Page 62 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

False modesty is underrated

Violet

I wrap up the last of my emails, shut down my computer, and gather my things.

It’s only when I step outside the building that I fully process what I’ve agreed to—a weekend away, just us, no work.

William leans against his car, and his face lights up when he spots me, making my chest all warm and fuzzy.

“Ready?” he asks, opening the passenger door with a theatrical flourish.

I swear he gets more… adorable, with each passing day.

Dorky, too. But hell if it doesn’t warm my chest, spreading throughout my body, making dark, cold days become colorful in an instant.

When I notice, I’m softly smiling at him.

“As I’ll ever be.” I slide into the leather seat, my work bag clutched like a shield against my chest. “How far is this mysterious countryside retreat of yours?”

He grins as he settles behind the wheel. “About an hour and a half. Not too far. ”

“And why exactly does an F1 driver live in the middle of nowhere? Wouldn’t a London penthouse be more your style?” I’m genuinely curious. Most drivers his age embrace the glamour, the nightlife, the constant spotlight.

William maneuvers the car out of the parking lot with the easy confidence he shows in everything requiring physical coordination.

“That’s exactly why. I get enough noise and chaos at work.

” His eyes remain on the road, but his expression softens.

“Out there, it’s just… quiet. No cameras, no fans, no other drivers.

Just space and green and sky. It helps quiet the voices in my head. ”

He talks about his home with unexpected passion—how he found it three years ago after his first season in F2, how he’s gradually made it his own. He mentions a small go-kart track he built on the back of the property, his voice taking on a boyish enthusiasm that makes him seem younger.

“You race all week and still want to drive for fun?” I ask, incredulous.

His laugh fills the car. “It’s different. Pure. Just me and the track, no points, no pressure. You should try it.”

The image of me careening around a go-kart track in my work clothes makes me snort. “I’ll leave the driving to you, thanks.”

As we leave the city behind, the landscape changes—buildings giving way to fields, roads narrowing, trees clustering more densely. William relaxes visibly with each kilometer, the tension I hadn’t even noticed in his shoulders gradually melting away.

We turn onto a narrow lane bordered by ancient oaks, their branches forming a canopy overhead. At the end sits William’s home—not the sleek, modern mansion I half-expected, but a rambling stone farmhouse, with ivy climbing one wall, and windows that glow amber in the late afternoon light.

“Here we are.” He pulls up to the front door. “Home sweet home.”

I step out, inhaling air that smells of grass and wildflowers. It’s quieter than any place I’ve been in years. The only sounds are birdsong, and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, and mean it.

He looks pleased as he grabs a bag from the trunk. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”

The interior is a study in contrasts—original beams and stonework alongside modern furnishings.

William moves through the space with casual grace, pointing out rooms as we pass: a state-of-the-art kitchen that opens to a dining area, a cozy living room with an enormous fireplace, a home gym tucked into what was probably once a study.

“Put your stuff anywhere,” he says, gesturing vaguely upstairs. “Make yourself at home.”

I set my bag in what appears to be the guest room, taking a moment to check my phone. Three emails from Blake, and a text from Johnson about next week’s testing parameters. I switch the phone to silent and leave it in my bag. Work can wait. That’s the deal I made. I’ll try to honor it.

When I return downstairs, William is waiting with a slightly manic energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“So,” he says, “I mentioned I had some gifts for you. ”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” He disappears into another room and returns with a wrapped package. “First one.”

I unwrap it cautiously to find a ridiculously soft, plush blanket in Colton Racing black and red. His racing number—64—is embroidered in the corner.

I burst out laughing. “You’re giving me your own merchandise?”

“It’s high-quality merch!” he protests, looking wounded. “And useful. For when you’re cold. Don’t underestimate the weather here, city girl. It gets really cold during the nights in the countryside!”

“Oh my god.” I’m still laughing, the absurdity of it catching me off guard. “William Foster, are you secretly trying to turn me into a fan, and using weather as an excuse?”

