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What is the biggest challenge you are facing right now and how does it make you feel?

My biggest challenge is that I now feel sorry for Xander Bishop. This is due to a number of legitimate factors—his teammate is a dick, his team did not support him well in Miami, and despite his protestations, something seems to be weighing on him. To top it all off, he invited me to Monza on his dime. How can I criticize him now? And if I’m not real with my listeners—delivering a dick in the hand moment—will they keep listening?

“T ell me everything,” Jasmine said as she picked Mia up at the Austin airport super late Sunday night. “Don’t leave anything out.”

“Why do you assume I’m going to leave something out?” Mia climbed into the passenger seat. “And let me get my damn seat belt on.”

“For someone whose friend is picking them up at the airport, you don’t seem particularly grateful.”

Mia reached over and put her hand on Jasmine’s arm. “I’m sorry. Thank you for picking me up. I appreciate it.”

“Now, tell me everything.”

Jasmine drove off and Mia let it all out—Dirk, the race, the fancy rich people who were nothing like Mia or her friends or the people who listened to her podcast, Isabel, and of course, Xander.

Dirk had lived up to the lore of his long career in F1—he was a cyborg with a megawatt smile. A driver with a killer instinct, emphasis on killer . Excellent driver, but prone to making his teammates suffer. And Xander? Well, he was a human puzzle, emphasis on human . Mia could feel his disappointment about the Miami Grand Prix. Okay, sure, he’d refused to own up to it, but he’d been motivated by his ego and pride when he’d slipped up in front of Dirk and invited her to Italy.

Formula One was a sport built to always look good—with the cars, the locales and the drivers—everything was beautiful and perfect. But Xander let her see a hint of the ugliness that was dogging him. Of course, she didn’t know exactly what the problem was, but she suspected he might not know, either. If there was something to fix, surely he would’ve done that already.

“So, yeah, my favorite driver pretty much hates me,” Mia concluded.

“He’s flying you to Italy. I would love to have someone hate me like that.”

“He was just being competitive with his teammate. It has nothing to do with me.”

“Still, not a bad deal for you.”

Jasmine pulled up outside Mia’s apartment building, and Mia couldn’t help but notice how distinctly unglamorous her living situation was. Did she actually belong in the world of Formula One? Probably not. She might be able to visit it, but exist there? No way. And that was sort of the point of her podcast—she could follow and love this sport from a distance, as the fan she’d always been, just like her listeners.

“Hey. You didn’t say,” Jasmine said. “Is Xander as hot in person as he looks on TV?”

Mia didn’t have to think too hard about that one. “Yes.”

“Figures. Rich athletes, right? How do they get to have everything?”

“I have no idea.”

“So you remember I can’t do Margarita Monday tomorrow,” Jasmine said.

“I do. I’m having lunch with my mom as a very poor and not nearly as much fun substitute.”

“Nice. Say hi to her for me.”

“Will do. And thanks for the ride,” Mia said, then blew Jasmine a kiss.

She hauled her bag up to her apartment on the second floor and nearly collapsed against the door when she closed it. She felt so stuck right now, or maybe it was more accurate to say she felt pulled in too many directions. The allure of being around the sport she loved so much was great. Who was she kidding? It had been intoxicating. She could see how easy it would be to get sucked in by that world. It was so exciting, and Mia had just had a close-up view in a way she’d never had in Austin. But now she was returning to reality. Paying rent and doing dishes, while working her tail off and hustling for her podcast.

But maybe she could find a happy medium, where she dipped her toes into the real world of F1 from time to time, then used that opportunity to improve Not So Fast . She would need to be on her game like never before—not allow herself to be swayed by teams. Or drivers.

She wheeled her bag into her room and although the thought of sleep held great appeal, there was only one fix for her preoccupation with Miami—she had to offload everything in her brain that was fighting for her attention. She’d written up the outline on the flight—by hand, in a notebook, as was her usual, since she’d always loved journaling. She brewed herself a cup of tea and headed into her home office/recording studio and went over the outline one more time, then slapped on the headphones, checked her levels and started to record.

“The Miami Grand Prix was a wild one, with a podium everyone saw coming, and yet more struggles for Xander Bishop. Your girl actually got to attend this one, so let’s get into it. This is Mia Neal and you’re listening to Not So Fast .”

Mia then launched into her usual race recap—that part was easy. She could talk about the racing for days, and she had the commentary she’d recorded while at the track, which she would edit in later. It was the part about meeting two of the drivers that she wasn’t sure about.

