Why would you say that?I chastised myself.
But I knew why.Because despite everything—the rivalry, the tension, the careful distance we’d maintained for months—part of me still remembered when we were friends.When hearing his voice hadn’t made my chest tight with frustration and anger.
Henri watched the boats floating in the harbor instead of me.“I like seeing Georgia this happy.”
“You and me both.”I turned to look at him.The city lights caught the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the tension he carried in his jaw, the shadows in his eyes that hadn’t been there at the start of the season.
I opened my mouth, almost ready to ask about Montreal, but I closed it again.What would be the point?It was just a kiss.A kiss that had ended with me kicking him out.Nothing had changed between us.
So, instead, I opted for something safer.“How are you really?”
He glanced at me, surprise flickering across his face.Like he hadn’t expected the concern.Like we didn’t do that anymore—ask real questions or care about each other’s answers.Like our last interaction hadn’t ended with me kicking him out of my room after a mind-numbing kiss.
“Ask me Sunday night,” he said quietly, almost a whisper.
“That bad?”
“That complicated.”He drained his glass in one sip.“I’m just ready for this weekend to be over.”
I understood that too well.It was almost impossible to describe how a driver felt about their home race.All your friends and family were there to watch you win on the streets they had raised you on.It was exhilarating and fun and magical.
Unless you lost.
“Eight years is a long time to wait for something,” I said quietly.
He finally looked at me.“Three years is too.”
Silverstone.He meant Silverstone.
The understanding passed between us without words.We both knew what it was to want something desperately and have it slip through your fingers year after year.To feel the weight of expectation, the fear of failure, the desperate hunger for redemption.No one quite understood it like Henri, that feeling of carrying the weight of your deferred dreams.
“Well,” I said, lifting my champagne glass, “may we both be miserable together this weekend.”
A tiny hint of a smile crossed his face.Our glasses clinked in the Monaco night, and for just a moment, the tension between us felt less like animosity and more like understanding, almost like we weren’t enemies.The old friend I’d once longed for almost seemed recognizable, at least for a minute, and it was nice not to be at each other’s throats.
His shoulder edged closer to mine on the railing, and without meaning to, I found myself leaning into it.The smallest shift of weight, just enough that our shoulders touched as we both watched the lights twinkle along the water.
Henri went very still beside me.Then, slowly, carefully, he turned his head to look at me.I could see the gold flecks scattered through his dark eyes.
“You can win this weekend, Henri.”
In the moment, it felt like the right thing to say.And I believed it to be true.Henri was capable of magnificent things, and no feud between us was going to stop me from believing in him.
“Yeah?”The single word was barely more than a whisper, fragile and uncertain and achingly hopeful.
“Yeah.”
For a long moment, we just looked at each other.His gaze dropped to my lips, then back up.His hand moved on the railing beside mine.
This felt like Las Vegas all over again.Like Montreal the other week.There was no denying this indescribable pull between us.
His words from Las Vegas echoed in my head even as his hand moved on the railing beside mine.I watched, heart in my throat, as his pinkie finger extended slowly toward mine.Giving me time to pull away.Time to stop this before it started.
I didn’t move.
Move away, Lily, my rational brain screamed, but I couldn’t make myself step back; couldn’t break whatever spell had settled over us on this balcony.Even though I knew better.Even though his actions never seemed to match his words, and I was tired of trying to figure out which version of Henri was real—the one who pushed me away in Las Vegas, or the one who couldn’t seem to stop pulling me close.
“Lily—” His voice came out rough, raw with something he wasn’t saying.His pinkie hooked deliberately around mine, and the simple touch reverberated through my entire body.
