Page 68 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

A fter months of relentless traveling around the world, I’m finally able to take a breather.

"Where do I put my shoes?" I turn my head, and—wearing a band T-shirt and tight black jeans—there he is, the man I've been letting into my life. Slowly. Carefully. Earnestly.

"You can leave those on that rack, William." My gaze follows his frame as he walks around my house, the first time I’ve brought him here. This place barely felt like home until recently. Maybe a pit stop between travels, but never home. Home is cozy, warm, and lived in.

During this winter break, I've decided to not travel abroad. To start focusing a bit on myself. Taking Anna's advice to the letter. Letting Blake's nagging be useful. And William has been inviting me to do stuff with him, seeing as we're both in town, and we're sort of loners for the most part.

William drops his backpack on the floor next to the couch, his eyes still wide with adrenaline from the show.

His hair is damp with sweat, that ridiculous band shirt clinging to his torso in ways that make it hard not to stare.

My ears are still ringing, body buzzing from the wall of sound that engulfed us for the past three hours.

"I still can't believe you actually came," he says, flopping down beside me. "The great Violet Colton, in an underground death metal show, in that tiny venue, screaming her lungs out to 'Bloodbath Euphoria.'"

I roll my eyes, trying not to smile. "A bet's a bet. And for the record, I wasn't screaming. I was... appreciating enthusiastically."

"You were headbanging!" He mimics the motion, his curls at the top flopping wildly. "During the second encore! I saw you!"

"Momentary insanity." I pull the blanket tighter around me. "Temporary possession by whatever demon was powering that lead guitarist."

William laughs, the sound rich and warm in my modern, usually too-quiet penthouse. He looks around, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase London's glittering skyline, the minimalist furniture, the distinct lack of personal touches.

"Your place is exactly what I expected, and nothing like I imagined at the same time," he says, running a hand along the leather sofa. "Very sleek. Very Violet. But also... "

"Sterile?" I suggest, knowing how it must look through his eyes. His countryside home is so lived-in, so personal. Mine is a showpiece I occasionally sleep in. Some pit stops are longer than the time I spend in this place.

"I was going to say 'incomplete.'" He meets my eyes. "Like it's waiting for something."

Unsure how to respond to that unexpected insight, I deflect. "Want something to drink? I have wine, or—"

"Whatever you're having." He sits up on the sofa, leaning toward me. "But mostly, I just want to be here. With you."

I unfold myself from the blanket and pad to the kitchen, feeling his gaze follow me. When I return with two glasses, he's examining the single framed photo on my side table—me with my dad and mom at my university graduation, all of us smiling stiffly at the camera.

"You look like him," William observes, taking the glass I offer. "Same determined eyes."

"So I've been told." I settle back onto the couch, closer to him this time. "He would have liked you, I think. Your driving style, at least. He appreciated aggression on track."

"High praise." William raises his glass in a small toast before taking a sip. He makes a small sound of appreciation that does things to my insides.

"My mom, too. She had a soft spot for tattooed guys. She was a painter, so I can imagine her asking the stories behind all your tattoos. "

"That would have been fun." He says, side-hugging me gently as he changes topics. "So, we survived a season together. Who would've thought?"

I laugh softly. "Certainly not me, especially after that first meeting."

William snorts at the memory. "I can't believe I actually begged you for a seat. Like, on my knees. Groveling."

"It wasn't your finest moment," I agree, taking another sip of wine. The warmth of it spreads through my chest, matching the warmth of having him here, in my space. "But it worked."

"Desperation is a powerful motivator." He traces idle patterns along my fingers. "After that crash in Abu Dhabi, watching Paul celebrate that championship while I was still seeing double from the impact... I thought my career was over."

I turn to face him properly, tucking my legs beneath me. "You never really told me the full story. What happened between you two before that race?"

William's expression darkens momentarily.

"We were teammates in karting, then rivals in every category after that.

He always had more money, better equipment, but I usually beat him anyway.

" He clenches his jaw. "Until F2. His teammate deliberately took me out in that final race, and suddenly, Paul was champion instead of me. "

The vinyl player stopped, the sound of the rain intensifying outside, drumming against the windows, taking over the soundscape .

