Page 65 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Just us

William

T he now dried champagne is sticky on my skin by the time I escape the media obligations.

My body aches pleasantly, muscles humming with the aftermath of ninety minutes of intense concentration and physical strain.

But my mind is singular, focused on one destination.

I weave through the paddock, clutching my trophy, nodding at congratulations without stopping.

The Colton Racing motorhome stands ahead, its lights glowing against the darkening Silverstone sky.

Somewhere inside is Violet, and I need her like I need air.

I pass Blake in the main area of the motorhome, his face still split with a grin I doubt will fade for days.

“Hell of a drive,” he says, clapping my shoulder. “She’s upstairs.”

I don’t bother pretending I was looking for anyone else. The stairs take me to the second floor, to the private office Violet uses during race weekends. I don’t knock. Don’t hesitate. Just push the door open and step inside.

She’s standing by the window, still in her rain-damp suit, phone pressed to her ear.

At the sound of the door, she turns, her professional mask sliding into place, until she realizes it’s me.

The transformation takes my breath away—her eyes soften, her posture relaxes, her lips curve into a smile that’s just for me.

“I’ll call you back tomorrow,” she says into the phone, disconnecting without waiting for a response.

I cross the room in three strides and wrap my arms around her. She returns the embrace with surprising force, her face pressed against my neck. When she pulls back, I’m shocked to see tears in her eyes.

“Are you crying?” I ask, reaching up to brush her cheek with my thumb.

“No,” she lies, blinking rapidly. “Maybe. It’s just—William, do you realize what you did today?”

“Got a podium?”

She shakes her head, gripping my arms. “You secured our Constructors' position. The simulations are clear—even if we don’t score another point this season, we’ll finish no lower than P8. The board needed P8 or better to keep me on.” Her voice cracks slightly. “You saved my job.”

The realization hits me, and I grin like a fool. The podium was significant for the team, but I hadn’t calculated the mathematical implications for the Constructors’ standings. For Violet’s position .

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I say, attempting lightness despite the weight of the moment.

She laughs, the sound catching on a sob.

Then, she grabs my face between her hands and kisses me with an intensity that steals my breath.

It’s not our first kiss—not even our hundredth after Melbourne and Monaco, and that weekend at my place—but it carries a new desperation, a gratitude mixed with desire that makes my head spin.

I back her against the desk, finding her waist, then lower. She breaks the kiss, breathing hard against my lips.

“I need to breathe,” she whispers.

“Breathing’s overrated,” I murmur, trailing kisses down her neck.

“You need air to drive the next races,” she counters, but she’s already working at the zipper of my still-damp race suit.

“I’ll manage.” I capture her mouth again, pulling her body flush against mine. “Can feel my suit getting tighter already.”

She laughs against my lips. “That’s not the suit.”

She slips a hand inside my fireproofs, and coherent thought becomes impossible.

We’re not gentle. Not patient. This is release after weeks of not being together, of tension, of watching each other from across garages and paddocks, with professional smiles masking deeper hunger.

Being with her is so intense, and not because we’re two people crazy about each other—I like to think we are—but due to our circumstances.

We’re together for short periods of time, then we’re consistently away from each other for equal periods of time.

The emotional whiplash makes us crave each other more than the average… couple. Wait … Are we even a couple?

I roughly pull her trousers down her thighs. She digs her fingers into my shoulders. The desk creaks precariously beneath us.

“Anyone could walk in,” she gasps, even as she helps me shed the top half of my race suit.

“Let them.” I don’t mean it, but I can barely think beyond the feel of her skin under my palms.

We move together with practiced urgency, the kind that comes from knowing exactly what the other needs.

It’s fast, almost desperate, both of us still riding the emotional high of the race, and its implications.

When she comes, she muffles her cry against my shoulder, teeth grazing my skin.

I follow moments later, her name a prayer on my lips.

For several heartbeats, we stay locked together, my forehead pressed against hers, our breathing gradually slowing. Outside, the rain continues falling, drumming against the motorhome roof. Thank god for that as the pouring rain muffles some of the noise in this office, at least to outsiders.

“Come home with me,” I say quietly. “Celebrate properly. No interruptions, no team members, no media. Just us, Violet.”

She hesitates for only a moment before nodding. “Give me some time to wrap things up here.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re in my car, navigating the wet roads away from Silverstone.

Violet makes a few essential calls—confirming tomorrow’s schedule, delegating final responsibilities to Blake.

I drive in comfortable silence, occasionally glancing at her profile illuminated by passing headlights.

She wears the aftermath of joy on her face like a subtle perfume—noticeable only to someone paying close attention.

By the time we reach my place, the rain has intensified into a proper deluge.

We make a mad dash from the car to the front door, but it’s futile.

We’re both soaked again by the time I fumble the key into the lock.

And fumble I did. God fucking dammit, I need to install a light above the door. I can’t see anything.

Inside, I dim the lights and turn to her, water dripping from both of us onto the hardwood floor. She looks beautiful even like this—rain-dampened and slightly disheveled, her makeup smudged around her eyes.

