I go back to studying the room. There’s a floating staircase to my left, but my gaze drifts farther—past the dining room, past the living room with the greige sectional sofa—to the doors that lead outside.
Because even from here, I can see the twinkling lights of Monaco all around us.
“Oh!” I gasp. “That view looksamazing!”
“I can show it to you if you like,” Caleb says.
“Yes, please, I’d love to see it from the terrace.”
“Sure.” He extends his hand to me. My heart leaps inside my chest as I look down at it.
I put my hand in his, and Caleb entwines his fingers with mine. I can’t believe he’s holding my hand, or the intense physical reaction I’m having to this simple touch.
He leads me through his penthouse to the back doors, and then he ushers me outside. It’s a huge terrace, with sectional sofas and sun loungers, but that’s not what interests me at the moment.
It’s the view that has all of my attention.
Because I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.
We’re high up in the hills, looking down over Monaco. Lights from the buildings built into the hillsides illuminate the darkness, and I can see the mountains that surround us. I can also see the lights shimmering on the surface of the Mediterranean Sea.
I go over to the railing and let go of Caleb’s hand for a moment. I put both hands on it, leaning forward, feeling the breeze kiss my skin as I stare out at the country that is both wrapped around and below me. “This is beautiful,” I gasp, awestruck. “You get to see everything from here.”
“You should see it in the morning,” Caleb says. “Under the sun, with the turquoise water of the sea? You can’t beat the view.”
I get a picture of this terrace basked in sunlight and how visible everything must be during the day. But then a thought strikes me, and panic rises in my chest. I whirl around to face him. “Paparazzi. Do they snap you up here? With long-lens cameras? Could they be taking pictures of us right now?”
An amused smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “No. They can’t.”
I furrow my brow. “They can’t? What do you mean?”
“It means,” Caleb says, moving closer until he’s mere inches from me, “that Monaco has strict privacy laws. If you want to take professional pictures, you have to receive written permission from the government first. I can’t stop an individual from grabbing a shot of me walking in Monte Carlo andthrowing it up on social media, but no tabloid photographers can take pictures of me here.”
Relief courses through me.
“And most of my neighbors are billionaires and millionaires. They don’t care who I am or what I do for a living anyway.”
“Oh. Well, that makes sense.”
“Relieved?” he asks, quirking a brow.
“You’re very good at reading my facial expressions. Maybe you should be a journalist.”
“Let me think about that.No,” he says instantly, and it makes me laugh.
I turn around and stare back out over Monte Carlo below me, and Caleb joins me next to the railing. His arm brushes against mine, and I tingle from the contact.
“Are you happy here? I mean, do you miss England at all?” I ask.
“I’ll admit I moved here for tax reasons,” Caleb says, referring to the generous tax benefits that induce the uber rich to relocate to Monaco. “But I like it here. I can hike and cycle with my trainer in the hills. I have the sea. The climate is brilliant, and it’s a nice central location for all the air travel I have to do during the season. I still go to England for simulator work at the Collings Motors headquarters, so I get plenty of time there, too. Do you see yourself leaving the States one day? Not like what you are doing now, but on a permanent basis?”
“Yes, I do. I mean, I knew if I got my dream job in F1, commuting from the States would be hard.”
“Half the grid lives here in Monaco. Mason moved over here—he lives in that building,” Caleb says, pointing to the one next door.
“Does Xavier live here?” I ask.
The corners of his mouth pull up in a smile. “Yep. We bike together, have dinner, play padel.”