Page 62 of Racing for Redemption
“In a minute,” I say. “Where’s Violet? Still working?”
Blake and Johnson exchange knowing glances. “Where else?” Johnson says. “Said she had some urgent calls with potential sponsors. She’ll join us, eventually.”
“If we’re lucky,” Blake adds with a sigh. “That woman would forget to eat entirely if I didn’t remind her.”
I nod, absorbing this information, then head toward the buffet. The spread is impressive—Spanish classics likepaellaandtortilla españolasharing space with international offerings to satisfy the cosmopolitan F1 crowd staying at the hotel across the street. I grab a plate and begin selecting. Roasted chicken with crispy skin—just how I like it—grilled vegetables glossy with olive oil, and a hearty scoop ofpatatas bravas. I’m already salivating. Protein, complex carbs, some greens—the meal of an athlete, not the indulgence some might expect at a team dinner. At a small table for two near the window, I set my plate down, then pause. Without overthinking it, I return to the buffet line, taking a fresh plate. This time, selecting with someone else in mind. What would she like after a long, stressful day? Something nourishing, but comforting.
A portion of the seafoodpaella, the saffron rice studded with plump shrimp and tender calamari. Hell, I hope she’s not allergic to seafood. Then, I add a small serving of the roasted vegetables. Some of that crusty bread with the garlic spread that smellsdivine. A slice oftortilla, golden and fluffy. She doesn’t strike me as the pea-eating type, but I won’t be putting too much—I don’t know her appetite—just enough to satisfy hunger after hours of neglecting it.
The server behind the counter raises an eyebrow at me. “Hungry tonight, sir?”
“It’s for a friend,” I explain.
He winks, misunderstanding. “Ah, for aseñorita. Very good.”
I don’t correct him, returning to my table and placing the second plate opposite mine. I add silverware, a napkin, and even pour a glass of water from the carafe. Then I sit and wait, my own food untouched, slowly cooling before me.
Five minutes pass. Ten. The noise of the restaurant swells as more diners arrive. I check my phone, resisting the urge to start eating. My stomach growls in protest.
Then, finally, she appears in the doorway—still in her team jacket, but with her hair now loose around her shoulders, looking tired but determined. She scans the room, nodding to team members who wave in greeting. I stand slightly, catching her eye, and without conscious thought, I wink at her, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.
She looks confused for a moment, probably expecting to join Blake and the senior staff. Our earlier awkward moment in the garage flashes through my mind. Maybe this was presumptuous. Maybe she’ll politely decline and sit elsewhere. I wouldn’t blame her. I was awkward as hell.
But she makes her way over, curiosity evident in her expression.
“William,” she says, stopping at the table’s edge. “What do you need?”
I gesture to the chair. “Have a seat. I saved you from having to navigate the buffet after your busy day.”
Her gaze falls to the plate I’ve prepared, and genuine surprise registers on her face. “You got food for me?”
“You worked through dinner yesterday, too, and you were eating a sandwich during lunch today,” I say simply. “Figured you’d be hungry.”
For a moment, she just stares at the plate, then at me, as if trying to reconcile this gesture with her understanding of who I am. Then, slowly, she pulls out the chair and sits.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve heard it before. “That was… thoughtful.”
I shrug, suddenly embarrassed by my own gesture. “It’s nothing. Just didn’t want our Team Principal fainting from hunger in the middle of testing.”
A hint of a smile tugs at her lips as she picks up her fork. “I wouldn’t have fainted.”
“Passed out elegantly, then.”
She takes a bite of thepaella, closing her eyes briefly—in appreciation, I hope. “I didn’t realize my driver had a contract clause that included bringing me food,” she says, opening her eyes.
“It’s in the fine print,” I counter. “Right after ‘must smile for sponsor photos’ and before ‘not punching Nicholas every time he says something entitled.’”
She takes a bite at the greens. “I really don’t recall such a clause.”
“That’s because your legal team is thorough, but my manager is creative.”
A hearty laugh escapes her—brief but genuine—and it transforms her face completely. The tired lines around her eyes crinkle differently, her usual guarded expression momentarily abandoned. An absurd surge of satisfaction strikes me at having caused that laugh. My smile widens.
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, both hungrier than we’d acknowledged.
“This is good,” she says, gesturing to thepaella. “How did you know I like seafood?”
I hadn’t known—just guessed. “Seemed like the specialty of the house,” I say. “Hard to go wrong withpaellain Barcelona.”