“Now, I know you’re all curious about who I got to meet and how that went. I think most of you saw the photo Dirk posted of the two of us together. He was…nice.” Mia stopped the recorder. “Nice?” she asked herself. “Maybe nice for a robot. Nice for a total egomaniac.”

Why was she second-guessing herself? She started over. “Dirk was great for inviting me, and he had a fantastic race, but you can see the guy’s ego from a mile away. It needs its own car.”

She stopped the recorder. “That’s more like it.”

She pressed Record again. “Of course, the real tea to spill is about meeting Xander Bishop—” The instant those words came out of her mouth, she saw flashes of those electric moments with him—when he first walked up to her and she thought she might pass out. When they shook hands. When she made him smile. All of it sent her verbal skills on a vacation. Like they flew to Fiji and downed a bunch of mai tais.

“Fuck.”

She stopped recording. What was she supposed to say? That he’d been rude and angry, but so sexy she sort of liked it?

She pressed Record again. “I met Xander Bishop. He said he was surprised I didn’t recognize him without his dick in his hand. How hilarious is that? Of course, I was shocked he knew anything about my podcast, but that’s beside the point. He didn’t have a great race. It was clear he was disappointed, and he had every reason to be. It was terrible at every step, and if I’m perfectly honest, I think Mega Racing let him down with their tire strategy. Also, I’ve talked about this on the pod before, but I still think he’s struggling with something that goes beyond the performance of the car. It might be stress or simply getting in his own way mentally.

“Now, the big news is that I have been invited to attend the race in Monza. Full disclosure, that invitation came from Xander. I guess he likes podcasters who are brutally honest about his driving? All kidding aside, I was very clear and said I would not go easier on him just because of the invite to Italy. I want to be aboveboard with you all about what’s going on. So. Wow. I’m going to a European race. It’ll be my first time. And I hope you all know that I am taking you along for the ride. Now, a little bit of housekeeping before I sign off. First, be sure to check out my merch. I have awesome T-shirts and hats and pins. And don’t forget that the first Not So Fast meet-up is on May 26 for the Monaco Grand Prix. If you’re near Austin, Texas, or willing to travel, come hang out with me. You can check my social feeds for details.”

Mia stopped the recording. That was what she needed to do—stop letting her brain get in the way and talk to her listeners like she would talk to Jasmine. Fan to fan. And keep it real. Now to sit down to edit this monstrosity, upload to the podcast platforms, then post to social about the new episode so she could get some sleep.

* * *

Mia crashed around 8:00 a.m. and woke a little after noon to so many comments on her socials that she was left to brush her teeth with one hand while tapping replies with the other. She barely made a dent and had a scant fifteen minutes to race out the door. Aided by a few well-timed traffic lights, she made it to her mom’s preferred lunch spot, Papagayo, only five minutes late.

Mia rushed into the restaurant and spotted her mom already seated at a table near the back, drinking iced tea. Mia was always amazed at how much she and her mom looked alike—same wavy brown hair, full face and dark eyes. If the resemblance was so strong, why couldn’t they think the same way?

“Mom. Hi. Sorry I’m late,” Mia said, a bit breathless.

Her mom greeted Mia with a kiss on the cheek, then plopped back into her seat. “I can only give you the speech on punctuality so many times. You’re a grown woman.”

“Which you would think means I don’t require a speech at all. Just a little grace.”

Mia unfolded her napkin and spread it across her lap, smiling at her mother to disguise her frantic internal assessment of her mom’s mood. There was no getting around the fact that Amy Neal was an intimidating woman. Or perhaps formidable was a better word. Either way, you didn’t want to mess with her, a fact Mia had learned many times over. When Mia was in first grade, there was a boy in her class who pulled her hair once . He got in trouble with the teacher, but that wasn’t enough for Amy. In the car circle at school, she climbed out of her run-down Volvo station wagon, knocked on the window of the kid’s mom’s Suburban and delivered a verbal smackdown that prompted an intervention from the principal. Mia loved her mom to the ends of the earth, but if you crossed her, there would be hell to pay.

And Mia loved her mom for being so strong. It had been just the two of them since Mia was eight years old, after Mia’s dad left and never said another word. Mia didn’t remember it leaving too big a hole in her life. Her dad had been a truck driver and was often away for weeks at a time. Even when he was at home, he wasn’t exactly an involved parent. In some ways, Mia had relished the idea that she had her mom all to herself, but she could see now that had been a selfish thought. And although her mom never really spoke about Mia’s dad after he left, Mia had often wondered if at the very least, her mom missed having a partner.

