Amelia pressed her face to the car window and tried not to inhale any of Connor's fig-and-prosciutto aftershave, which was — and she said this with all the love in the world — truly a crime against humanity.

Palm trees and designer outlets whizzed by the window, a blur of candy-coloured shopfronts. Two women in silver dresses stumbled out of a casino. A security guard was running a metal scanner up and down a man's body in front of a restaurant. She'd been to Monaco four times before — all for F2 races — but the glitz and glamour of it always amazed her.

"Oh, my god," Connor said. "Is that woman milking a goat?"

Amelia didn't look. "Bullshit."

Connor sighed. "Damn."

This, Amelia reflected, was one of their favourite games: the "made-you-look" game. They'd invented it on a road trip three years ago. The statements ranged from believable ("Is that a one-eyed dog?") to outlandish ("Is that Brad Pitt breaking into Costco at two o'clock in the morning?"). The more outrageous the claim, the more points you scored; at the end of each month, the loser bought drinks.

Amelia shifted in her seat. "Shame. That would have been a three-pointer."

"What's your score again?" Connor asked.

"Twenty-three."

"Damn." He sighed. "I'm at twelve this month."

Amelia turned away from the window. "There are still a few days left in May."

"Not enough," Connor said gloomily. "I might as well order your bottle of whisky now."

He took a swig from his one-litre carton of orange juice. The carton had, Amelia noted, magically appeared at some point during their car ride from Cannes to their hotel. She was convinced it was sorcery.

Amelia turned back to the window; a train of cyclists wove along the glimmering blue sea, their heads bent close to their handlebars. A lump rose in her throat. Her mother had always wanted to go cycling in Monaco; she used to sit on their porch with a glass of white wine, flipping through trail routes and National Geographic magazines. Her legs — tanned from the knees down, her thighs pale from the cycling shorts — would sway back and forth as she thought. Her bike was always nearby. Freshly polished. Gleaming.

That, Amelia recalled, was what the paramedics said her mother had asked first after her crash: how's the bike? 

She'd died in the hospital six days later.

Amelia rubbed the tattoo on her neck. Connor lay his head on her shoulder as they pulled up to the hotel.

"Hey," he said. "You okay?"

Amelia ruffled his hair. "Never better. Let's go."

They jumped out of the car. Silver flashes exploded like lightning, and Amelia tugged her baseball cap lower, making a beeline for the hotel. Connor paused to wave. If Noah was here, Amelia thought, he would know the name of every reporter. He would stop to ask them how their new baby was, or whether they'd tried that Thai green curry they were thinking about making last month.

Not, Amelia thought, shoving open the door, that she was thinking about Noah Wood.

Because she wasn't.

Obviously.

She stepped into the hotel lobby. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, throwing golden sparks across the room. The floor was made of marble. A fountain gurgled at the center of reception, featuring a mermaid blowing a conch.

"Okay," Connor said, falling into step, "is it just me, or does that statue look phallic?"

Amelia's mouth quirked. "It's just you."

"Shit." Connor stopped dead, staring at reception. "Is that Noah Wood?"

Amelia rolled her eyes. "Nice try."

"Seriously."

"I'm not going to look," Amelia said.

"Ammie." Connor's voice was urgent. ""I'm really not joking."

Amelia glanced back, wondering if she ought to help the beleaguered porter that was sweating under the weight of their duffel bags. "Hilarious, Connor."

"No," Connor said, "it's really—"

"Cartwell!" a voice called.

Amelia whipped around.

Noah was striding towards them, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. His signature Mercedes baseball cap was slightly askew. He was holding, Amelia realized, what appeared to be a large burrito and a milkshake.

"Are we friends with him?" Connor whispered. "I thought we hated him."

"We do." Her throat felt dry. "Sort of."

Connor studied her. Then his face changed. "Fuck. You shagged him, didn't you?"

Heat rushed to her cheeks. "I did not shag him."

"Made love." Connor was wearing his smug "buying-the-salad-in-McDonalds" look. "Did the dirty. Tickled the pickle."

Amelia slapped his shoulder. "I didn't!"

"Wait until Peter hears about this." Connor looked gleeful. "He'll lose his shit."

Amelia thought briefly of her eldest brother — who had once sat in their kitchen and sharpened a butcher's knife when she had a boy over for tacos in secondary school — and grabbed Connor's arm. "You can't tell him."

"Oh," Connor said, waggling his eyebrows. "So something did happen."

"I hate you," Amelia muttered.

"I—" Connor's face lit up. "Noah! Hello."

"Cartwell. Yip." Noah inclined his head. "I wondered if I'd see you here."

"You're not supposed to be here," Amelia said.

She was aware it was a rude thing to say; she also didn't really care. Connor — looking scandalized — trod on her foot. Noah's smile widened. "As far as I'm aware, I'm driving a race tomorrow."

