Only one word comes to mind.
William.
Chapter 6
Do I look like I've lost my mind?
William
Rain pelts against my bedroom window like tiny fists demanding entry. Perfect. Because driving with sunglasses in a downpour is exactly what I need this morning.
I drag myself to the bathroom, flipping on lights that seem unnecessarily bright. The mirror doesn't offer any comfort. My right eye socket blooms in spectacular technicolor—the initial angry purple has faded to a sickly yellowish-green at the edges, with a stubborn core of deep blue-black directly under my eye. The cut on my eyebrow has scabbed over, at least. Small mercies.
"Fucking hell," I mutter, leaning closer to inspect the damage.
It looks marginally better than a couple of days ago, but still bad enough that everyone at headquarters will notice. And mock. Relentlessly.
I grab the small makeup kit I borrowed from a neighbor yesterday—a subtle transaction that involved her raising an eyebrow at my battered face, and me providing a hastilyconstructed lie about walking into a door. She didn't believe me for a second, even as I bribed her with a signed Colton Racing mug.
The texture of the concealer is alien against my fingertips. I dab it gingerly over the worst of the bruising as I watch a tutorial video, wincing when I press too hard. The result is... not great. The yellowish tint cancels some of the purple, but now I look like I've applied flesh-colored paint unevenly over my eye. I wash it off and try again. Better. Still obvious.
"Plan B it is."
I fish out my darkest beanie, pulling it low over my forehead, and grab my Ray-Bans. In the mirror, I look like a second-rate spy, or a hungover celebrity hiding from paparazzi. Add the black hoodie, and I'm practically a walking cliché. But it's better than explaining to everyone at Colton Racing why their number one driver looks like he lost a fight with a doorknob. The fewer people I have to explain this to, the better.
The rain hasn't let up by the time I make it to my car. Water streams down my windshield in hypnotic patterns as I sit for a moment, engine idling. It's 6:15 AM. The simulator session with EJ isn't until 7:30, but I want to arrive early and slip in unnoticed. Maybe grab coffee before anyone can comment on my ridiculous getup.
As I pull onto the main road, visibility already compromised by the downpour, I realize how stupid it is to wear sunglasses in these conditions. But removing them would mean exposing my battered face, so I squint harder and lean forward in my seat.
"The things I do to maintain my dignity," I mutter to my empty car.
My thoughts drift to Violet as I navigate the slick roads toward headquarters. She's been back from Italy for a week, but we've barely spoken beyond short phone calls and texts. Her voice on the phone on Monday had that edge it gets when she's runningon caffeine and determination, stretched thin by endless meetings and responsibilities. But there was something softer there, too, when she confirmed again she'd spend Christmas at my place. Something that made my chest tight in the best possible way.
It still feels surreal—that Violet Colton, the woman who once seemed as approachable as a fortress, agreed to spend that time with me. In my farmhouse. Just us. No sneaking around or quick, stolen moments in her soundproofed office after hours.
The thought makes my fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel. Just this one day of simulator work and engineering meetings, then a whole week of her—her laugh, her rare but devastating smile, the way she curls against me when she finally lets her guard down.
The Colton Racing headquarters appears through the rain, sleek and modern against the gray sky. The parking lot is mostly empty—unusual for a Friday, but Violet's decision to give everyone the extra time off means only essential personnel are in today. I pull into my designated spot next to Blake's car, noting Violet's Porsche is already here. So is EJ's motorcycle, parked under the awning to protect it from the weather. The kid's dedication is impressive—always first to arrive, last to leave.
I adjust my beanie and sunglasses, ensuring they cover as much of my injury as possible, then pull my hood up against the rain. Water soaks through my jeans as I sprint from the car to the entrance, the automatic doors sliding open with a pneumatic hiss.
The lobby is quiet, just a security guard, and a receptionist who glances up as I enter. I nod a quick greeting, trying to look both normal and in a hurry—a challenging combination when you're dressed like a bank robber on a rainy day.
"Morning, Mr. Foster," the guard calls, his expression curious but professional.
Good—they recognize me. I was expecting them to call the police or something as soon as they saw my ridiculous getup.
"Morning," I reply, swiping my access card and pushing through the turnstile before any questions about my appearance can follow.
The corridors are mercifully empty. I move quickly, head down, making for the stairwell that leads to the simulator level. Almost there. Just a few more—
Something solid—or rather, someone—connects hard with my chest, sending hot liquid splashing between us. I reach out instinctively, steadying the person I've nearly knocked over.
"Jesus, William! Are you running a covert operation I should know about?"
Violet's voice—half irritated, half amused—stops me cold. She stands before me, coffee dripping from the paper cup in her hand, a pastry bag clutched in the other. Thankfully, nothing spilled on her suit, just her shoes. Her dark curls are pulled back today, emphasizing the sharp lines of her face. She's wearing the navy suit that makes her look like she could command armies, or topple governments with a single raised eyebrow. Add to that those black heels, and that combo makes me want to ravish her on the spot.
Damn, she's breathtaking.