“How was Miami?” her mom asked. “Has podcasting lost its luster yet? Thinking of making a change?”

That was a potshot on multiple levels since Mia was prone to switching jobs when she felt unchallenged or bored, and of course her mom despised Mia’s current trajectory.

“Secretly hoping?”

“Simply bracing for the inevitable. How are your finances holding up? Do you need help?”

“I’m good. Things are getting better.”

“I thought I’d let you know there’s an opening in my office. I was thinking you might want to apply.”

Mia’s mom started her journalism career back in the day when it was a normal thing for every town in America to have a local newspaper. But with so much corporate consolidation within the news industry, those jobs were few and far between now. Mia’s mom’s paper was bought by a bigger paper about a decade ago, which was in turn purchased by a massive corporation, which was then bought by a media behemoth. Her mom had survived rounds and rounds of layoffs.

“There’s no security in journalism. I don’t want to start something new and get laid off a few months later.”

Her mother cast a doubtful glance. “You’ve quit every writing job you’ve had. The online magazine downtown. The arts weekly in South Congress. The copywriting job for that nonprofit. If you just stick to one thing and do a good job, you won’t need to worry about being laid off.”

“You know that’s not true. You’ve seen lots of talented, hardworking writers lose their jobs.”

She shrugged and returned to the menu. “If you don’t want to apply, just say so. You don’t have to turn it into an indictment of my profession.”

Mia reached for her mom’s arm. “You are an amazing journalist, but even more than that you’re an unbelievable writer who inspired me to get a degree in journalism. If I could have a career in your field, I would pursue it. But the opportunities aren’t there.”

Her mom slow-blinked. Once. Twice. “Okay. Fine.”

“Fine. Good,” Mia said, feeling anything but either of those things. She opened the menu and perused it. As soon as the server arrived, she and her mom ordered the exact same thing—Cobb salad, no egg, extra blue cheese—then they were once again plunged into silence.

“Mom. Can we clear the air about the podcast? I hate this tension between us.”

“Until you use your gifts for something meaningful, I’m going to have a hard time with it. It’s as simple as that.”

“Isn’t creating something on my own a meaningful pursuit? Something that requires me to have a multitude of skills? Because that’s what this is.”

Her mom straightened her knife and fork on the table, avoiding eye contact. “I think what’s bothering me most is that you’re so wrapped up in this sport.”

“But I’ve always loved Formula One. That’s nothing new.”

“I never should’ve let my sister expose you to it.”

Mia now saw the current conflict with her mom in a whole new light. “Is this about me or is this about your beef with Aunt Judy?”

“Beef? You make it sound like we’re mobsters. My sister and I are estranged and have been for years. That’s nothing new. It’s just that your podcast doesn’t help. Let’s put it that way.”

“What happened between you two? Because you weren’t always like this. When I was little, you were close. I don’t get why it changed. She only lives about an hour away. You two should be spending time together.”

Their lunch arrived, which put a momentary pause on the conversation.

“That’s your opinion,” her mom said. “My sister and I have gone separate ways in our lives. You don’t have to be close to every person you’re related to.”

“Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

“She wasn’t there for me when I needed her. That’s all you need to know.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“No. It’s too painful.” She stabbed her salad.

Mia sighed, willing herself not to explode with frustration. “Well, the Formula One genie is out of the bottle. There’s no shoving that back inside.”

“Honey, you’re so intelligent. You were always the smartest kid in school. You breezed through tests like it was nothing, graduated two years early. You could be doing so much more than following a sport that is just a bunch of men driving cars in circles.”

Mia took several deep breaths to remain calm. Digging her nails into her palms helped a little. “It’s so much more than that. Do you honestly think I would devote this much time and effort to something so simple?”

“I also think you’re getting swept up in things like being flown to Miami. Nothing is free in this life. People will want something from you in exchange for things like a trip. Trust me.”

Mia cleared her throat. Was that true of Xander? Would he expect something out of her? “Well, that might be true, but I have to accept the invitations while they’re coming. They could go away at any time.”

“Invitations? Plural?”

“Yes. I’m going to another race. This one is in Italy.”

“You’re going to Italy?” her mom screeched, loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear.

“Mom. Please. You make it sound like I just told you I murdered someone.”

“Well, I, I… I don’t know what to say. This is all very sudden. Jet-setting. That just doesn’t sound like you.”

“I’m not jet-setting . You make it sound like I’m a Kardashian. And I just got the invitation yesterday. After the race in Miami. I’ve accepted. I would hope you would be happy for me. It’s exciting.”

