Page 61 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Off the grid

William

I push the front door shut behind me with my foot, drop my duffel bag on the floor, and stand still.

Silence. Beautiful, complete silence. No engines screaming, no press shouting questions, no team radio crackling in my ear.

Just the distant chirp of birds, and the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

I breathe in the familiar scent of my countryside house—wood polish, the faint tang of the lemon cleaning products my housekeeper uses, and something indefinably mine. Home.

I shuffle to my living room, a sprawling space with exposed wooden beams, and windows that frame the rolling hills beyond. The sofa—oversized, overstuffed, ridiculously comfortable—calls to me. I answer by collapsing onto it face-first, letting my body sink into its familiar embrace.

Four weeks. Four glorious weeks of summer break stretch before me like an empty road. Not entirely empty, of course—there’s sim work, training, meetings at Colton HQ—but no races. No hotels. No airports.

And Violet is coming here. This weekend.

The thought cuts through my exhaustion like a shot of espresso. Violet, here, in my space. Not in some hotel room with the knowledge that we’ll both be gone by morning. Here, where we can just be .

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, a grin spreading across my face that would make me look deranged if anyone saw it. Three whole days with her. Friday to Sunday.

My phone pings with a notification, dragging me back to the present. The team group chat is buzzing with post-race analysis. Johnson is already talking modifications for Hungary. Tom wants to review telemetry data from my car before the engine failure.

I ignore it all and open a new browser tab. “Sex in a Pan dessert recipe,” I type, then immediately feel ridiculous. It sounds like something you’d find in a sketchy corner of the internet, not something you’d serve a woman you’re trying to impress.

But it’s what she mentioned in passing during that late-night conversation in Barcelona. Her favorite dessert.

The recipe looks straightforward enough: vanilla custard, cream cheese, chocolate pudding, whipped cream, all layered on a pecan crust. I scan the ingredients, mentally cataloging what I’ll need to buy. I’ve never been much of a baker, but I can follow directions. How hard can it be ?

I save the recipe and flip back to the team chat. Tom’s tagged me three times. With a sigh, I tap out a quick response about the engine temperature readings before the failure, promising more details tomorrow.

The words blur as exhaustion catches up with me. My eyelids grow heavy, the phone slipping from my fingers onto the cushion beside me. Just a quick nap, then I’ll unpack…

I wake to darkness, and the disorienting awareness that I’ve slept longer than intended. My neck aches from the awkward position on the sofa. Outside, stars pepper the country sky. According to my phone, it’s just past midnight.

I drag myself upstairs, undress in the dark, and fall into bed.

Morning brings clarity, and a renewed sense of purpose. I spend an hour in my home gym, running through the strength training routine my physio prescribed. After a shower and breakfast, I head to Colton Racing’s headquarters. Then, to my therapist.

The week passes in a blur of activity. Mornings in the simulator, afternoons in meetings with Johnson about car development, evenings with Tom reviewing race strategy for Hungary. The car is improving—incrementally, frustratingly slowly, but improving nonetheless.

By Friday, I’ve accumulated a comprehensive mental list of Violet-related preparations. I’ve cleaned my already-clean house. I’ve shopped for ingredients for multiple meals, including that ridiculous dessert. I’ve even changed my bedsheets twice, unsatisfied with my first color choice.

It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. And I can’t stop smiling about it.

At headquarters, I spot Violet through the slightly open door in her office.

Her head is bent over a stack of papers, a furrow of concentration between her brows.

She’s wearing one of her power suits—charcoal-gray today, with a violet-colored blouse that can’t be a coincidence.

Her hair falls in a black curtain around her face as she makes notes in the margin of whatever she’s reading.

I detour to the break room and pour a cup of coffee—black, no sugar, just how she likes it. The machine gurgles and steams, producing a dark liquid that smells strong enough to wake the dead. Why she likes her coffee bitter, and her pastries super sweet, beats me.

Cup in hand, I approach her office door and knock softly.

She looks up, and for a split second before she schools her expression, a flash of genuine pleasure escapes at the sight of me. It hits me like a qualifying lap—fast, exhilarating, over too quickly.

“William,” she says, her voice neutral but her eyes warm. “Come in. ”

I enter, closing the door behind me with my foot. “Brought you fuel,” I say, setting the coffee on her desk. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

She reaches for the cup, her fingers brushing mine in the exchange. A small touch, meaningless really, but the warmth of her fingertips does things to me.

“Thank you.” She takes a long sip, closing her eyes briefly in what looks like pleasure. “God, I needed this.”