"I never thanked you properly," he says quietly. "For taking that chance on me."

"You did. With every point. Every race. Even if the season was far from perfect." I squeeze his hand. "That podium at Silverstone."

He shakes his head. "No, that was me thanking myself. Proving I could do it." He laces his fingers with mine. "You gave me the opportunity when everyone else wrote me off as damaged goods. 'Too aggressive,' 'too emotional,' 'liability.'" He mimics the criticisms in a pompous voice.

"I saw potential," I say simply. "And I was right."

"You were." He shifts closer, the warmth of him seeping through my clothes. "I'm going to make you proud next season. The contract might say three years, but I'm thinking longer term. I want to build something at Colton."

"Like what?" I ask, genuinely curious about his vision.

"A legacy." His eyes shine with conviction. "I want to be the driver who brought Colton Racing back from the brink. I want to stand on that top step, holding a Driver's Championship trophy with you, and the team celebrating below. I want to make your dad’s— your —team great again."

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. This isn't just ambition speaking—it's something deeper, more personal.

We sit on the sofa, and I pull the blanket over both our laps, the intimacy of the gesture hitting me hard. We've shared beds, showers, the most private parts of ourselves, yet this simple, domestic moment feels more revealing somehow .

"I never thought I'd say this," I admit, tracing the rim of my glass, "but I'm glad you were desperate enough to beg for that seat. The team needed someone like you."

William's eyes soften. "Just the team?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with everything we've been dancing around for months.

This arrangement of ours—stolen nights, secret touches, the careful compartmentalization of Team Principal and driver versus whatever we become behind closed doors—has evolved into something I hadn't anticipated.

"No," I say quietly. "Not just the team."

He takes my glass, setting it alongside his on the coffee table. When he turns back, the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch.

"What are we doing, Violet?" he asks, his voice low. "These past months—this isn't just sex anymore. Hasn't been for a while."

I swallow hard. "I know."

"Do you?" He finds my hand under the blanket.

"Because sometimes, I wonder if I'm imagining things.

The way you look at me when you think no one's watching.

How you wear my watch hidden under your sleeve at races.

How you've started messaging me in the middle of the night just to talk after Monaco. "

Heat creeps up my neck. I hadn't realized I was so transparent.

"You're not imagining it," I admit. "But it's complicated. "

"It's always complicated." He doesn't sound frustrated, just resigned. "I'm your driver. You're my boss. The paddock would have a field day if they knew. I'm not stupid."

"It's more than that," I say, needing him to understand. "Colton Racing is everything to me. It's my dad’s legacy. My whole life," I continue. "I've sacrificed everything for it. And now that things are finally turning around..."

"You're afraid," he finishes softly. "Afraid that if you let yourself feel this, really feel it, something will break."

Scared to death, more like. I stare at him, startled by his perception. "Yes."

He shifts closer, his thigh pressing against mine. "Tell me what you're most afraid of. Just say it. Out loud. I'm not gonna judge you."

The rain hammers against the windows, creating a cocoon of sound around us. In this moment, it feels like we're the only two people in London, maybe the world.

"That I'll lose focus," I admit, the words feeling like they're being pulled from somewhere deep inside me. "That I'll make decisions with my heart instead of my head. That people will say I only kept you because we're..." I gesture vaguely between us.

"Sleeping together?" he offers.

"More than that," I say quietly. "That's the problem."

William's expression softens. "And what if it's both? What if I'm good for the team and good for you? What if those things aren't mutually exclusive? "

I don't have an answer for that, at least not one I'm ready to voice.

William reaches up to brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. The gesture is so tender, so achingly gentle, my breath hitches.

"I'm not asking for promises or public declarations. Hell, that's cheesy. I understand the position you're in." He cups my cheek, softly caressing it. "But I need you to know that I'm all in, Violet. Whatever this is between us, however complicated it gets, I'm here. For as long as you'll have me."

The raw honesty in his voice pulls at something deep inside me. This handsome, talented man who could have anyone, who has his whole career ahead of him, is sitting here telling me he wants me—all of me, not just the stolen moments between races.