“People get murdered in Italy. And abducted.”

“They also eat pasta, are surrounded by some of the world’s most important art and make a hell of a pizza. Or so I’m told.”

“Is your passport still current?”

“Jasmine and I took that trip to Mexico two years ago. So, yes, I’m good.”

“I want you to make a copy of your passport and give it to me in case you get into any trouble over there. And give me your complete itinerary so I can find you. I wonder who the US ambassador to Italy is. I should probably look it up and have their contact information just in case.”

Mia choked back a grumble. “I seriously doubt any of that is necessary. You’re worrying for no reason.”

“It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.” Her mom’s phone rang. “Oh. I’m sorry. I need to take this. It’s my editor.” She tapped the screen on her phone. “Hello?” she answered far too loudly, then jammed a finger in her free ear, got up from the table and walked outside.

Mia took this quick respite to dig her phone out from her bag and get back to answering questions and comments on so cial. It was certainly easier than sitting in silence and mulling over the countless uncomfortable questions from her mom.

Mia found she had a zillion notifications—mostly comments about the new episode.

How cool is it that you went to Miami? Soooo jealous!

Loved the episode! Love hearing about everything behind the scenes!

Can’t believe you met Xander. I would die! What is he like in person?

Mia smiled at her phone. Whether her mom liked it or not, Mia was sure she was on the right path. Her work was resonating with her listeners and that was something important. Of course, these were comments about her coverage of Miami. Mia had no idea what was going to happen in Italy and how she would speak about the man who was now more than her favorite driver and her meal ticket—he was about to be her host.

* * *

Xander flew all night to get back to England, lead-footed it to his home in the Cotswolds, then did something he never did—climbed into bed and slept away half the day. It was a fitful attempt at first, punching the pillow, partly to get comfortable and partly because it was enjoyable to imagine it was Dirk’s face. When he finally drifted off, the dream came. He was in his Mega Racing car, all alone on a track he did not recognize. There was no one there—no other drivers, no fans, no team. Just him, the circuit and his car. Oddly, the front half of the chassis was somehow missing, leaving only his seat belt and the eventual G-forces to keep him from being launched from the vehicle. Still, he jammed the throttle and rocketed ahead at full speed. The rumble of the car bloomed in his belly while physics pinned him to his seat. Curves and cor ners came faster than anything he’d ever experienced before. One after another after another. He swooped through the circuit, building speed. He was traveling so fast that everything around him became blurry. Something in him couldn’t stop. Then he went through a chicane and straight ahead, right in the middle of the track, was a brick wall. There was no getting around it. He was headed straight for it. And his leg was frozen. He couldn’t bring himself to brake…

He bolted up straight in bed, in a cold sweat.

“Bloody hell,” he managed, even though it was hard to swallow. His heart galloped in his chest, vision fuzzy and head in a fog. He found himself searching for meaning, but as soon as his pulse slowed and his logical brain took over, it took no effort to figure it out—his professional future was out of control and the clock was ticking.

Mega Racing would only be patient for so long before they brought in another driver to take his place. The stakes were too high—billions of dollars on the line, professional reputations of people who’d spent their entire careers in F1, the livelihoods of the hundreds of people who worked for the team and back at the factory. The sponsors who expected results in exchange for the investment they poured into the team. Xander was the only person who could stop himself from self-destructing. Or at least that seemed like a reasonable explanation for his dream.

Mia, with her spiel about psychology, wormed her way into his head, and it was hard to get rid of the vision. She was nothing like what he’d expected, vibrant and lively and—if he was being completely honest with himself—gorgeous. And now, because he’d let his ego get in the way, she was coming to Monza. She could make his life more difficult with a sin gle clever turn of phrase on her podcast, and then he would be guilty of having made his own situation worse.

He picked up his phone. It was nearly five and he was due at his parents’ for dinner at six. This was the usual routine after a race, when his schedule allowed him to come home—his mum, dad and two younger siblings delayed Sunday roast until Monday, so they could all spend time as a family. But first, he needed to text Isabel.

Mia Neal is coming to Monza. She’ll need paddock passes.

Either you traded phones with Dirk or you’ve lost your mind.

Long story.

I get it. You’re trying to make friends with the enemy.

Just do this for me, please. I’ll book her travel.

You need an assistant.

I’m more than capable of doing it myself. I just need you to send her everything when it’s done.

Whatever you need. I hope you know what you’re doing.

