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He’s changed into a T-shirt and grey joggers, and he looks exhausted. My heart wrenches when I see him like this, his normally warm, smiling eyes replaced by a worried look.

And I know that look is for me.

He steps into the hallway and opens his arms wide. “I’m so sorry. I can’t say that enough.”

My throat grows thick. Mason is still thinking of me, not himself. He’s worried about what he put me through. And that tells me so much about the man he is.

The man I’m falling for.

I rush into his arms. Mason pulls me tightly to him, and I can hear his heart pounding against my ear. One of his hands moves to the back of my head, cradling it, and I feel his lips in my hair. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers again.

I move back so I can see him. “Mason. Stop. It’s okay.”

“I could have blown up the best thing to ever happen to me,” he says, his voice unsteady.

“No, you couldn’t have. Because I wouldn’t let you,” I say, sliding my hands up his chest and putting them over his heart.

He puts one of his hands over mine, holding them in place. “Thank God.”

“Come on, let’s go inside,” I urge.

Mason nods and escorts me inside. As soon as the door is closed, he reaches for my hand and leads me into the living room. I put my bag on his coffee table and take a seat on the sofa, and Mason sits down right beside me. He puts one arm around my shoulders, drawing me close, and I snuggle up against him.

“Talk to me,” I say softly.

Mason is silent for a moment, and I gently rub his chest in a soothing motion with my hand.

He clears his throat. “This is something I’ve only ever talked about with Andrew, my sports psychologist.”

I know the feeling. There are things I’ve shared only with Juliet, my own therapist. I move back so I can look at him. I feel as if Mason needs to see my face whilst he’s talking about this.

“You can tell me whatever you want. But Mason, I want you to know that I don’t respect you any less for how you have handled your relationship with your dad. I don’t judge you for it. I believe you were the one who told me to let go of the guilt I feel for how I’m dealing with my mum.”

“It’s so much easier to be the voice of reason for someone else.”

“I know. I agree.”

Mason pauses for a moment before he says, “I want to tell you.”

I nod.

“My dad owns a hedge funds and asset management firm in London. We’ve always been financially privileged. Which is an understatement. Luxury homes. Luxury cars. Excellent private schools. Ruby and I didn’t ever want for a single thing, and I know we were very lucky that way. I also know that wealth was a root of my success. I could afford to kart. My dad paid for extra track time. The best engines. Private coaching. I took to it from the first time I sat behind the wheel. So Dad invested in me.”

I have so many things I want to say, but I know it’s important for Mason to be heard right now. I remain silent and let him speak.

“I started karting when I was four. Dad poured himself into his investment—me—whenever he could. He told me that. Karting was an investment, and he doesn’t like to make investments that fail. I couldn’t embarrass him like that. So I made sure I didn’t. Sometimes I hated it, because if I had a bad race, he wouldn’t talk to me on the way home. Not a word. Dad told me I could just sit there and think about what I did wrong and how I wasted everyone’s time that weekend. And worst of all, how embarrassed he was of me.”

My heart physically hurts inside my chest when I picture Mason as a little boy, desperate to please his father, desperate to not embarrass him. Caleb was told to have fun and enjoy it. When he lost a race, Dad would talk to him about it and discuss how to get better.

It was never like this.

“Mum and Dad split up when I was thirteen. I left boarding school the next year to focus on karting and studied with tutors instead. I still lived with Mum, but I travelled with either my manager or my dad. Then, when I joined the Eclipse Junior Development Programme, I got a flat with Luis Sanchez in Surrey.” He smiles. “God, we were a disaster. That flat was disgusting.”

“I can only imagine. Two eighteen-year-old drivers in a flat, what could possibly go wrong?”

“Cleaning,” Mason quips. “That went horribly wrong.”

We chuckle at that, and he continues. “Now that I’m in F1, Dad puts more pressure on me to win. He keeps throwing the investment back in my face. I’ve talked with Andrew about his behaviour. Like you said, it’s toxic. It’s not my fault. I feel like I’ve done very well at ‘controlling the controllables,’ as Andrew likes to say. But I’ve failed miserably at setting boundaries. Probably because Dad hardly ever shows up on a race weekend, so I don’t have to face him. And the part that I’m embarrassed of? Deep down, I still want his bloody approval.”