Page 91 of Racing for Redemption
“Staying sharp.” He leans closer, his voice dropping. “Figured one of us should keep a clear head tonight.”
I take a larger sip than intended. “Implying I won’t?”
“Implying you deserve to relax.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’ve been carrying this team on your shoulders. Let someone else do the heavy lifting for once.”
“Is that an offer, Foster?” I tease.
His smile shifts, becoming something hungrier. “Depends what needs lifting.”
We fall into easy conversation with others who join us, but William stays close. Too close. His shoulder brushes mine when he laughs. His hand finds the small of my back when we move to the dinner tables. Each touch feels deliberate, intent on testing my resolve, on making me burn for him.
The dinner stretches on, course after course. William sits beside me, his knee occasionally pressing against mine under the table. When he reaches for the salt, his arm grazes my shoulder. When I speak, his eyes never leave my face.
It’s torture. Exquisite torture. I'm hyper aware of him.
“You know,” he murmurs as dessert is served, “I’ve never seen you this relaxed.”
“I’m not relaxed.” The words come out too quickly.
His eyes darken. “No?”
I take another sip of champagne—my third glass of the night—and yet, I’m not drunk. I guess all these meetings with plenty of alcohol in the mix have affected me. Now, alcohol does nothing to me. And I need it to do something. “No.”
“What are you, then?”
Wound tight. Ready to snap. Desperate for something I shouldn’t want.
“Proud,” I say instead. “Of the team. Of you.”
“Just proud?”
The challenge in his voice makes my pulse quicken. Under the table, he finds my knee. His hand is a warm weight that sends heat spiraling through me.
“William.” It’s half warning, half plea.
He leans in closer, his lips brushing my ear. “I’m trying not to be a disrespectful asshole here, Violet. So help me out. There’s something between us, and it’s been building since we arrived in Australia. Maybe before—hasn’t it?” His breath is warm against my skin. “If I’m reading this wrong, tell me now, and I’ll back off. No hard feelings. Just wanna know where I stand.”
I should tell him. Should set boundaries, maintain professionalism, protect both of us from potentially career-ending complications.
Instead, I turn my head slightly, our faces inches apart. “You’re not reading it wrong.”
His pupils dilate. “So, what do we do about it?”
“We could…” I swallow hard, knowing that what I'm going to propose is… unconventional within an F1 team. “We could get it out of our systems.”
“Out of our systems,” he repeats, testing the words.
“Not as Team Principal and driver,” I clarify, voice barely audible over the restaurant noise. “Not even as friends. Just as two people who—”
“—wanteach other,” he finishes.
A chill runs down my spine, and a nod is all I can manage. Around us, people are beginning to leave, the celebration winding down. William squeezes my knee once before retreating.
“Your room or mine?” he asks, face deceptively casual as he stands.
“Mine.” The decision comes instantly. “Fifteen minutes.”
He nods, making a show of saying goodnight to several team members. I do the same, keeping my distance, maintaining the illusion that we’re simply colleagues ending a successful day, and not two people craving company, contact… release.
