Page 117 of Racing for Redemption
“Details, William. Details. Excuse me for not distinguishing between different subgenres with raging guitars leading the way,” she counters, eyes bright with challenge.
“Next, you’ll tell me Ember's Edge sounds the same.”
“Oh, that indie band you blast in your driver's room? Don't they sound the same?” She tilts her head, the hint of a smileplaying at the corner of her mouth. She's trying to get a rise out of me. During our road trip to Birmingham, she knew all the genres and subgenres, and was now—purposely—touching upon all the topics we argued about.
“That’s musical blasphemy, boss. They are a metalcore band! Different vibe again.”
The journalist chuckles, and suddenly, we’ve slipped into the banter that defined our relationship before everything changed. It’s so natural, I’ve forgotten where we are, and who’s watching.
Blake clears his throat. “As you can see, we’re a close-knit team, and these two…fools, for lack of a better word,” he says as he chuckles, “are really into rock music, it seems. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we should head inside.”
Inside, the gala space glows with blue lighting, casting everyone in a slightly surreal shimmer. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, reflecting pinpricks of light across the walls. The elite of Formula 1 mill about in formalwear worth more than most people’s cars. There are no Vortex Racing or Satellite drivers in attendance, as they're boycotting the event, because I was not severely punished for punching Dominic Harrington. Honestly, thank god it happened. I hate parties, but this one’s more bearable because of their non-existent presence.
I grab two champagne flutes from a passing server, and scan the room for Violet. She stands near a window, seemingly absorbed in the view of the harbor outside after speaking with a couple of F1 executives. Blake has wandered off, deep in conversation with Klip Motorsports’ Team Principal.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I approach her. My hands are sweaty again. “Thought you might need this,” I say, offering her a glass.
She turns, those dark eyes capturing mine, and that’s all I need to be back in her grasp. “Thank you.”
Our fingers brush during the exchange. Static electricity, maybe, but it jolts through me like a live wire. “Enjoying the glamour?” I ask, nodding toward the room of beautiful people.
“About as much as you are.” A knowing smile plays at her lips. She’s always seen through me.
“That obvious?”
“You have your ‘I’d rather be at a dive bar’ face on.”
I laugh, surprised by how easily we fall back into this. “There’s a small venue near Rascasse that has local bands. Much more my speed than…” I gesture vaguely at the room.
“Perhaps next time,” she says, and the possibility in those three words makes my chest tight.
We stick to safe topics—the track, weather predictions for qualifying, Nicholas’ obvious flirting with a model across the room, and how awkward it looks from our side. But beneath the words runs a current of everything unsaid in these past months.
I want to tell her I’ve thought about her every day. That I’ve replayed our night in Melbourne until the memory’s worn thin. That I’ve stared at my phone like a lovesick teenager, willing her to text something more substantial than “Monaco.”
Instead, I sip champagne and maintain the careful distance between us.
Until she breaks it.
“I missed you.”
Three words, spoken softly, and my whole world tilts on its axis. I step closer, drawn by an invisible pull, champagne glass trembling in my hand. I drain it in one swallow and set it blindly on a passing tray.
“Don’t give me hope.” My voice drops to a near-whisper. “You don’t know…” I close the remaining distance, lowering my head to rest on her shoulder, propriety be damned. “...how much I’ve missed you.”
I breathe her in, fighting the urge to press my lips to her skin. We’re in public, surrounded by the entire Formula 1 community, but I can’t bring myself to step away.
My nose brushes against her bare shoulder, a ghost of contact that sends enough electricity through my veins to make me tight in my trousers. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stiffen. Just stands perfectly still, letting me hover in her orbit for these precious seconds.
Someone laughs loudly nearby, breaking the moment. I straighten as if hit by a thunderbolt, but my eyes don’t leave hers. They’re dark, unreadable, but there’s something in them—a reflection of the same hunger that’s been gnawing at me for months.
“William—” she begins, but the chime of a microphone cutsher off.
The presentations are starting. The moment slips away as we’re called to our seats, but the echo of those three words—I missed you—pulses through me like a secondheartbeat.
Chapter 34
Yearning
