But she's looking at me like I've lost my mind.
"What"—her gaze travels from my hoodie to my beanie to my completely inappropriate sunglasses—"are you wearing?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. All my carefully planned explanations evaporate under her scrutiny.
"It's… raining?" I offer weakly.
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth—the smile that always feels like a personal victory when I manage to draw it out. Then she looks at the sunglasses again, and the smile becomes a barely suppressed laugh.
"Inside the building?" she asks, setting her coffee on a nearby table before it can spill further. "In December? At 6:40 in the morning?"
Her shoulders start to shake with silent laughter, and I realize I've never seen anything more beautiful than Violet trying not to laugh into my face.
Her laughter breaks free now; a sound I rarely hear in these halls. It bounces off the sleek walls of Colton Racing headquarters, transforming the sterile corridor into something warmer. It is sweet, warm, music to my ears. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, and for a second, I forget to be embarrassed about my ridiculous appearance. I'd wear a clown costume daily if it made her laugh like this. Scratch that—clowns are creepy. I can’t stand them.
"I was trying—" I start, but she's doubled over now, one hand pressed against her stomach.
"You look"—she wheezes—"like a celebrity having a breakdown. All you need is a baseball cap, and you'd be the complete 'don't recognize me' starter pack."
"Very funny," I mutter, but I'm fighting my own smile. "It's called style, Violet. You wouldn't understand."
She straightens, wiping at the corner of her eye. "Oh yes, black beanie and sunglasses indoors on a rainy December morning. Veryavant-garde. The fashion magazines will be calling any minute. Let me check my phone to see if we already have offers."
She scans my face, amusement giving way to something else—a softness she usually keeps hidden behind professional walls. It makes my heart thump against my ribs.
"You know," she says, crossing her arms, "when I saw that photo you sent, I wanted to knock some sense into your thick skull when we got face to face again. What were you thinking, getting into a mosh pit before testing?"
"That my life was severely lacking in facial rearrangement?" I offer.
She steps closer, and my breath catches. Here, in the middle of the corridor, with anyone potentially walking by, Violet reaches for my sunglasses. Her fingers brush against my temple as she gently slides them off, and the contact sends electricity down my spine.
"Let me see," she says quietly.
The air between us changes, grows denser. I stand still, barely breathing, as she tilts her head to examine my injury. Without the dark lenses between us, every detail of her face is crystal clear—the sweep of her eyelashes, the small beauty mark near her right eyebrow, the curve of her lips as she frowns in concentration.
"Jesus, William," she murmurs, wincing at the sight. "It looks painful."
"Nah, it's mostly just colorful now," I say, fighting the urge to touch her while she's this close. "Think I could convince Johnson it's a new aerodynamic feature? Extra-sensitive pressure detection via facial bruising? Sort of like DRS?"
She doesn't smile at my weak joke, her fingertips hovering near the cut on my eyebrow. "Does it still hurt?"
The genuine concern in her voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest. I swallow hard. "Only my pride," I answer, softer than I intended. "And my dignity. And maybe my potential modeling career."
Now she does smile, just slightly. "Yes, I'm sure Calvin Klein would be devastated to lose an opportunity with their future raccoon-eyed spokesperson."
"Hey," I protest, "I think I'm pulling it off. Brings out the hazel in my eyes."
"That probably needs a medical touch."
"You're heartless. I'm wounded—literally—and you're making jokes."
Her smile widens. "Poor baby. Want me to kiss it better?"
The words hang between us, her teasing tone not quite masking the heat underneath. My pulse stutters, then races.
Is she flirting with me? Here? Now, that’s a first.
"Actually," I say, stepping half an inch closer, testing boundaries, "I do."
