Formula Love

POV: ISLA

The airport is chaos. Tourists with oversized luggage. Business travelers checking phones. The usual mix of languages and impatience that comes with European travel hubs.

I scan the pickup area for my ride. Uncle Derek said someone from the Apex team would collect me. The roar of an engine cuts through the airport noise as a sleek Aston Martin DB11 in racing green pulls up to the curb, drawing stares from everyone within fifty feet.

My stomach flips when I see who’s behind the wheel—Ethan Wolfe, Apex’s number one driver, the reigning F1 champion, and my crush since he joined my father’s team when I was twelve.

He’s six-foot-two, with the kind of lean muscle that comes from years of fitness training. His curly brown hair catches the sunlight, perfectly tousled like he just stepped out of a magazine shoot. The white linen shirt he’s wearing is unbuttoned just enough to show the definition of his chest. He looks even better in person than he did in the posters I had on my bedroom wall when I was sixteen.

“Isla!” he yells.

His accent is pure posh English. Before I can react, he’s pulled me into a hug. His arms are strong around me, and I catch the scent of expensive cologne. My heart, apparently still sixteen when it comes to Ethan Wolfe, hammers against my ribs.

“I still can’t get over it,” he says, holding me at arm’s length. “All grown up.”

“I can’t believe you came to pick me up yourself.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says.

Within seconds, we’re surrounded by fans. Ethan handles it all with practiced charm, signing racing programs and taking photos while keeping a protective hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry, everyone, but the lady and I have places to be,” he says with that million-dollar smile.

He loads my luggage, then opens the passenger door and guides me in with his hand on the small of my back—just a light touch, but it sends electricity up my spine.

“Buckle up,” he says with a grin. “I don’t obey the speed limit.”

The Aston Martin pulls away from the airport with a growl that makes my pulse race. He glances over at me as we merge onto the highway, and I feel his eyes taking me in. His gaze travels from my face down to my body and back up.

“I wanted to say this at your father’s funeral, but it didn’t feel appropriate then,” he says, his voice lower now, more intimate. “I hadn’t seen you in a while and you look incredible, Isla. The girl I remember has become a remarkably sexy woman.”

I try to process what’s happening. Three months ago I was crying at my father’s graveside, lost and grieving. Four days ago I was studying at MIT. Now I’m in a supercar with the most eligible bachelor in motorsport, and he’s looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

When I was a teen, Ethan seemed so much older, a grown-up, towering in his fame and confidence, even though he was barely in his twenties. Now, in his early thirties, ten years older doesn’t feel that far ahead. He seems like the right kind of older.

“Thank you,” I finally manage to say. “You look good too.”

“Well, of course I do, darling,” he says with a cackle.

He steps on the gas pedal and I’m pushed back into my seat as we accelerate.

***

At the hotel, the press mobs us, asking questions about me as the heir apparent to Apex. As the cameras flash, I tell the truth: my uncle runs the team, I’m just on break from MIT to help for a bit.

Thinking of Apex being run by me (or anyone else), instead of my dad, still feels unnatural. I grew up in F1, but the attention was never on ~me~. My dad made sure of that. Luckily the reporters move on to Ethan quickly and I can slip away.

It’s a quick walk to a restaurant my dad used to bring me to and I find the vintage racing game we loved in the back corner. Being in this world has me aching for my dad. The top scores flash on screen and I find my initials, I.S. - I still have the top score! I slide into the worn seat and am about to play a round when I hear steps behind me.

“Do you like to play games?” a voice says, confident and with a hint of an accent.

I look back. He’s tall, over six foot, and maybe a year or two older than me, around twenty-three. He has broad shoulders that fill out his black leather jacket like it was made for him.

“I usually play alone,” I say. “No chance to lose.”

“But that’s not truly winning either, is it?” he says as he sits down in the seat beside me.

Dark curls fall across his forehead. His lazy smile is charming but sharp around the edges, like he’s used to getting what he wants. Dark green eyes hold something untamed—dangerous, maybe. Suddenly all the tourists drinking overpriced cocktails are gone, and it’s like I’m here alone with him.

“Sure you want to mess with the champ? I’ve got top score,” I say, pointing at the top of the screen.

“A challenge never scares me,” the stranger says.

“Fine,” I say. “But don’t cry when you lose.”

“I don’t cry. Or lose.”

We both feed our coins into the machine.

“I’m Juan,” he says.

“Isla,” I reply.

