Page 36 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

The type I’d never, ever hang out with.

Yet, here I am.

William’s eyes snap open, catching me staring. His expression shifts from blissed-out to concerned in an instant.

“Everything okay?” he mouths, barely audible over the music and protective earplugs.

I nod, but he’s not convinced. He leans in, his lips nearly brushing my ear.

“You sure? We can go if it’s too much.” His breath is warm against my skin, his voice low and gentle.

I haven’t noticed until now, but his hand rests lightly on my lower back, steady and grounding amid the swaying bodies around us. It feels… protective. Not possessive or controlling. Just there. A tether in the chaos.

“I’m good,” I tell him, suddenly aware of our proximity. “Actually enjoying it.”

He pulls back slightly, eyes closed momentarily as he asks, “Really? Not just saying that?”

When his eyes open again, just a couple of centimeters in front of me, something shifts inside me.

I’ve seen his eyes before—in meetings, on the track, across the garage.

But I’ve never really looked at them. Never noticed how his hazel irises have flecks of gold near the pupils.

Never appreciated how expressive they are, how they crinkle slightly at the corners when he’s genuinely pleased.

His beard looks soft, meticulously trimmed despite his otherwise wild appearance. The way he’s looking at me—head tilted slightly, eyebrows raised in gentle inquiry—is simply…

Damn. What am I even thinking right now?

“Really enjoying it,” I say, turning back to the stage before my face gives away whatever this feeling is. “They’re good.”

I force myself to focus on the band, on the way the bassist’s fingers fly across the strings, on the lead singer’s theatrical gestures.

But I remain acutely aware of his hand, still resting on my lower back.

It stays there through three more songs, through a particularly rowdy mosh pit that forms to our left, through the surge of bodies when the band plays their most popular track, according to William .

I’m startled from my musical trance when a large man stumbles toward us, clearly drunk, eyes fixed on me in that unmistakable predatory way women learn to recognize early.

Before I can react, William’s arm slides fully around my waist, pulling me against him in a protective embrace.

The drunk man hesitates, registers William’s warning glare, then turns away.

William keeps his arm around me, but he avoids my gaze. In the flashing stage lights, I’m sure I detect a redness to his cheeks that wasn’t there before. He stares resolutely at the stage, as if the most fascinating thing in the world is happening up there.

My first coherent thought is that he’s remarkably warm. Like a furnace in human form. Comfortable. My second thought is about his scent—a mixture of leather, some kind of woodsy cologne, and something uniquely him. It’s… nice. Really nice .

“Thanks,” I say, leaning into him slightly, so he can hear me.

Finally, he looks down at me, and the smile that spreads across his face is different from any I’ve seen from him before. Softer. More genuine. Gentle.

“Just protecting my precious friend,” he says, giving me a little squeeze before returning his attention to the band.

Friend.

The word shouldn’t affect me like this. It’s such a simple thing, such a basic human connection. But when was the last time someone called me their friend and meant it? Not colleague, not boss, not business associate. Friend .

My eyes burn unexpectedly, and I’m grateful for the darkness that hides the stupid, inexplicable tears threatening to spill. What is wrong with me? It’s just a word. Just a casual comment.

But from William—from this man who vented his anger at me when we met in Abu Dhabi last year, and who has slowly become pure sunshine for the team—it feels monumental. Even if he begged for the seat, and part of it might be a ploy to ensure the seat continues to be his for a while.

The band plays their final song, a slower, more melodic piece that acts as a comedown from the frenetic energy of the rest of the set. As the last notes fade, William’s arm loosens around me. He steps back, creating space between us again.

“Sorry,” he says, running a hand through his sweat-dampened curls. “Didn’t mean to be so… forward. That guy was just being a creep, and I thought—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt. “I appreciated it.”

The house lights partially come up, revealing the sweaty, satisfied crowd beginning to disperse. The energy that had been building during the show now hums around us like an electrical field.

“God, that was good,” William says, eyes bright with adrenaline. “Did you really enjoy it? Your first underground metal show?”

I nod, surprised by how genuinely I mean it. “Haven’t been to a live show in years. Any kind of show. This was… invigorating. ”

“Come with me to the next ones,” he says suddenly, words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ll buy the tickets. My treat. Just… keep me company, Violet.”