He almost laughed. What he needed was to think about racing and nothing else. The problem was that Mia Neal kept getting in the way.

Thank you.

He hopped into the shower, got cleaned up, and put on a mostly wrinkle-free shirt and a pair of jeans. Downstairs in the mudroom, he dipped his feet into a pair of hunter green wellies and went out to his garage where he kept his vehicles. A black McLaren, a titanium silver Aston Martin, a gentian blue Porsche and a slightly rusty 1952 Hampshire green Jeep that had been on this property since Xander could remember. Lots of drivers had more cars than he did, but many of those drivers came from affluence. Xander still had working-class hardwiring that told him money in the bank was better than belongings. Plus, he had responsibilities many of the other drivers did not have to worry about. For Xander, it was supporting his family, a role he filled happily. It was the least he could do.

He hopped into the Jeep and headed out across the bumpy dirt road that bisected the rolling lush green farmland that had been in the Bishop family for generations. His parents had been custodians of this property before Xander started making big money. Then, he bought the land from them so both his mum and dad could retire early. Xander built himself a house on one end of the parcel and his family occupied the original farmhouse on the opposite end. That was where Xander had grown up, along with his brother Oscar, who was nineteen and had Down syndrome, and his sister Freya, who was sixteen going on thirty. As it so happened, the early retirement came right on time for his parents—his mum had been diagnosed with MS a year ago. She was still doing and feeling well most days, bothered mostly with leg pain at night. The entire family was doing their best to be supportive and loving and not live in fear, but the worry was always there. Perhaps that was the price to be paid when a loved one was facing a lifelong health battle.

Making this ten-minute trek back home, Xander was often reminded of the path he’d taken. His parents had made countless sacrifices for him to be in F1—funneling money into karting, equipment and coaching; then giving up all their free time once he started doing well and was on a promising trajectory. In light of the current state of his career, he hated that he’d gone from he’s come so far to he’s going off the rails . And then there was the lingering question of whether he really had what it took to have a long career in Formula One. That one ate at him like nothing else.

He turned onto his parents’ gravel drive and followed the wood rail fence. Ahead, the house, with its ivy-covered whitewashed brick facade and tall windows, was a welcome sight. No matter what, he was home now. This was the respite he’d longed for in Miami. He went in through the front door and removed his boots, placing them in a long line of shoes that were always in the front hall. “I’m here,” he called. The welcoming smells of a home-cooked meal filled his nostrils.

Oscar came thundering down the stairs, his long wavy hair pulled back and a wide smile on his face. He threw his arms around Xander. “Don’t worry. Dad already said we aren’t going to talk about Miami.”

Xander kissed Oscar on his temple. “That’s fine, because I’d rather hear about your job instead.”

Oscar was employed at a local ceramics workshop, making and glazing decorative tile by hand. He’d even made the tile in every bathroom in Xander’s house. Oscar had always had a flair for the artistic.

“Work is great. They’re letting me try some new glazes.”

“Brilliant, O. So brilliant. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks. Are you going to talk to Dad tonight? About the house?”

Oscar’s greatest desire was to live on his own, especially since he now had a girlfriend, but their parents weren’t convinced it was a good idea. Xander had been lobbying to build Oscar his own house on the family property and had hired an architect to come up with plans.

“I’ll definitely bring it up.”

From the back of the house, his father, Edward, arrived with Xander’s grandmother’s coral-pink rose-print apron around his waist and a blue-checkered kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. “There’s my boy, looking rested and well after your trip to the US.”

“Dad, I thought we weren’t talking about Miami,” Oscar said.

Dad slid Oscar a look. “I only said we wouldn’t talk about the race ,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “Unless you want to, Xan. Up to you.”

“It’s fine. Not much to say. It was rubbish. Hopefully Monza will be better.” Xander stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Dad, I was hoping we could talk about the house for Oscar.”

His father’s forehead wrinkled with worry. “Not tonight, if it’s okay with you boys. Your mum’s had a good day and it upsets her so. I’d like to wait for a better time.”

“A better time might not come,” Oscar pleaded.

“I have the preliminary plans from the architect at my house for you and Mum to look over whenever you’re ready,” Xander added.

“They’re mega, Dad,” Oscar added. “Really.”

“I’m sure they are. Let me find a time to talk to your mum about it. For now, come on. She’s curled up with a book. Freya’s out back cutting flowers for the table.”

