Page 72 of Racing for Redemption
He hesitates, then asks, “Have you thought about something more casual? No strings attached, no pressure, just… human connection?” His gaze is on mine, trying to read me.
Heat rises to my cheeks. “I’ve considered it. But casual hookups come with their own complications in my position. One wrong move, and it’s all over the tabloids. Or worse, someone in the paddock gets hold of that information and threatens me, or everything I’m building at Colton Racing.” I shrug. “Besides, most men either want to conquer the ‘ice queen CEO,’ or they’re intimidated by my job. Neither makes for good company.”
We both sip our beers in silence for a moment. Then, William smiles, a little shy around the edges. “This might sound silly, but… would you like a hug?”
I look at him, then drop my gaze to my nearly empty glass. The question is so unexpected, so earnest, I’m at a loss for how to respond. I take another gulp of beer instead.
William places his hand on the table beside mine, close, but not touching. “Violet,” he whispers.
I lift my head. Our eyes lock. His are gentle, patient, without a trace of judgment. “Do you need a hug?” he asks again.
I nod once, a small movement that barely registers.
He edges his hand closer to mine, then makes contact, rubbing soft, tentative circles on the back of my hand with his thumb. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends warmth spreading up my arm.
After a moment, he withdraws his hand and smiles. “Well, when do you wanna cash in the hug?”
I laugh, the tension breaking. “Is there an expiration date?”
“Nope. Valid indefinitely. Interest accrues, though. Wait too long, and you might end up owing me two or more hugs. I’m not going to share the interest rate, though.”
“That sounds like predatory hug-giving practices.”
“I prefer to think of it as incentivizing prompt redemption.”
We banter until last call, and then find ourselves standing outside in the cool night air. It’s obscenely late—or early, depending on your perspective. The responsible thing would be to find ahotel room, and sleep off the beer and exhaustion before the long drive back to London.
Instead, we walk to the parking lot where William’s car sits under a streetlight.
“This is probably ill-advised,” I say as he unlocks the car, and we climb in.
“What is?”
“Sitting in a parking lot at”—I check my watch—“3:17 in the morning.”
“We could drive back,” he suggests, though he makes no move to start the engine.
“After three beers? I think not.”
“Fair point. Hotel?”
I shake my head. “For a few hours? Seems excessive.”
We sit in companionable silence for a moment.
“Let’s talk about something that isn’t work-related,” William says suddenly. “Tell me… I don’t know. Your favorite movie. Most embarrassing childhood memory. Whether you think pineapple belongs on pizza.”
“It absolutely does not belong on pizza,” I answer immediately. “That’s non-negotiable.”
“Finally, someone who shares the same opinion!”
The conversation flows easily after that, jumping from topic to topic. William tells me about his hometown, about the karting trophies that still sit in his parents’ living room, about his best friend Felix, who’s apparently ‘the only person who puts up with my shit on a regular basis.’
“Well, until now,” he adds, turning in his seat to face me more fully. “It’s been a long time since I laughed this much with someone new.” He softly gazes at me. “I meant what I said earlier. About the concerts. I want you to come with me. I’ll even buy you those cute little earplugs that look like cotton candy.”
I smile, touched by his enthusiasm. “I’d like that.”
“Yeah?” His face brightens.
