Page 131 of Racing for Redemption
The sincerity in his voice makes me flush slightly. I pick up my fork and take a bite, the layers of chocolate, cream cheese, and vanilla combining perfectly. It’s better than I remember, or maybe it’s just the context—eating it here, in his kitchen, with him watching me expectantly.
“Well?” he asks, his own dessert untouched ashe waits for my verdict.
“It’s amazing,” I admit. “Though, there is a lot of cream.”
“It is intentional. I know you love sweets. Consider the extra bit of cream another gift from me.” His smile is triumphant as he adds, “Also, I told you I could make desserts.”
“You did no such thing. You specifically said not to get my hopes up.”
“I was being modest.” He finally takes a bite of his own. “False modesty is an underrated tactic.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, and I study him—the way his soft curls fall over his forehead now that they’re a bit longer, the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, the careful way he holds his fork, how his beard has gotten longer. This isn’t the William Foster the world sees, the hot-blooded driver with lightning reflexes. This is… softer. More candid. A view just for me.
When we finish, he takes both plates to the sink and begins washing them by hand, despite the dishwasher humming quietly in the corner.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, but he just shrugs.
“I like to. It’s mindless. Relaxing.”
As he works, the play of muscles in his back are visible even through his T-shirt. His movements are efficient, practiced. Domestic. Something twists in my chest at the sight—a longing for something I’ve never let myself want.
This. This quiet domesticity. The calm. The care.
It hits me suddenly, forcefully, that I could have this. That it’s being offered to me, not in words, but in actions. In dessertsmade from half-remembered conversations. In blankets that are really just excuses to keep me warm. In invitations to his house that are just an excuse for us to share a bit of what could have been if we were together.
When he finishes, he dries his hands on a kitchen towel and turns to me with a smile. “Come on. Let’s be lazy for a bit, we deserve it.”
He leads me to the sofa, pulling me down beside him and wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I let myself be tucked against his side, my head finding that perfect spot on his chest where his heart beats softly in my ear.
“This is nice,” he murmurs, his lips against my hair. “Just us. No distractions. Isolated. Safe. It almost seems too good to be true.”
I hum as I feel his warm breath tingling my skin.
“I swear if someone ever breaks a moment like this, I’ll be so pissed off. I don’t want anyone ringing at the door. Or bothering me with mail. Or deliveries of any kind. I’m not moving away now. And I don’t feel like moving away from you anytime soon.” The way he speaks is a bit possessive, yet oddly endearing. I’m finding a new side to him, and I wonder how many more sides to him I will find.
I reach up to stroke his hair, threading my fingers through the wavy strands at the top of his head before moving to the now fluffy, carefully groomed beard that frames his jaw. His focus shifts to me instead of grumbling about people ringing the bell.
“I like you better with a beard,” I say, scratching lightly at his chin. “Not clean-shaven like in Imola.”
He makes a noise of contentment, like a purr. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
I shrug, not wanting to admit that the beard makes him look more mature, that it makes my heart race like crazy, that it turns me on. “It suits you.”
“I like it better, too,” he admits, his eyes closing as I continue my gentle exploration of his face. “Besides, you look at me more when I have it.”
“I do not!”
He cracks one eye open, grinning. “You absolutely do. You think I haven’t noticed?”
I pinch his side lightly, making him squirm. “You’re delusional.”
“And you’re in denial.” He captures my hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “But I’ll take what I can get.”
We stay like that for a long while, talking about nothing and everything, as he draws idle patterns on my arm with his fingers, mine occasionally returning to the comfort of his beard. It’s easy in a way that scares me—how quickly we’ve fallen into this intimacy that is nothing like the casual arrangement we agreed to.
The weekend unfolds in a series of moments that are both ordinary and extraordinary. We cook together, his competence and skill in the kitchen surprising me again. We play video games, his competitive nature making him curse colorfully when I unexpectedly beat him at a karting game. I even find time to read a romance novel I’ve been carrying in my bag for months, and can finally tackle the rest of my 'to be read' list, while William cuddles beside me, engrossed in a book filled with Sudoku puzzles.
On Saturday night, we end up in his bedroom—a space that, like him, balances minimalism with surprising touches of warmth. The sex is different this time. Slower. More deliberate. He maps my body with reverence, his eyes never leaving mine. It’s less like the casual release we’d agreed to, and more like… making love.