“Here,” I say, grabbing a clean towel from the linen closet. “You should shower first. Warm up before you catch a cold.”

She takes the towel gratefully. “Is that your professional medical opinion, Mr. Foster?”

“Absolutely. I’m practically a doctor, you know. Expert in colds, and all that.”

Her laughter follows her into the bathroom. The shower starts as I move through the house, turning on the heating to combat the damp chill. In my bedroom, I pull out a pair of sweatpants, and an oversized sweatshirt—clothes that will swallow her narrower yet curvy frame, but should be comfortable.

I leave them outside the bathroom door with a soft knock. “Clothes. Unless you prefer walking around naked, which I fully support. ”

“Very funny,” comes her muffled reply, but the smile in her voice is clear.

While she changes into the clothes, I check the refrigerator.

Empty, except for some questionable milk, and half a jar of pickles.

Not exactly celebration fare. I grab my phone and order sushi from the place in town that stays open late—salmon rolls, tuna nigiri, and the spicy dragon roll I found out both of us love.

I sink onto the sofa, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. The adrenaline that carried me through the race and its aftermath is fading, leaving behind bone-deep fatigue. I close my eyes, just for a moment, listening to rain against the windows.

A gentle touch on my arm startles me awake.

Violet stands beside the sofa, wearing my clothes, her damp hair curling around her face.

The sweatshirt fits her body well, though it's a bit baggy, the sleeves rolled up several times to free her hands. She looks younger, softer, stripped of her Team Principal armor. And I can’t get enough of this disarmed look of hers.

“Sorry,” I mumble, blinking sleep from my eyes. “Nodded off.”

“You’re exhausted,” she says. “Ninety minutes of concentration in those conditions will do that.”

The doorbell rings, saving me from admitting how right she is. “Food,” I explain, pushing myself up from the couch. “Give me five minutes to shower, then we eat.”

I take the fastest shower in history, scrubbing away the rest of the dried champagne and sweat that I didn’t remove with the quick shower at our motorhome, letting the hot water ease my tired muscles.

When I emerge in clean sweats, toweling my hair, Violet is examining the takeout containers on the coffee table.

“Don’t open them yet,” I warn, padding barefoot across the living room. “I want to see your face when you realize what it is.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You ordered food at”—she checks her watch, my watch, actually, that she still wears hidden under her suit cuffs—“almost midnight on a Sunday in rural England. I’m guessing it’s either pizza, or curry.”

“Your lack of faith wounds me.” I drop onto the sofa beside her and flip open the first container, revealing perfectly arranged sushi. “Ta-da!”

Her face lights up, and something in my chest tightens at the sight. “You remembered.”

“Of course, I remembered. You demolished an entire platter at lunch in Monaco after—” I pause, the memory of that night sending heat through me. “After our second round of extracurricular activities.”

She laughs, reaching for a pair of chopsticks. “I worked up an appetite.”

“You were insatiable.” And she smirks back at me. Fuck, I was exhausted when I got on the plane that afternoon. My legs were like a baby buck trying to walk for the first time. The food was good, as well.

We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the rain outside, and the occasional appreciative murmur from Violet.

My gaze wanders to the trophy I placed on the side table when we arrived—the physical proof of today’s achievement catching light from the lamp.

It’ll have to be handed over to Colton Racing for their storage.

A pity, because this trophy would look especially beautiful in my living room.

Violet follows my look, then her gaze moves to the shelf behind it, where other trophies stand in neat rows.

She sets down her chopsticks and rises, moving to examine them more closely.

Funny how, last time, she didn’t pay much attention to this side of the living room.

But now, it’s almost like it’s a beacon calling for her.

“Regional Kart Champion, European Kart Champion, FRECA, F4, F3...” She reads the inscriptions, fingers trailing over the metal and crystal. “Impressive collection.”

“Started early. Never stopped.”

She pauses at an empty space on the shelf, next to my three F2 runner-up trophies. “What goes here?”

I join her at the shelf, standing close enough to feel her warmth. “That’s for my F1 Driver’s Championship trophy.”

She turns to me, surprise evident in her eyes. “You’re that confident?”

“I am.” I hold her gaze steadily. “And I’m going to win it with you. With Colton Racing.”

The declaration hangs between us, bold and perhaps foolish, given our team’s current position. But after today, after that podium, it doesn’t feel impossible. It feels like destiny. History in the making .

Violet doesn’t laugh or dismiss the statement. Instead, she studies my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away—and simultaneously never break her gaze.

“I believe you,” she says simply. “But we’re still far away from being competitive. We may take some years to get there.”

We return to the sofa with a fresh intensity between us. I grab a blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over both of us as she curls against my side, fitting perfectly.

“This was a good day,” she murmurs, head resting on my shoulder.

“The best,” I agree, tightening my hold around her.

We sit in comfortable silence, the rain creating a cocoon around us, the world beyond my windows ceasing to exist. In this moment, there is no team politics, no media scrutiny, no rival drivers. Just us. And it’s perfect.