I picture him in his kitchen, tattooed arms dusted with flour, brow furrowed and a tiny bit of his tongue sticking out in concentration as he follows a recipe with the same intensity he studies track maps. The image is endearingly absurd. And adorable.He is adorable.
"And," he continues, warming to his sales pitch, "I’m still holding your blanket hostage, remember?"
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "You're ridiculous."
"Part of my charm," he agrees readily. "Along with my current technicolor face. But seriously, Violet. Let me make Christmas good for you.Us."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off-guard. This isn't just playful banter anymore. It's William offering something I've denied myself for too long—genuine connection during a time when loneliness cuts deepest.
"There will be sweets," he continues, coaxing. "And by sweets, I mean both actual desserts and myself. Double the temptation."
"Your modesty is overwhelming."
"Never been my strong suit," he admits cheerfully. "But making you smile is. And I bet I can make you smile more times during Christmas than you can count. That's a scientific fact, I have data to prove it."
I realize with a start that I'm already smiling, have been for a few minutes. My shoulders have dropped from their perpetual tension, my posture softened from board-meeting rigid to something approaching relaxed. Even the rain seems less oppressive now, more soothing backdrop than dreary obstacle.
"And of course," William adds, using that deep tone that sends shivers across my skin, "there are other ways I plan to make the holiday memorable. Ways that definitely don't involve ugly Christmas sweaters. Unless you're into that sort of thing, in which case I'm willing to negotiate."
"Will," I interrupt his rambling, decision crystallizing with surprising clarity.
"Yes?"
"I'll come."
A beat of silence. "Really?"
"Yes. But I can only stay for the week. Christmas through New Year's. I have obligations after that."
His whoop of delight is so loud, I have to move the phone away from me on the table. "This is going to be the best Christmas ever. I promise. You won't regret it. Ahh fuck, I’m so happy!"
Something soft unfurls in my chest—tentative hope, perhaps. Or simply the relief of choosing connection over isolation. "I'll need to move some meetings. Clear my schedule."
"The team can survive without you for a week," William says firmly. "They deserve a break, too."
"Says the driver who doesn't have to manage them."
"Says the driver who wants his Team Principal well-rested and happy for the new season."
The casual possessiveness in his voice—"his" Team Principal—sends a flutter through my stomach that I choose not to examine too closely.
"You need to buy me a present," he declares suddenly.
"What?"
"A Christmas present. I've already got yours, so it's only fair."
"You've already—" I stop, caught off-guard. "You got me a Christmas present?"
"Of course I did," William says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Been planning it for weeks. So you'd better get me something good. I have high expectations."
I laugh, genuinely surprised. "I'll see what I can do."
"Nothing team-related," he warns. "No signed merchandise or team kit. I have tons of that, I've been giving some out to my neighbors. I mean a real present."
"Understood. No Colton Racing coffee mugs."
"Perfect." He sounds so pleased with himself that I can't help but smile again. "I should let you get back to your meeting. They're probably wondering where you are."