"No, I mean..." Amelia felt her cheeks warm. Decided to blame it on the heat. "I thought the Mercedes team was staying at another hotel. Some fancy place with an infinity pool overlooking the harbour."

She'd checked with Cedro. Twice. Noah shifted his bag; it was a stuffed duffel bag, she noted, that looked about 120 pounds. He wasn't even sweating.

"It was flooded yesterday," Noah said. "Freak shower accident. I'm crashing with Cedro instead."

It took a moment for the words to process. Noah was staying with Cedro. Amelia and Cedro were sharing adjoining rooms. Which mean that — by proxy — Noah was staying with her. Panic flooded her veins.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

Connor slung an arm around her shoulder. "Roomies!" He poked Amelia's side. "I'm staying with this one."

Noah's face was unreadable. "You are?"

"Yeah." Connor took a swig of orange juice. "F2 drivers always get shit rooms. Ammie's kindly offered to let me live like a prince for the weekend."

Amelia swallowed. "Look, Wood, I—"

"Ced!" Noah called, his face lighting up. "Over here, you handsome little devil!" He waved at the door, glancing apologetically at Amelia and Connor. "Must dash, I'm afraid. We're dumping our things and then going to the track for qualifying." He patted Amelia's head. "See you there, Cartwell."

Noah walked away, whistling a cheery tune. Connor gaped after him.

"That was—"

"Don't say it," Amelia warned.

Connor shook his head. "Did Noah Wood just ruffle your—?"

"Yip," Amelia said. "Don't."

To her surprise, Connor fell silent. Maybe he was too stunned to form complete sentences. Amelia sighed, turning toward reception. Right. Hotel keys, quick shower, and then to the track, where she'd make Noah Wood wish that he'd never been born.

A whiff of fig-and-prosciutto hit her. She paused.

"Con?"

He lowered his orange juice. "What?"

"Get yourself some new aftershave," Amelia said, wrinkling her nose.

Connor pressed a hand to his heart. "Logan got this for me."

"Well," Amelia said, "if Logan's planning to keep every eligible bachelor in a two-mile radius well clear of you, then it's working. Just saying." She kissed his cheek. "Love you."

Connor scowled. "Hate you."

She turned for reception. For a strange moment, Amelia thought she felt Noah watching her, but when she turned, he was moving towards the lifts, his navy eyes fixed straight ahead. Amelia shrugged it off.

Must have been her imagination.

Amelia leaned against the desk in the Alpine garage, watching the candy-coloured cars zoom around the monitor.

Her eyes flicked across the numbers. 1'12. 871. 1'11.849. Everyone, Amelia thought, was very fast today, which was a damn shame. Qualifying was crucial in Monaco; it was almost impossible to overtake other cars with all the corners, so the final results didn't look all that different from the starting line-up.

She watched the numbers tick along.

1'12.560.

1'11.665.

Trek massaged his temples. "Can someone get me an iced coffee? Three shots of espresso. None of that whipped shit on top." An intern scuttled away, tapping frantically on her phone. Trek swivelled his chair. "Status report?"

"Cartwell's in fifth," Fred — a purple-haired race engineer — volunteered. "Fontana still has two laps to go before his final time."

"Right." Trek massaged his temples. "Good."

Her Team Manager was dressed in a dark green suit with a silk lining dotted with little pink parrots. He looked oddly out of place among the oil-stained floor and wrenches; engineers and race strategists buzzed around the garage, carrying armfuls of tires, notebooks, and chocolate doughnuts. 

"Cartwell!" Trek called.

"I'm right here," Amelia said. "There's no need to shout."

She couldn't keep the irritation out of her voice. Ever since the rooftop party in Italy — ever since Trek made fun of his wife crashing a car — she had little patience for him. Most days, Amelia fantasized about putting his head in a blender. Trek crooked a finger, and she reluctantly drew closer.

"Look," Trek said, "I just wanted to talk to you about your social media."

She blinked. "My social media?"

"Your most recent Instagram post."

Amelia blinked again. What the bloody hell had she posted? A snap of her smoothie bowl? A picture of The Vixen with her ugly lime-green paint job? No, Amelia realized; it was a photo of her and Connor in Australia. She was sitting on his shoulders in a pool, wearing a black bikini and a silly hat in the shape of a unicorn.

Her stomach tightened. "What about it?"

Trek removed his headset. "It wasn't approved by the PR team. Some people think it sends the wrong message to your teenage fanbase."

"Some people," Amelia said evenly, "or you?"

Trek's face was unreadable. "Just be more careful in the future."

A terrible, cold stillness settled over her. She knew for a fact that Lorenzo Gomez had posted a shirtless photo in a cryotherapy chamber last week; just today, Brett Hunt had shared a shirtless gym selfie. She would bet money, Amelia thought darkly, that neither boy had gotten in trouble for it.

This was bullshit.

Utter bullshit.

