Page 32 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

I weave through the crowded restaurant, nodding to familiar faces from the team.

The place buzzes with conversation in multiple languages, the air thick with the aroma of saffron, garlic, peppers, and grilled seafood.

Flatscreen TVs mounted on walls play muted football matches, occasionally drawing cheers from locals at the bar.

This is my kind of place. Not the sterile, pretentious restaurants where they serve a teaspoon of foam and a pea, and call it molecular gastronomy while charging you an arm and a leg.

Here, food is abundant, unpretentious, meant to satisfy rather than impress.

Proper food for genuine hunger. And it smells heavenly.

Blake sits with Johnson and some other senior staff, animatedly discussing something over half-empty sangria pitchers. I approach their table, noting the empty chair where Violet would probably sit.

“Evening,” I greet them. “Good day’s work today. ”

“William!” Blake’s face lights up, gesturing to an empty chair. “Join us. We were just discussing your feedback on the car’s balance.”

“In a minute,” I say. “Where’s Violet? Still working?”

Blake and Johnson exchange knowing glances. “Where else?” Johnson says. “Said she had some urgent calls with potential sponsors. She’ll join us, eventually.”

“If we’re lucky,” Blake adds with a sigh. “That woman would forget to eat entirely if I didn’t remind her.”

I nod, absorbing this information, then head toward the buffet.

The spread is impressive—Spanish classics like paella and tortilla espanola sharing space with international offerings to satisfy the cosmopolitan F1 crowd staying at the hotel across the street.

I grab a plate and begin selecting. Roasted chicken with crispy skin—just how I like it—grilled vegetables glossy with olive oil, and a hearty scoop of patatas bravas .

I’m already salivating. Protein, complex carbs, some greens—the meal of an athlete, not the indulgence some might expect at a team dinner.

At a small table for two near the window, I set my plate down, then pause.

Without overthinking it, I return to the buffet line, taking a fresh plate.

This time, selecting with someone else in mind.

What would she like after a long, stressful day? Something nourishing, but comforting.

A portion of the seafood paella , the saffron rice studded with plump shrimp and tender calamari.

Hell, I hope she’s not allergic to seafood.

Then, I add a small serving of the roasted vegetables.

Some of that crusty bread with the garlic spread that smells divine.

A slice of tortilla , golden and fluffy.

She doesn’t strike me as the pea-eating type, but I won’t be putting too much—I don’t know her appetite—just enough to satisfy hunger after hours of neglecting it.

The server behind the counter raises an eyebrow at me. “Hungry tonight, sir?”

“It’s for a friend,” I explain.

He winks, misunderstanding. “Ah, for a senorita . Very good.”

I don’t correct him, returning to my table and placing the second plate opposite mine. I add silverware, a napkin, and even pour a glass of water from the carafe. Then I sit and wait, my own food untouched, slowly cooling before me.

Five minutes pass. Ten. The noise of the restaurant swells as more diners arrive. I check my phone, resisting the urge to start eating. My stomach growls in protest.

Then, finally, she appears in the doorway—still in her team jacket, but with her hair now loose around her shoulders, looking tired but determined.

She scans the room, nodding to team members who wave in greeting.

I stand slightly, catching her eye, and without conscious thought, I wink at her, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.

She looks confused for a moment, probably expecting to join Blake and the senior staff. Our earlier awkward moment in the garage flashes through my mind. Maybe this was presumptuous. Maybe she’ll politely decline and sit elsewhere. I wouldn’t blame her. I was awkward as hell .

But she makes her way over, curiosity evident in her expression.

“William,” she says, stopping at the table’s edge. “What do you need?”

I gesture to the chair. “Have a seat. I saved you from having to navigate the buffet after your busy day.”

Her gaze falls to the plate I’ve prepared, and genuine surprise registers on her face. “You got food for me?”

“You worked through dinner yesterday, too, and you were eating a sandwich during lunch today,” I say simply. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

For a moment, she just stares at the plate, then at me, as if trying to reconcile this gesture with her understanding of who I am. Then, slowly, she pulls out the chair and sits.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve heard it before. “That was… thoughtful.”

I shrug, suddenly embarrassed by my own gesture. “It’s nothing. Just didn’t want our Team Principal fainting from hunger in the middle of testing.”

