Page 33 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

“…I was just going to say that good dessert, like good sex, is worth taking your time for.” I finish with exaggerated primness.

She rolls her eyes, but the smile wins out. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet, here you are, having dinner with me anyway.”

I head to the dessert section, returning minutes later with a plate of freshly fried, warm churros sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, and a small pot of melted chocolate for dipping. I’ve added extra chocolate, noting how she immediately dips a churro deeply into it.

“You have a sweet tooth,” I observe.

“My one weakness,” she admits, savoring the churro with an expression of pure pleasure that does strange things to my pulse.

“Everyone needs something indulgent in their life.”

“What’s yours?” she asks.

“Besides motorsport?” I consider for a moment. “Music. Live shows, especially. There’s something about feeling the bass vibrate through your chest in a small venue, everyone connected by sound, powerful lyrics and emotion…”

“I haven’t been to a concert in years,” she says, almost wistfully.

“You should try it. Best stress relief there is—better than any spa day.”

“I don't go to spas, so I’ll take your word for it.”

“Wanna come with me? Um… to a small live show when we’re back in the UK?”

She pauses briefly, as if caught by surprise, yet at the same time, it seems she’s pondering something. She breaks the silence. “I could use a distraction, so I’ll accept your offer.”

My palms are sweating again. Did I hear this right? Not trying to hyper-focus on the topic, or sound too excited or awkward, I shift gears.

We talk about Barcelona then—her favorite hidden spots in the city, places tourists never find. She knows it well from years of coming here for testing, and the Spanish Grand Prix. I mention wanting to explore the Gothic Quarter before flying home.

“The architecture is stunning,” she says, animated in a way I haven’t seen before. “And there’s this tiny, family-owned restaurant on a corner—no sign, just a yellow door—that serves the best gambas al ajillo in existence.”

“You’ll have to show me sometime,” I say without thinking.

Something shifts in her expression again—a moment of awareness, perhaps, that this conversation has crossed some invisible line from professional to personal. But she doesn’t retreat into formality as I half-expect.

“Maybe I will,” she says softly. “To give back after we go to a live show.”

The moment hangs between us, fragile and unexpected. Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something there—a spark of connection that transcends Team Principal and driver. She’s genuinely fun. Down to earth. Gentle.

Then her phone buzzes on the table, breaking the spell. She glances at it and sighs. “The board chairman. I should take this.”

I nod. “Of course.”

She stands, gathering her jacket. “Thank you for dinner, William. And for…” She gestures vaguely, perhaps unable to articulate exactly what she’s thanking me for.

“Anytime,” I say, meaning it more than she knows.

She offers a small smile, then walks away to take her call, the phone already at her ear. I’m struck by how different she seems in this moment compared to the formal, reserved Team Principal who narrowed her eyes at me groveling to join the team.

More human. More real. More fascinating.

I’m still smiling long after she’s gone.

The final team debrief runs late into the evening on the third day.

Every department reports their findings, from aero to electronics to tire wear.

Nicholas, sullen after his morning mishap—putting the car on the gravel and crashing into the barriers—contributes little beyond noncommittal grunts.

I compensate by being extra detailed, sharing observations about competitor cars I followed, and suggestions for setup directions to explore before Australia.

“We’ve made significant progress,” Johnson concludes, addressing the assembled team. “But let’s be realistic—we’re still fighting to be best of the rest, not challenging for podiums.”

“Yet,” Blake adds with a wink in my direction.

“Exactly. Yet.” Violet stands, effortlessly commanding attention.

“Six months ago, this team was considering redundancies, questioning its future in the sport. Today, we have a car that’s showing genuine improvement, a clear development direction, and”—her eyes meet mine briefly—“drivers who can extract performance.”

Nicholas shifts uncomfortably at the plural, aware his contribution has been minimal at best.

“Australia will be our first real test," Violet continues. “But whatever happens there, remember this: we’re building. Each race, each session, each lap is a step toward returning Colton Racing to where it belongs. We’re here to win in the long run, but we need to be realistic; if we extract everything the car has to offer, we can be a couple of places above our dreaded last place as a team. And there’s a lot of potential for you two to get a bit higher on the Driver's Championship standings, and fight with the midfield cars. I believe we can do that this year. After what I witnessed in this pre-season testing, I firmly believe in this. In us .”

There’s a quiet determination in her voice that resonates with everyone in the room. This isn’t just a job for her—it’s a mission, a crusade to restore her family’s legacy. And we're all committed to it. Well, minus Nicholas, it seems.

As the meeting disperses, I linger, organizing my notes for the flight home tomorrow.

The garage slowly empties, mechanics heading out for one final team dinner before returning to the factory.

Johnson claps me on the shoulder as he leaves, a gesture of appreciation that means more than any verbal praise.

Soon, only Violet remains, gathering her papers at the far end of the conference table. We haven’t spoken privately since our dinner together, both of us maintaining professional distance in the team environment.

“You were impressive these last three days,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence. “Not just your pace. Your feedback, your approach, your attitude with the team.”

“Just doing my job,” I reply, though her words send a flush of warmth through me .

“Above and beyond.” She hesitates, then adds, “I made the right choice, signing you.”

The simple validation means more coming from her than any podium trophy could. “I guess I can back up my groveling then.” I flash a playful smile, earning a soft one from her. “But for real, I won’t let you down,” I promise, meaning every word.

“I know.” She locks her eyes on mine, and for a moment, that connection from the restaurant returns—something unspoken, but slowly building between us. Then, she gathers her things and straightens. “Get some rest. Season starts for real in two weeks.”

“Yes, boss,” I say with a small smile.

She rolls her eyes at the title but returns the smile before walking away, leaving me alone with my thoughts, and the lingering scent of her perfume.

Two weeks until Australia. My first measure against nineteen other cars, all fighting for glory, all believing they deserve the podium places more.

The car isn’t perfect—far from it. We’ll struggle on power circuits, fight for scraps of points on good weekends—assuming the conditions favor us—and likely suffer frustrations and disappointments along the way.

But for the first time since signing with Colton Racing, I allow myself to feel something beyond cautious optimism. Something like genuine excitement. Something like belief. This car is actually not that bad; I had a lot of fun driving it.

This season won’t be about championships, or even podiums. It will be about proving myself, helping this team climb from the back of the grid, showing the racing world that William Foster belongs in Formula 1.

Securing that contract extension for two more years and taking all the pressure off me.

I don’t want to be a footnote in F1. I want more.

And maybe, just maybe, this season will also be about discovering what lies beneath Violet Colton’s carefully constructed professional facade—the woman who laughs over churros, misses going to live shows, and speaks passionately about hidden Barcelona restaurants.

I pack up my notes, switch off the conference room lights, and head out into the cool Barcelona evening, already counting the days until the real challenge begins.