between comfort and pressure.
I nod slowly, knowing I need to let myself experience this before I decide how I draw any conclusions.
For now, I’ll breathe it in—the sun-warmed balcony, the sound of the sea outside, and the man who somehow fits both the beach and the penthouse.
At least for the next few days… this is our world.
Reid closes the small space between us. His hand slides around the back of my neck, his touch so gentle it makes my breath hitch.
“I mean it,” he says. “You belong.”
I nod, but before I can respond, his lips brush mine—light at first, almost questioning.
When I respond, deepening the kiss, he answers without hesitation.
His hands come to my waist, anchoring me as he draws me closer, and it washes over me all at once—need and comfort, the wild rush of desire mixing with something softer and more dangerous.
Something that resembles the start of true love.
The kiss turns hotter and I melt into him. The world narrows to the taste of his mouth and the steady heat of his hands as they slide to my hips. When he lifts the hem of my top, his fingers graze my skin, sending a shiver up my spine.
He walks me backward toward the plush white couch, his lips never leaving mine, and I go willingly, my heart pounding for a thousand reasons. The quiet ache of wanting, yes—but also something warmer that’s taken root and is starting to grow bigger than either of us.
By the time he lowers me to the cushions, I’m not thinking about luxury apartments or glittering harbors or whether I belong in Monaco. I’m thinking about the way his gaze finds mine, how careful his touch is, how real this all suddenly feels.
And then the rest of the world slips away.