“Is it... working?” Humor seems to dance in his eyes as the corners of his mouth rise, dimples popping out softly against his bearded face.

“Absolutely not.” But I run my hand over the blanket appreciatively. It is incredibly soft.

He hands me a second package. “This one’s more practical.”

Inside is a small leather kit containing what looks like specialized cleaning supplies and brushes.

“For your power suits,” he explains. “The dry cleaner told me it’s what they use for delicate fabrics and tough stains.

I asked them for the best to take care of expensive suits.

They suggested that. Though, if you need something more extensive, I’d be happy to help you out of those suits entirely. ”

I narrow my gaze at him. “Are you implying my suits need cleaning? Or is this just an elaborate attempt to get me naked?”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Can’t it be both?”

Before I can retort, he steps closer, eliminating the space between us. “Gift number three,” he murmurs, and then his lips are on mine.

The kiss is gentle, almost reverent. He cradles my face like I’m something precious, something that might break if too much pressure is applied.

It’s so different from our usual urgent, hungry kisses, that I melt into it, my body responding to his tenderness with a warmth that starts in my chest and radiates outward, making my skin all tingly.

When he pulls back, his eyes are soft. “I missed you.”

Three words, so simple, yet they carry a weight that should terrify me. Instead, that dangerous flutter appears again.

“There’s one more gift,” he says, taking my hand. “Though, it might be the sexiest thing yet.”

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “Excuse me, but I didn’t come here just to have sex all weekend.”

His grin turns mischievous. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Violet. I cooked for you.”

“You… cooked?” I follow him into the kitchen, genuinely su rprised.

“Well, baked, technically. That dessert you mentioned loving when we were in Barcelona.” He looks suddenly shy, a boyish uncertainty crossing his features. “Sex in a Pan.”

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. “You remembered that?”

He shrugs, but the pleasure in his eyes at having caught me off guard is clear. “I pay attention. Plus, the name is absolutely ridiculous. I thought that was an innuendo when you first said it. I had to check it online. To my surprise… it is a dessert. Odd name, though.”

He gestures for me to sit at the breakfast bar while he moves to the refrigerator. “I’m not much of a patissier , so don’t get your hopes up too high. I’m much better at actual cooking.”

He carefully plates the dessert, adding an excessive amount of whipped cream to the top. There’s something endearing about the concentration on his face, the way his tongue peeks out slightly as he focuses on making it look perfect.

“There you go.” He sets the plate before me with a flourish. “Sex in a Pan, with extra cream, because you deserve all the sweet things in life.”

The sincerity in his voice makes me flush slightly. I pick up my fork and take a bite, the layers of chocolate, cream cheese, and vanilla combining perfectly. It’s better than I remember, or maybe it’s just the context—eating it here, in his kitchen, with him watching me expectantly.

“Well?” he asks, his own dessert untouched as he waits for my verdict.

“It’s amazing,” I admit. “Though, there is a lot of cream.”

“It is intentional. I know you love sweets. Consider the extra bit of cream another gift from me.” His smile is triumphant as he adds, “Also, I told you I could make desserts.”

“You did no such thing. You specifically said not to get my hopes up.”

“I was being modest.” He finally takes a bite of his own. “False modesty is an underrated tactic.”

We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, and I study him—the way his soft curls fall over his forehead now that they’re a bit longer, the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, the careful way he holds his fork, how his beard has gotten longer.

This isn’t the William Foster the world sees, the hot-blooded driver with lightning reflexes.

This is… softer. More candid. A view just for me.

When we finish, he takes both plates to the sink and begins washing them by hand, despite the dishwasher humming quietly in the corner.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, but he just shrugs.

“I like to. It’s mindless. Relaxing.”

As he works, the play of muscles in his back are visible even through his T-shirt. His movements are efficient, practiced. Domestic. Something twists in my chest at the sight—a longing for something I’ve never let myself want.