The screen counts down.

He grins and says, “Buena suerte.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, tilting my head.

“You don’t speak Spanish?” he asks.

I giggle and shrug. “Just a dumb American, I guess.”

I actually ~do~ speak Spanish, but decide it might be useful to keep that secret by playing dumb. I have a feeling he’s got secrets of his own.

“It means good luck.”

“Won’t need it!”

The light turns green and we take off.

We race hard.

Our cars bump on the screen, and our shoulders do in real life. There’s a jolt—when it happens. I don’t know if it’s attraction or just the heat of competition. Maybe both.

It’s distracting. And dangerous. But I lean a little closer anyway.

He curses in Spanish. I keep pretending I don’t understand.

“You’re aggressive,” I say as he tries to nudge my car off the road.

“Not only when I drive.”

We hit the final lap. He’s ahead, then I’m ahead. We’re inches apart, fighting for the lead.

I glance over—his face is focused, alive, thrilled. He reminds me of how my dad played this game.

I lock in, taking the last two turns with everything I’ve got. I think I’ve got it. It’s close.

Juan lets out a whoop as the checkered flag flashes on his screen.

He wins by a fraction of a second.

“No way,” I whisper.

“Victory!” he shouts.

My heart is still racing.

“How are you so good? Are you a driver?”

With the F1 race in town this weekend, the city is packed with drivers and people who want to be them. Some are legends, others are clinging to fading fame, and a few might be wearing leather jackets and faking accents.

“I ~am~ a driver,” he says.

“What team?” I ask.

I thought I knew all the F1 drivers. Maybe he’s a rookie?

He grins and says, “Uber.”

I laugh.

“You must get people to their flights on time.”

“Always,” he says with a shrug. “Want a rematch or a drink?”

He leads me to the bar. We sit on stools near a window that looks out over the harbor.

“So what brings you to Portofino?” he asks.

“Work,” I say. “I’m with Apex. F1.”

“Ah,” he says. “Not a huge fan of the sport, but I’ve heard of your team. And your driver, the famous Ethan Wolfe.”

“Everyone knows Ethan, don’t they?” I say.

He’s the golden boy of the sport. Smooth as silk on camera and the track. He dates supermodels, charms sponsors, and walks red carpets like he was born on them.

“He seems like a snobby prick,” Juan says with no hesitation.

I raise an eyebrow. Juan looks sheepish.

“Sorry. Is he your boyfriend?”

I snort.

“No, he’s my teammate.”

“But you wish he was your boyfriend, like the rest of the world?”

“I would never date a racer. They’re too dangerous.”

“Don’t most women like dangerous things?” he asks, tilting his head like it’s a dare.

I tell him about Apex, how my dad built it from scratch and turned it into the top team in the world before he died a few months ago. As we talk, our knees bump and stay touching. It’s thrilling to be this close with a stranger.

There’s something between us. I can tell we both feel it. He tells me he’s from Spain. I ask where. He dodges the question with a smirk, eyes flicking away, hiding something, but he’s smooth about it.

Like he’s used to hiding things. I don’t press. Not tonight. It’s nice to be talking to someone who isn’t a part of the racing world.

“We should take a photo,” Juan says, nodding toward the photo booth. “So you can have a souvenir of losing.”

I roll my eyes, but say okay. We squeeze into the photo booth. There’s only one small stool inside. I glance at it, then at him. Juan sits and pats his thigh.

“Looks like it’s either on my lap or on your knees,” he says with a grin.

“Careful,” I say, “you’re moving a bit too fast, Mr. Uber.”

I sit on his lap anyway. His hands steady me by the hips. Our bodies press together and I can feel the shape of him—his chest broad and solid behind me, every inch of him fit and strong.

His breath brushes my neck, and I shiver. I’m not used to reacting like this. Not to strangers. But something about him makes it hard to think straight. I’m not a one night stand kind of girl usually, but maybe for the right guy…

Or the wrong guy?

The first flash catches us smiling.

The second—making goofy faces.

The third—we mean mug.

For the last one, he turns my head and presses his lips to mine. Soft. Slow. Confident.

A sudden rush of heat blooms inside me. The flash goes off, bright and blinding, and I blink hard. I pull back just enough to see his face. He’s grinning, a teasing spark in his eyes.

“You know what happens next?” he asks in a whisper.

I swallow, still out of breath. “No.”

“Now, you’ll either slap me,” he says, voice low, “or kiss me again—harder.”