Page 124 of Racing for Redemption
She blinks up at me, her gaze soft and unfocused in a way that makes my heart skip. For a moment, I almost say it—three words that would change everything. But I lean in to kiss her instead.
“I ordered breakfast,” I say, my voice slightly rough as I pull back. “Are you hungry?”
She sits up, pushing her hair out of her face as she leans against the headboard. “Starving, actually.”
I grab the tray and set it across our laps. The spread is simple, but appealing—scrambled eggs, toast, fresh fruit, a couple of pastries—because she has a sweet tooth—and strong coffee. I’ve ordered foods that would replenish her energy after our night together.
“This looks amazing,” she says, reaching for a coffee cup. “Thank you.”
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, our shoulders touching. It’s domestic in a way that’s both strange, and completely ordinary.
“I always wanted to try this,” I say eventually, gesturing at the tray. “Breakfast in bed. Turns out it’s not as exciting as movies make it seem.”
She laughs, scooping up a forkful of eggs. “No? Not livingup to the fantasy?”
“The food’s good. The company is the highlight.” I bump her shoulder with mine. “But there are crumbs everywhere, and I’m pretty sure I just sat on a grape.”
She snorts coffee, quickly grabbing a napkin. “William!”
I grin, unrepentant. “Just being honest.”
We continue eating, trading bites from each other’s plates, our conversation flowing easily. When we finish, I set the tray aside and turn to face her.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, tracing a pattern on my arm with her fingertip, “the fantasy might not have impressed, but you have to admit the company was worth it, right?”
I catch her hand in mine, bringing it to my lips. “Worth more than the most expensive thing on earth.” I kiss her palm, looking into her eyes. “It’s… priceless.”
Her smile—slow, genuine, a little shy—hits me right in the chest. She leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to my lips that tastes of coffee, and never-ending happiness.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she whispers against my mouth.
I hold her close, savoring the moment, committing it to memory. Because these quiet mornings are rare treasures, and I intend to cherish every one she gives me when she can.
Chapter 36
Change the trajectory
Violet
Iwatch EJ through binoculars, tracking his F3 car as it slices through sector 2 of Barcelona’s circuit. His lines are precise—almost eerily so for a seventeen-year-old. The way he attacks the chicane, then feathers the throttle through the exit curve, tells me everything I need to know. This kid isn’t just fast. He’s smart. And in this sport, smart always beats reckless. I lower the binoculars, a plan crystallizing in my mind as the Spanish sun beats down on my shoulders.
Monaco ended up being another disaster. William in P13, Nicholas barely scraping P19. Not the comeback I’d promised the board. Barcelona needs to be different. And part of that difference might just be the sandy-blond teenager currently piloting his car around Turn 10, with the instincts of someone twice his age.
My watch shows two hours until our own practice session begins. William’s been holed up with the engineers since dawn,poring over telemetry data like it might reveal the secrets of the universe. His dedication would be admirable if it didn’t come with a perpetual scowl whenever I enter the room. Progress, but slow. Like everything with Colton Racing these days.
Fifteen minutes later, the F3 session ends. I text Blake that I’ll handle this meeting alone. His reply is immediate:Good luck. Don’t scare him.I smile despite myself. Blake knows me too well.
The hospitality area is quiet now—most of the team is scattered between garage and paddock. Perfect. I arrange two bottles of water, and a plate of food on the table—nothing fancy, just race day fuel—protein, complex carbs, the works. The kind of spread that says “we care about our drivers” without having to actually say it.
When Ethan Jordan walks in, he darts his blue eyes around the motorhome like he’s cataloging escape routes. His racing suit is unzipped to his waist, the sleeves tied around his hips. The Pritchett Racing logo emblazoned across his chest looks temporary, like a placeholder.
“Ms. Colton,” he says, extending his hand. His grip is firm, but not aggressive, carrying the strength of a future Formula 1 driver. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Violet, please.” I gesture to the table. “And thank you for coming. Impressive session out there.”
His cheeks flush slightly. “Could’ve been better. I missed the apex in Turn 7 twice.”
I smile. Self-critical. Another checkmark in his favor.