Oscar and Xander exchanged identical resigned glances, then trailed behind as their dad wandered back into the great room at the back of the house, a space his parents had reluctantly allowed him to renovate last year. The fact that the old thatched roof had been leaking for years and had rotted some windowsills helped make Xander’s case for a more modern space. They’d opened up the wall between the kitchen and living room, gutted both rooms, and started over—the result was beautiful and far more livable than what had been there before. Xander was glad he’d been able to do it. It brought him so much satisfaction to have the money to improve the lives of his family.

“Hello, Mum,” Xander said, approaching her and placing his hand on her shoulder.

His mother startled. “Goodness. Must’ve nodded off. Didn’t sleep well last night.” She positively beamed at him, sandy brown waves framing her face. “How are you, my sweet boy?” She took his hand. “Do you want to talk about Miami or shall we just leave that in the past?”

“Let’s skip Miami.” He smiled and made a point of cherishing the happiness in her eyes. “How are you feeling today?”

“Bit tired, but otherwise I’m just pleased to have all three of you at home.”

Freya opened the French door and stepped inside with a large bouquet of flowers. “The prodigal son returns.” She strolled into the kitchen and filled a vase with water, then artfully arranged the blooms.

“How’s school?” Xander asked.

“Fine.”

“Read any good books lately?”

“You’re making small talk, Xan. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on with everyone on social. People are being right pricks about you. I hate it.”

Xander’s dad, stirring a pot on the stove, looked over his shoulder at Xander, but didn’t say a peep.

“Can we talk about this in the other room?” Xander whispered.

Freya shrugged. “Sure.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Xander had to say his piece. “Please don’t let Mum hear you talk like that. And you shouldn’t be reading that stuff. You’re young. Impressionable.”

Freya clucked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “I’m a teenager. My whole bloody life plays out on social media. And you’re my brother. I love you. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Ignore it? I do.” Or at least I try. Most of the time, it’s impossible. It’s everywhere.

“But how? How do you do it?” she pleaded. “People are saying you shouldn’t have your seat. That Mega should replace you by the summer break.”

Those words were flaming daggers to his heart, made all the worse because his beloved sister was speaking them. This was merely confirmation of the things Emilio had said to him in Miami. How Xander despised social media. The most random person could say one thing and by the time the rest of the world had listened, they had managed to will it into existence. It was bloody unfair, and a game he refused to play.

“I can’t do anything other than drive the car.”

“That American woman is a bit of a bitch. Mia Neal? I can’t believe they let her into the paddock in Miami.”

Xander swallowed hard. “You listen to her show?”

“Yeah. Of course. All the F1 fangirls do.” Freya bunched up her nose. “I mean, she says some funny stuff, too. And she’s quite smart. I just don’t like it when she’s giving you the business.”

“Well, hopefully, Monza will be better for me and it won’t matter.”

Xander wanted that so badly he could taste it. He wasn’t hoping for the world—simply a weekend where he was in his previous form. No more mistakes. Just a bit of driving perfection. He’d done it before, so why not now?

“I hope so.”

“Me, too, Freya. Me, too.” He tugged her closer and kissed the top of her head. “Now, let’s go set the table or we’ll never hear the end of it from Dad.”

Over roast beef, potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, a lively conversation bloomed—full of laughter and inside jokes and completely devoid of Formula One. Xander couldn’t have been more grateful for anything, especially when he caught the seemingly benign moment when his mum looked at his dad and her face lit up just like it always did when all three kids were home and the house was filled with love.

Around eight, belly full, Xander clunked along in the Jeep back to his house. He was too wide-awake to consider sleep, so he poured himself some Irish whiskey, lit a fire in the fireplace, grabbed the sci-fi novel he’d been reading and plopped down on one corner of the sprawling tufted leather sofa in his living room. A few pages and several sips in, he caught sight of his phone sitting on the end table. Only one thing, or more specifically one person , popped into his head—Mia Neal.

He sighed, set aside his book and pulled up the podcast app, then typed in Not So Fast . It came right up. He tapped his fingers on the side of his phone for a moment, wonder ing if he should open this tin of worms, then begrudgingly subscribed. Freya’s comment about how Mia was mean about him but also smart and funny had him legitimately curious. And of course, he couldn’t forget that Mia had floored him by divulging he was her favorite driver.

The latest episode posted was from that day, titled “Mia Gone Wild in Miami (Not Really).” He found himself smiling at his phone. Grinning. Like an idiot. What was wrong with him? Why was he so easily entertained by the woman who’d made his life miserable? Perhaps he truly was a glutton for punishment. He grumbled, shook his head, then hit Play, sat back and let every criticism Mia Neal wanted to wield roll right over him.