Page 128 of Racing for Redemption
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 myforehead 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 theoffice, 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.”