She forced herself to breathe. To think. On the screen, Cedro's car was speeding up, on a blinder of a lap. He might even qualify for pole position. She tried to focus on the sound that the car was making, the comforting purr of the engine—

Crash.

Trek sprang to his feet. "Who was that?"

Amelia was already crossing to the monitor. "Walsh." She tapped the screen, where a Ferrari car was half-sandwiched against the wall. "He spun out on the final corner. That's qualifying over."

Trek's face was murderous. "Replay the tape."

Someone rewound the footage. This time, Amelia could see what she'd missed before: Lucas Walsh had been in perfect control of the car. Then he'd suddenly careened towards the wall, smashing into it. Conveniently, none of the crucial parts of the car were damaged.

Trek swore. "That cheeky little bastard." He threw a whiteboard eraser at the monitor. "He spun out on purpose."

Understanding dawned on Amelia. "Walsh did it to make sure that he has fastest lap. He'll start in pole position."

"Get Burghart on the phone." Trek stormed through the garage, knocking aside terrified-looking engineers and interns. "I want to talk to the goddamn race director."

One man cleared his throat. "You'll never be able to prove—"

"I don't care," Trek snarled. "Get him on the line."  

Amelia stared at the monitor, watching as Cedro climbed out of his car. His shoulders were hunched, his back braced as if he was about to walk into a strong wind. He didn't take off his helmet. A mixture of fury and sadness rose in her, so swift and violent that she wanted to cry. Damn Lucas Walsh. She hated drivers like him. Drivers that gamed the system, simply because they could get away with it.

"I'm going back to the hotel," Amelia announced, to nobody in particular.

Nobody looked up. Trek was leaning over an engineer's shoulder, furiously sipping an iced latte. He had a phone pressed to his ear. Amelia slung her bag over one shoulder, stomping towards the car park. Her phone buzzed as she slid into her rental sports car.

One text from Connor.

Saw what happened at quali. Walsh is a bastard. I'm going for a v messy dinner — lmk if you want snacks/dessert/a shitload of wine xxx

Amelia sighed, sliding the phone into her purse.

Well.

At least one of them was having a good day.

Amelia put the car in gear. It didn't take long to reach the hotel — Monaco was so small that everything felt close by — and she parked by the door, taking the lift directly to her room. Bless hotels with private entrances; it really did make life easier.

She unlocked her door, setting her purse on the sideboard. The room was silent. Peacefully so. Twinkling stars blanketed the sky outside the window, as if someone had tossed a fistful of silver coins into the air. She flopped onto the king-sized bed, surveying the room: a vase of flowers, books on a glass coffee table, a round mirror...

Her gaze snagged on a door.

That must be the door, Amelia realized; the one that led to Cedro and Noah's room. She was half-tempted to pitch a sock at it.

But she didn't.

Obviously.

Because she was a grown woman.

Amelia stood up. Sat back down. Every part of her felt itchy and restless, as if her skin was two sizes too small. She thought about taking a hot bath (no, too warm) or reading a book (no, she couldn't concentrate). Hell, she even thought about a glass of red wine. But she couldn't risk it, Amelia thought; not when she was racing tomorrow.

She changed out of her clothes, pulling on grey shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Then she flopped back on the bed.

What to do?

Unbidden, an image of Noah flashed through her mind. His mouth on her neck. His blue eyes ablaze as he pushed her onto the car. His voice, rough in her ear. When I fuck you for the first time, it's not going to be on a car in your team garage.

Heat pooled between her legs.

Amelia clenched her hands into fists. No. No. She couldn't; it was wrong on so many levels. And yet, Connor wouldn't be back for a few hours. And, she reasoned, it wasn't like anyone had to know...

Her hand crept downward.

Oh, fuck it.

She leaned back against the wooden headboard, closing her eyes. She imagined Noah pushing her against the cool glass mirror of the lift. His hands kneading her jeans. Her name on his tongue, the way he said "Cartwell," like it was half a groan and half a prayer...

Her breath quickened.

Later, Amelia would wonder why she didn't hear the footsteps. She should have heard the door open, at the very least. But she didn't, and suddenly, Noah Wood was stalking into the room, six feet of impatient masculine energy.

"Cedro!" Noah called. "Cedro, are you in here? And do you have an extra toothbrush? Because I forgot to—"

He stopped dead, his eyes catching on her. Amelia swallowed.

"Hi," she said.

A/N: Hello lovely readers,

Yikes! Talk about bad timing — how do we think Noah's going to react? ;)

Question of the Day: so Amelia and Connor have the "made-you-look" game — what games do you and your friends/family play?

My brother and I always hide Smirnoff Ices around each other's houses whenever we visit (which is about once a year) and the rule is that you have to drink the Ice as soon as you find it... he hid a bottle in my running shoes once and I had to chug it at 7am, which I would NOT recommend to anyone lol

Affectionately,

J.K.