This. This quiet domesticity. The calm. The care.

It hits me suddenly, forcefully, that I could have this.

That it’s being offered to me, not in words, but in actions.

In desserts made from half-remembered conversations.

In blankets that are really just excuses to keep me warm.

In invitations to his house that are just an excuse for us to share a bit of what could have been if we were together.

When he finishes, he dries his hands on a kitchen towel and turns to me with a smile. “Come on. Let’s be lazy for a bit, we deserve it.”

He leads me to the sofa, pulling me down beside him and wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I let myself be tucked against his side, my head finding that perfect spot on his chest where his heart beats softly in my ear.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, his lips against my hair. “Just us. No distractions. Isolated. Safe. It almost seems too good to be true.”

I hum as I feel his warm breath tingling my skin.

“I swear if someone ever breaks a moment like this, I’ll be so pissed off.

I don’t want anyone ringing at the door.

Or bothering me with mail. Or deliveries of any kind.

I’m not moving away now. And I don’t feel like moving away from you anytime soon.

” The way he speaks is a bit possessive, yet oddly endearing.

I’m finding a new side to him, and I wonder how many more sides to him I will find.

I reach up to stroke his hair, threading my fingers through the wavy strands at the top of his head before moving to the now fluffy, carefully groomed beard that frames his jaw. His focus shifts to me instead of grumbling about people ringing the bell .

“I like you better with a beard,” I say, scratching lightly at his chin. “Not clean-shaven like in Imola.”

He makes a noise of contentment, like a purr. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

I shrug, not wanting to admit that the beard makes him look more mature, that it makes my heart race like crazy, that it turns me on. “It suits you.”

“I like it better, too,” he admits, his eyes closing as I continue my gentle exploration of his face. “Besides, you look at me more when I have it.”

“I do not!”

He cracks one eye open, grinning. “You absolutely do. You think I haven’t noticed?”

I pinch his side lightly, making him squirm. “You’re delusional.”

“And you’re in denial.” He captures my hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “But I’ll take what I can get.”

We stay like that for a long while, talking about nothing and everything, as he draws idle patterns on my arm with his fingers, mine occasionally returning to the comfort of his beard.

It’s easy in a way that scares me—how quickly we’ve fallen into this intimacy that is nothing like the casual arrangement we agreed to.

The weekend unfolds in a series of moments that are both ordinary and extraordinary.

We cook together, his competence and skill in the kitchen surprising me again.

We play video games, his competitive nature making him curse colorfully when I unexpectedly beat him at a karting game.

I even find time to read a romance novel I’ve been carrying in my bag for months, and can finally tackle the rest of my 'to be read' list, while William cuddles beside me, engrossed in a book filled with Sudoku puzzles.

On Saturday night, we end up in his bedroom—a space that, like him, balances minimalism with surprising touches of warmth.

The sex is different this time. Slower. More deliberate.

He maps my body with reverence, his eyes never leaving mine.

It’s less like the casual release we’d agreed to, and more like… making love.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, as I lie in his arms afterward, watching moonlight create patterns on the ceiling, I imagine what it would be like to have this all the time. This comfortable silence. This devotion and complicity. This sense of being exactly where I’m meant to be.

Meant to be .

It’s an impossible fantasy, of course. My life is meetings, and strategies, and fighting for the team’s survival.

His is training, and races, and the constant push for better results.

We exist in the same world, but occupy different orbits.

We travel to the same places, but we’re on different paths and journeys.

Yet, as his breathing deepens, and he drifts into sleep beside me, his arm heavy and secure across my waist, I can’t help but think: in some alternate universe, this is our life. This quiet, this care, this connection that feels so natural, it’s like we’ve been doing it for years.

In that universe, we’re just William and Violet. Not driver and Team Principal. Not a complication, a forbidden relationship, or a scandal waiting to happen.

Just us.

And it’s perfect.