A hint of a smile tugs at her lips as she picks up her fork. “I wouldn’t have fainted.”

“Passed out elegantly, then.”

She takes a bite of the paella , closing her eyes briefly—in appreciation, I hope. “I didn’t realize my driver had a contract clause that included bringing me food,” she says, opening her eyes .

“It’s in the fine print,” I counter. “Right after ‘must smile for sponsor photos’ and before ‘not punching Nicholas every time he says something entitled.’”

She takes a bite at the greens. “I really don’t recall such a clause.”

“That’s because your legal team is thorough, but my manager is creative.”

A hearty laugh escapes her—brief but genuine—and it transforms her face completely. The tired lines around her eyes crinkle differently, her usual guarded expression momentarily abandoned. An absurd surge of satisfaction strikes me at having caused that laugh. My smile widens.

We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, both hungrier than we’d acknowledged.

“This is good,” she says, gesturing to the paella . “How did you know I like seafood?”

I hadn’t known—just guessed. “Seemed like the specialty of the house,” I say. “Hard to go wrong with paella in Barcelona.”

“True.” She takes another bite. “Though, I usually avoid buffets during the season. Too easy to overindulge. I love eating, and it gets problematic for me.”

“Professional athletes learn portion control early,” I say. “It’s about taking what you need, not what you want. No matter how delicious something may be.”

She studies me over the rim of her water glass. “Wise words from someone so young.”

“Twenty-four isn’t that young,” I protest .

“From my ancient perspective of thirty-two, it is.” There’s that hint of a smile again.

“Ancient? Hardly. You’re just hitting your prime.”

“Flatterer.” She takes a bite at the tortilla , closing her eyes briefly in delight.

“Realist,” I correct, pointing my fork at her. “Most people don’t even figure out what they want until their thirties.”

“And you have? Figured it out, I mean.”

The question gives me pause, surprised by its depth in what had been light conversation. “Racing, yes. The rest… I’m working on it.”

She nods as if she understands exactly what I mean. Perhaps she does.

We fall into conversation about the day’s testing, comparing notes on car performance, driver feedback, and competitor analysis.

She’s incredibly knowledgeable—not just about the business aspects, but the technical details, too.

When I mention the understeer issue in Turn 4, she immediately suggests a possible cause that hadn’t occurred to the engineers.

“You really know your stuff,” I say, impressed.

“I grew up in this world,” she replies. “When other girls had dollhouses, I had miniature garages and was bothering engineers and mechanics to teach me stuff.”

“And you raced yourself, right? Karting champion?” I did some digging online last night. I had nothing else to do, so I researched my boss .

Something flickers in her eyes—surprise that I know this detail, perhaps. “Regional level, yes. A lifetime ago.”

“Why did you stop?” The question hangs between us, and I put down my fork. "If you don't want to answer, it's okay." I may have overstepped, ventured into territory too personal. That will be my second blunder of the day if it’s the case.

“Money,” she says finally. “Or lack thereof. Girls didn’t attract sponsors back then, no matter how fast they were. Even being a Colton wasn’t enough.”

There’s no self-pity in her voice, just matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the sport’s reality. Her resilience sends a surge of admiration through me.

“Their loss,” I say. “There are some girls that are fast as hell. My ass was handed to me a couple of times during my karting years. The sport needs more diversity.”

“Still does,” she agrees. “But things are improving. Slowly. I still dream of seeing a woman in F1, though.”

Our plates are empty now. I stand, collecting them. “Dessert?”

She checks her watch, seemingly surprised by how much time has passed. “I should probably get back to work…”

“Even Team Principals need fuel,” I argue. “What’s your dessert of choice? Let me guess—something sophisticated. Dark chocolate with sea salt? Crème br?lée?”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Not even close. I love homemade churros and ‘Sex in a Pan.’”

I raise my eyebrows, a grin spreading across my face.

“Don’t,” she warns immediately, pointing a finger at me. “Don’t even start with the dirty jokes. It’s a layered dessert with chocolate pudding, cream cheese, and whipped cream. Absolutely delicious and completely innocent, despite the name.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” I lie, my expression mocking innocence.

“Your face says plenty.”

“My face is being slandered,” I protest. “But since you brought up sex…”

“William!” Her cheeks flush slightly, but she’s fighting a smile. She’s adorable .