Page 67 of Racing for Redemption
I smile as he continues his list of concert survival tactics. The warmth spreading through me isn’t just from the advice—it’s from the realization that this is the first social plan I’ve made inmonths that isn’t a networking event or business dinner. Just… fun. With a friend. The concept feels foreign, almost forgotten.
“So, your address?” William asks. “I can pick you up around 6.”
I hesitate only briefly before telling him.
“Swanky,” he comments. “Very CEO of you.”
“Says the F1 driver. Don’t tell me you live in a humble cottage.”
“Well, it’s a farmhouse. I’m not penthouse level yet. Maybe after I win a few championships with our team.”
Our team.
The casual confidence in his voice makes me smile again. “Big dreams, William.”
“The biggest, and I’ll achieve them. So, 6 PM?”
“I’ll be ready.” I pause, then add, “How do I pay you back for the ticket and driving and everything?”
His answer comes instantly, without hesitation. “Be my friend,for real.”
The simplicity of it catches me off guard. When was the last time someone just wanted my friendship, with no agenda? In my world of business deals and strategic relationships, genuine connection is rare.
“I think I can manage that,” I say softly.
“Not in that ‘I'm just accepting to be polite’ way you did during our first team dinner when I joined. I mean, for real.”
“Okay, okay. I mean it.” He’s quite adamant about this. I ask, “Don’t you have female friends, or something like that?”
“Nope. And before you say I’m desperate or something… I’m not. Now, get comfortably ready. I’ll let you know when I’ve arrived.”
After we hang up, I sit motionless, phone in my lap. The penthouse feels different somehow—less like a showcase of success, and more like a home I’m about to leave for an adventure. I check the time again. Half an hour to get ready for a concert with William Foster, who’s somehow shifted from the driver that energizes my entire team to… my excited friend?
I head to my closet, shaking my head at the strangeness of it all. But the smile doesn’t leave my face.
William is exactly six minutes early, pulling up in a red Volkswagen Polo that hugs the ground like it’s afraid of heights. I spot him through the lobby windows, wearing distressed black jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket that’s seen better days, but somehow looks perfect on him. Nothing like the racing suits I’m used to seeing him in. Or the simple white T-shirts and black jeans he wears in the paddock when not racing.
I adjust my own outfit—old but comfy sneakers, dark jeans, and a faded band T-shirt I’ve rescued from the back of my closet—and step outside before he can come in and get a full tour of my “swanky” lifestyle.
He spots me and lifts his eyebrows in surprise, a grin spreading across his face. He reaches across to push open the passenger door.
“Well, well,” he says as I slide in. “CEO Colton knows how to dress down. I’m impressed.”
“Did you think I live and sleep in tailored suits?” I buckle my seatbelt. The car smells faintly of pine and something else—cologne, maybe. Not overwhelming, just… present.
“Honestly? Yeah.” He pulls away from the curb with the smooth confidence of someone who drives for a living. “I figured your closet was just fifty identical power suits, and maybe one pair of pajamas with little Formula 1 cars on them.”
I roll my eyes. “My F1 pajamas are at the cleaners, unfortunately.”
“Tragic.” He flicks his eyes to my T-shirt. “Linkin Park? Hybrid Theory era? Okay, you’re officially cooler than I thought.”
“Your approval means everything to me.”
He laughs—a quick, warm sound. “So that’s how it’s gonna be? You match me joke for joke the whole way to Birmingham?”
“I can stop if it’s too much for you to handle. It's a three-hour trip, after all.”
“Oh, I can handle it.” He glances sideways at me, a challenge in his eyes. “But fair warning—off the track, I rarely lose.”
