Page 56 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Gnawing at me

William

I ’ve been to Monaco ten times in my racing career, but this is the first time my heart’s thumped this hard against my ribs.

Being in the same city, breathing the same salty Mediterranean air as Violet, but still not touching her—it’s a special kind of torture I never signed up for.

At least we will finally find some time to talk.

Imola was hell. Seeing her across the paddock, watching her walk with purpose, her brown curls bouncing with each confident step. Close enough to call out to, too far to touch. I kept my distance. She did, too. Our eyes met twice the entire weekend, and each time, it was like a blow to the chest.

The Monaco hotel lobby gleams with polished marble. Porters in crisp uniforms hustle around with expensive luggage. I drag my carry-on toward the check-in desk and spot Blake, his gray hair neat as always, scrolling through his phone .

“William!” Blake’s face lights up when he sees me. “How was your flight?”

“Uneventful.” I drop my bag at my feet. “Which is exactly what you want in air travel.” Traveling in economy class is a special kind of hell. I'm just happy I didn't have to tell someone to shut up, or stop kicking the back of my seat.

Blake chuckles, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Ready for this weekend? Monaco’s always special.”

“Special and terrifying. One wrong move, and you’re kissing the barrier.” I lean against the counter. “But yeah, I’m ready. Car felt good in the sim.”

“That crash in Bahrain still bothering you?” Blake narrows his gaze slightly, scanning my face. “Nicholas really did a number on you there.”

My shoulder twinges at the memory. 51 Gs.

The medical team said I was lucky. “I’m fine.

Nothing physio couldn’t fix.” I can't tell him about the tremors.

The anxiety—from a previous accident—I thought I'd dealt with…

crawling back. I'll do everything to rein it in.

Control it before it controls me. My therapist has been helping.

“Good man.” Blake claps my shoulder. “We need you at one hundred percent. P9 in the Constructors’ isn’t perfect, but certainly not a fluke, and we’d like to keep it that way.”

I nod, trying to look focused on racing when my mind keeps drifting elsewhere. Blake collects his room key and heads toward the elevator bank. As the doors slide open, my breath catches .

Violet stands inside, one hand clutching a long dress cover that obscures most of her body.

Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, dark circles visible under her eyes.

Even exhausted, she’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.

My fingers twitch, and I put my hands in the pockets of my trousers to not give away how my body reacts to her presence.

Our eyes lock for exactly three seconds before Blake steps in, greeting her with a comfortable side hug. The doors close, and she’s gone again.

The suit hangs in my hotel room closet—midnight blue, nearly black, with a slim cut. Black dress shirt. Black shoes polished to a mirror shine. Not my usual style—give me jeans and a band T-shirt any day—but even I know Monaco requires a certain aesthetic.

I shower, scrubbing away the travel grime, and wonder what she’ll wear tomorrow. The dress cover revealed nothing, but I picture her in something sleek and powerful. Everything Violet does carries that signature—elegant, yet formidable. Gorgeous and powerful.

When I sleep, I dream of her fingers on my wrist, placing my grandfather’s watch against my skin. I wake up tangled in hotel sheets, reaching for someone who isn’t there. Again.

Tuesday evening arrives with perfect Mediterranean weather. Nicholas and I stand at the designated meeting point, both uncomfortable in our formal wear. He keeps checking his reflection in his phone, adjusting his bow tie.

“Stop fidgeting,” I tell him. “You look fine.”

“Easy for you to say. You somehow pull off that brooding thing.” Nicholas gestures vaguely at me. “I look like a waiter who stole a tux. This is fucking awful. I’m not picking up anyone looking like this!” This guy has his priorities all wrong.

I scan the street, looking for the car that will bring Violet and Blake. My palms are sweaty. I wipe them on my pants and instantly regret it as the sweat leaves a trail on them.

“They’re late,” Nicholas says.

“By two minutes.”

“Still late.”

“You complain a lot for someone who never arrives on time for simulator sessions at the factory,” I retort as he snickers.

A black Bentley glides to the curb. Blake emerges first, straightening his jacket. He turns to open the other door, but it swings open before he reaches it.

Time stops .

Violet steps out, and my mouth goes dry. Her dress is black, hugging every curve before cascading to the ground. A slit reveals one leg when she moves. Her hair falls in glossy curls over her shoulders. Red lips. Red shoes that click against the pavement.

She is devastating. And all she did was dress in Colton Racing colors. I chuckle to myself. I'm gone.

Nicholas whistles low beside me. “Holy shit, the boss cleans up nice.”

Something hot and possessive flares in my chest. “Shut up,” I mutter.

“What? I’m just saying—”

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than intended.

Nicholas notices, eyebrows rising. Before he can comment, Violet reaches us, the subtle scent of her perfume making my head swim.

“Well, don’t you both look dashing,” she says coolly, her gaze sweeping over us.

Nicholas grins. “Not half as dashing as you look, Violet. That dress is—”

“—professional, and appropriate for the occasion,” she finishes for him, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Unlike your commentary, Davanti.”