The use of my first name, so casual and familiar, catches me off guard. In the paddock, it’s always “Ms. Colton” or “boss” from him, even after I’ve told him to call me Violet.

“I don’t want to impose,” I say, though part of me is already saying yes. “And work keeps me busy, but… I did have fun tonight.”

“You’re not imposing if I’m inviting you,” he counters. “Besides, your fun quota seems dangerously low. Someone’s got to fix that.”

I laugh despite myself. “My ‘fun quota?’”

“Yeah, it’s a scientific measurement. Very precise. You’re running at about nine percent right now, which is criminally negligent.”

“And what percentage are you at?”

He grins, and something in my chest tightens. “Seventy-eight and climbing. Could hit ninety if I get a beer soon. Wanna help me find out?”

Ten minutes later, we’re seated in a dark corner of a pub down the street. It’s the kind of place that looks like it’s been there forever, with deeply scarred wooden tables, and faded band posters on the walls. Two pints sit before us, foam sliding down the sides .

“So, verdict on your first underground metal show?” William asks after a deep pull that leaves a foam mustache on his upper lip.

I smile at the sight. “More enjoyable than expected. Though, next time, I might need those good earplugs you mentioned.”

“Next time,” he repeats, looking pleased. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Three drinks later, the pub has emptied considerably, and our conversation has shifted from the concert to more personal territory. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol, or the late hour, or the lingering high from the show, but I’m admitting things I rarely voice aloud.

“It’s just… lonely sometimes,” I say, tracing patterns in the condensation on my glass. “Being the one everyone looks to for answers.”

William studies me across the table, expression serious now. “Is it the Formula 1 thing? Or being the only woman running a team?”

“Partly,” I admit. “But it’s more than that.”

He nods, waiting. When I don’t continue immediately, he says softly, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m just… curious about you.”

The gentleness in his voice opens something in me.

“After my parents died, I just… poured everything into work. It became my whole life, my personality. And then, suddenly, I looked up and realized I’d forgotten to build anything else.

I’m not old, but still… At thirty-two, what do I have?

Money. A Formula 1 team barely holding together.

Not much else.” I take another sip of beer.

“My best friend Anna lives in Japan—we met during middle school and instantly connected, like we’d known each other forever.

She’s basically my sister. But with the time difference, we’re lucky if we get to video chat once a month. ”

I smile, thinking about Anna’s face filling my screen, her apartment always chaotic in the background, her laugh that never fails to make me feel better no matter what’s happening.

“And Blake is great, but he’s older, has a family. It’s not like we can go clubbing on weekends.”

William furrows his brow. “So… no one else? No boyfriend, or…?”

I laugh, a short, sharp sound. “When would I have time to date? Between saving the team and fighting the board for every euro? I'm lucky if I have time to sleep.”

He hesitates, then asks, “Have you thought about something more casual? No strings attached, no pressure, just… human connection?” His gaze is on mine, trying to read me.

Heat rises to my cheeks. “I’ve considered it.

But casual hookups come with their own complications in my position.

One wrong move, and it’s all over the tabloids.

Or worse, someone in the paddock gets hold of that information and threatens me, or everything I’m building at Colton Racing.

” I shrug. “Besides, most men either want to conquer the ‘ice queen CEO,’ or they’re intimidated by my job. Neither makes for good company. ”

We both sip our beers in silence for a moment. Then, William smiles, a little shy around the edges. “This might sound silly, but… would you like a hug?”

I look at him, then drop my gaze to my nearly empty glass. The question is so unexpected, so earnest, I’m at a loss for how to respond. I take another gulp of beer instead.

William places his hand on the table beside mine, close, but not touching. “Violet,” he whispers.

I lift my head. Our eyes lock. His are gentle, patient, without a trace of judgment. “Do you need a hug?” he asks again.

I nod once, a small movement that barely registers.

He edges his hand closer to mine, then makes contact, rubbing soft, tentative circles on the back of my hand with his thumb. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends warmth spreading up my arm.

After a moment, he withdraws his hand and smiles. “Well, when do you wanna cash in the hug?”

I laugh, the tension breaking. “Is there an expiration date?”