“Busy week?” I settle into the chair across from her desk, trying to look casual, and not like I’m cataloging every detail of her face after days without seeing her.

This woman gets more gorgeous the more time passes.

This is one of those situations in which I feel that if I miss seeing her one day, in the next one, she’s slightly different.

And then, I notice all the new, small details.

The eye bags from traveling all the time and barely resting.

The thinner cheeks, because she hasn’t been eating enough.

Every time I see her, I want to stare at her—not in a creepy way, I’m not that type of guy—and appreciate her beauty, strength, and resilience.

And at the same time, I want to cuddle, feed, and protect her.

From others. From her reckless, selfless self.

“You could say that.” She sets the cup down, leaving a faint smudge of dark, rosy lipstick on the rim. “We’re deep in talks with a new sponsor.”

“Anyone I know?”

A small, enigmatic smile plays at her lips. “Actually, yes. Silas Belforte. The one who was in our garage at Imola. ”

“The Italian hotel guy?” I remember him—tall, imposing, with an aura of danger despite his friendly demeanor. “Blake was saying he’s a fan.”

“A fan with very deep pockets.” She taps her pen against the desk. “And an interest in motorsport investment.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” I lean forward, studying her expression. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just a lot of details to hammer out.” She hesitates, then adds, “I’m also in the market for a new driver.”

The statement catches me off guard. “What? Who’s out? Me or Nicholas?”

She laughs, a genuine sound that makes my chest tighten. “Neither of you—yet. But, I’m thinking ahead to next season. We need a stronger lineup if we’re going to capitalize on the car improvements.”

“So, I’m not enough for you?” I say it lightly, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of vulnerability I can’t quite mask.

Her expression softens. “You know that’s not what I meant. You’ve been exceptional, William. We just need Nicholas to step out.”

I nod, mollified. “Fair enough. So long as I’m not the one getting replaced.”

“Not a chance.” She says it with such quiet certainty that I believe her. "I wouldn't get rid of the driver carrying the whole team on his back."

I stand, moving around her desk with deliberate casualness. I lock the office door, then go to her side and lean down, until my forehead rests against the top of her head. Her hair smells like vanilla, and something uniquely her.

“Come home with me tonight,” I murmur, my lips brushing her hair. “Stay the weekend. Like we talked about in Monaco.”

She stiffens slightly, then relaxes. “William, I have so much work to do. These sponsor negotiations—”

“—can wait until Monday.” I cut her off gently, placing a kiss on the crown of her head. “Nothing’s so urgent it can’t wait two days. Blake’s handling the nitty-gritty anyway, isn’t he?”

She sighs, but it’s not entirely exasperated. “Yes, but—”

“No buts.” I move to perch on the edge of her desk, looking down at her. “You’re coming with me. Those dark bags under your eyes need to go. You need a break as much as I do.”

“Do I now?” She arches an elegant eyebrow.

“Absolutely.” I’m grinning like an idiot, unable to contain my excitement at the prospect of having her all to myself for seventy-two uninterrupted hours. “I’ve got plans.”

“Plans?” A hint of amusement curls the corners of her mouth. “Should I be worried?”

“Terrified,” I confirm seriously. “There will be food. And relaxation. Possibly even fun, though I know that’s a foreign concept to you.”

She swats at my arm, but she’s smiling now. “I know how to have fun.”

“Prove it.” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Come home with me. Let me show you my life outside all this.” I gesture to the office, the building, the racing world that constantly surrounds us.

She studies me for a long moment, and I wonder if she can see it all written on my face—how much I want her, not just physically, but all of her—how I’ve fallen for her harder than any crash I’ve ever walked away from.

“I’ll even throw in a massage,” I add, reaching to gently knead her shoulders. The tension is palpable. “You’re wound tighter than my car’s suspension.”

“Mmm.” She leans into my touch despite herself. “And what’s the price for these massage services?”

“Just your company.” I grin down at her. “Though, I’m open to negotiations on additional benefits.”

That earns me another swat, and a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer ‘persistent.’” I continue working at the knots in her shoulders. “Is it working?”

She sighs, a sound of surrender that makes triumph surge through me. “Fine. Wait for me downstairs. I’ll be done in twenty minutes.”

I resist the urge to punch the air in victory. Instead, I lean down and press a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Twenty minutes,” I agree, heading for the door. “Then, we’re out of here.”

As I close her office door behind me, I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. Three days with Violet. Just us. No distractions.

I practically bounce down the stairs to wait in the lobby.