She walks past him toward the red carpet, but not before her eyes meet mine for a flickering moment. I catch the subtle appraisal, the way her gaze travels down my suit before returning to my face. It’s brief, but it’s enough to make my heartbeat stutter. There's only so much damage I can take .

Blake falls into step beside her, and I realize he’s her plus one for the evening. Nicholas and I follow behind, bachelor racers without dates. The media line awaits, cameras flashing like strobe lights.

The questions are predictable: How does it feel to be P9 in the championship? What are your expectations for Monaco? How has William’s performance impacted the team? We answer on autopilot, maintaining the practiced professionalism that Formula 1 demands.

Until a journalist from Motorsport magazine asks about team dynamics.

“There seems to be great chemistry at Colton Racing this season. Who’s closest with whom on the team?”

Blake steps in with a diplomatic answer about teamwork and mutual respect, but then, Violet drops a casual comment about my tendency to blast death metal in the garage during setup days.

“It’s not death metal,” I correct her, falling into our familiar rhythm without thinking. “It’s progressive metal. Completely different subgenre. And don't come at me with that; you like Emporium of Souls, and they have progressive metal influences in their music!”

“Details, William. Details. Excuse me for not distinguishing between different subgenres with raging guitars leading the way,” she counters, eyes bright with challenge.

“Next, you’ll tell me Ember's Edge sounds the same.”

“Oh, that indie band you blast in your driver's room?

Don't they sound the same?” She tilts her head, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

She's trying to get a rise out of me. During our road trip to Birmingham, she knew all the genres and subgenres, and was now—purposely—touching upon all the topics we argued about.

“That’s musical blasphemy, boss. They are a metalcore band! Different vibe again.”

The journalist chuckles, and suddenly, we’ve slipped into the banter that defined our relationship before everything changed. It’s so natural, I’ve forgotten where we are, and who’s watching.

Blake clears his throat. “As you can see, we’re a close-knit team, and these two… fools , for lack of a better word,” he says as he chuckles, “are really into rock music, it seems. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we should head inside.”

Inside, the gala space glows with blue lighting, casting everyone in a slightly surreal shimmer.

Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, reflecting pinpricks of light across the walls.

The elite of Formula 1 mill about in formalwear worth more than most people’s cars.

There are no Vortex Racing or Satellite drivers in attendance, as they're boycotting the event, because I was not severely punished for punching Dominic Harrington. Honestly, thank god it happened. I hate parties, but this one’s more bearable because of their non-existent presence.

I grab two champagne flutes from a passing server, and scan the room for Violet. She stands near a window, seemingly absorbed in the view of the harbor outside after speaking with a couple of F1 executives. Blake has wandered off, deep in conversation with Klip Motorsports’ Team Principal .

My heart hammers against my ribs as I approach her. My hands are sweaty again. “Thought you might need this,” I say, offering her a glass.

She turns, those dark eyes capturing mine, and that’s all I need to be back in her grasp. “Thank you.”

Our fingers brush during the exchange. Static electricity, maybe, but it jolts through me like a live wire. “Enjoying the glamour?” I ask, nodding toward the room of beautiful people.

“About as much as you are.” A knowing smile plays at her lips. She’s always seen through me.

“That obvious?”

“You have your ‘I’d rather be at a dive bar’ face on.”

I laugh, surprised by how easily we fall back into this. “There’s a small venue near Rascasse that has local bands. Much more my speed than…” I gesture vaguely at the room.

“Perhaps next time,” she says, and the possibility in those three words makes my chest tight.

We stick to safe topics—the track, weather predictions for qualifying, Nicholas’ obvious flirting with a model across the room, and how awkward it looks from our side. But beneath the words runs a current of everything unsaid in these past months.

I want to tell her I’ve thought about her every day. That I’ve replayed our night in Melbourne until the memory’s worn thin. That I’ve stared at my phone like a lovesick teenager, willing her to text something more substantial than “Monaco.”

Instead, I sip champagne and maintain the careful distance between us .

Until she breaks it.

“I missed you.”

Three words, spoken softly, and my whole world tilts on its axis. I step closer, drawn by an invisible pull, champagne glass trembling in my hand. I drain it in one swallow and set it blindly on a passing tray.

“Don’t give me hope.” My voice drops to a near-whisper. “You don’t know…” I close the remaining distance, lowering my head to rest on her shoulder, propriety be damned. “...how much I’ve missed you.”

I breathe her in, fighting the urge to press my lips to her skin. We’re in public, surrounded by the entire Formula 1 community, but I can’t bring myself to step away.

My nose brushes against her bare shoulder, a ghost of contact that sends enough electricity through my veins to make me tight in my trousers. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stiffen. Just stands perfectly still, letting me hover in her orbit for these precious seconds.

Someone laughs loudly nearby, breaking the moment. I straighten as if hit by a thunderbolt, but my eyes don’t leave hers. They’re dark, unreadable, but there’s something in them—a reflection of the same hunger that’s been gnawing at me for months.

“William—” she begins, but the chime of a microphone cuts her off.

The presentations are starting. The moment slips away as we’re called to our seats, but the echo of those three words— I missed you —pulses through me like a second heartbeat.