Full Speed Into His Heart.

Georgie

This was it, finally!

The oppressive heat of the city hit me the second I pushed through the sliding glass doors of the airport, but I barely felt it over the electric hum of anticipation buzzing beneath my skin.

I gripped the handle of my heavy rolling suitcase, pulling it behind me.

This was it. The start of my professional racing career.

No more amateur circuits, no more small-town tracks with dirt that felt like dust. I had fought my way here through broken bones, bruised ribs, and endless nights in the garage, earning every single podium, every trophy, and every jagged scar hidden beneath my racing gear.

Before I could even take in the skyline, a sleek black car pulled up directly in front of me.

The driver, clad in a crisp uniform, stepped out instantly, giving me a polite nod before taking my heavy gear bag and suitcase.

"Miss Georgie?" he asked, his voice smooth and professional.

"That's me," I replied, stepping toward the open door.

I slid into the back seat, the soft leather cool against the back of my legs.

As the car pulled away from the curb and merged into the fast-flowing stream of traffic, I leaned my head against the cool windowpane, staring out at the towering glass skyscrapers and vibrant neon signs of the city.

A wide, unstoppable smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

This city was fast, loud, and relentless, just like me. My whole life had been about speed, about chasing the white line and crossing the finish line before anyone else.

The driver slowed down, turning the car into a wide, gated driveway before pulling up directly in front of a sprawling, modern mansion-style apartment building.

"Here we are, Miss Georgie," the driver announced, stepping out to retrieve my luggage from the trunk.

He set my bags neatly by the grand stone entrance, turned to me, and handed me a small set of silver keys. "I'll be in touch regarding your transport to the track facilities tomorrow morning. Have a pleasant evening."

"Thank you so much," I said, taking the keys.

With a final bow of his head, he got back into the car and smoothly drove off, leaving me standing alone in front of the impressive structure.

I took a step back, looking up at the high balconies and the massive windows reflecting the late afternoon sun.

Thank God. I had finally arrived.

Stepping up to the heavy oak front door, I slipped the silver key into the lock. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside, the soft glow of natural light washing over me.

"Wow," I whispered into the quiet space.

The apartment was stunning. It opened up into a massive, open-concept living area with polished concrete floors, soaring ceilings, it looked like it belonged in an architectural magazine.

I dragged my heavy rolling suitcase just past the doorway, leaving it alongside my gear bag.

Dropping my heavy leather handbag right onto the entryway bench, I walked further inside, letting my eyes feast on the space.

I stopped in the middle of the room, throwing my head back, and drew in a deep, long breath of the cool, air-conditioned air.

It felt surreal. Finally, my own space.

Feeling an incredible weight lift off my shoulders, I began to walk around, running my fingers lightly over the clean, polished surfaces of the kitchen island.

I smiled, imagining quiet mornings here with a cup of coffee before heading out to dominate the track.

Then, my eyes caught something on the coffee table in front of the main living area.

I froze. My smile slowly melted away.

Sitting right there on the pristine glass surface was a half-eaten sandwich on a ceramic plate, alongside a crumpled paper napkin and an empty glass of water.

I blinked, staring at the mess. I scowled, stepping closer to inspect it. The crumbs were fresh. The condensation ring from the glass hadn't even fully dried on the table.

Confusion tightly coiled in my chest. What the hell?

Did the cleaning crew leave this? No, that didn't make any sense. The driver said the place was ready for me. Was someone else supposed to be living here until today? Was this some kind of sick joke from the estate management? Isn't this supposed to be my private apartment?

"Hello?" I called out, my voice sharp, echoing slightly against the high ceilings. "Is someone here?"

Silence.

I took a defensive step back toward the kitchen island, my pulse suddenly quickening.

Just as I opened my mouth to shout again, the heavy sound of rhythmic footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway, the corridor leading toward the master bedroom suites.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I held my breath, locking my eyes on the doorway at the end of the hall.

A shadow moved, and then a man stepped into the warm sunlight of the living room.

My entire world ground to a sudden, violent halt.

He was wearing nothing, absolutely nothing except a plain white towel wrapped loosely around his low hips, clinging dangerously to his skin.

Water droplets glistened on his broad, muscular shoulders and trickled down the deep, defined grooves of his chest and washboard abs.

His dark hair was damp, tousled, and dripping slightly onto his collarbone. He was holding a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand, completely relaxed, utterly at home.

He took a sip from his mug, turned his head, and froze mid-stride.

My breath hitched in my throat. My body went completely rigid, every muscle locking in place as if I had just hit a brick wall at two hundred miles an hour.

His eyes locked onto mine.

The mug in his hand halted inches from his lips. His jaw dropped slightly, his dark brows pulling together in absolute, stunned disbelief.

For three suffocating seconds, neither of us breathed.

The air in the room instantly turned thick, charged with a sudden, suffocating current of raw tension and unadulterated shock.

My lips parted, but no sound came out at first. My brain scrambled, refusing to process the nightmare unfolding right in front of my eyes.

I swallowed hard, pointing a trembling finger at the man standing in front of me.

"You?”