Obsession
William
The new automatic gate that I installed on my property groans open as I press the remote, a sound that always reminds me I need to oil the damn thing. Rain pelts the gravel driveway, turning it dark and slick as both our cars crunch over it. The farmhouse stands ahead, its weathered stone glowing warm despite the gray evening closing in around us. Home. And for the next week, Violet's home, too—even if that thought sends equal parts excitement and terror coursing through me.
I park under the small overhang that serves as a carport, Violet's Porsche sliding in beside my Polo like an elegant cat next to a scrappy mutt. The contrast makes me smile. We shouldn't work on paper—the polished Team Principal, and the rough-edged driver. Yet here we are.
Killing the engine, I reach for my gear bag, wrinkling my nose at the smell that's been marinating in the passenger seat. The quicker I get this in the wash, the better chance I have of notcompletely disgusting Violet within the first five minutes of our week together.
I push open my door and step into the cold, countryside air, gear bag clutched in one hand. Rain mists my face as I glance toward Violet's car, just in time to see her elegant frame unfolding from the driver's seat. My breath catches.
That navy suit should be illegal. The tailored lines accentuate every curve, the color making her warm skin glow even in this dismal weather. Her curls have escaped their earlier restraint, a few ringlets framing her face as she retrieves a small duffle bag from her trunk.
She turns, catching me staring. One eyebrow arches upward. "See something interesting, Foster?"
"Just admiring the view," I reply, not bothering to hide my appreciation. "That suit is criminal."
"Says the man who actually has a criminal record in the paddock." Her smirk takes the sting from her words. "Punching Team Principals isn't generally on the approved activities list."
"He deserved it," I mutter, but I'm smirking, too. "Besides, you hired me anyway. Clearly saw my potential."
"As a driver, not a boxer," she counters, stepping closer, her heels crunching on the gravel. "The rest was just—" She stops abruptly, nose wrinkling. "What is that smell?"
Shit. I heft the gear bag slightly and change topics. "Hard day at the office?"
"Did something die in there?" She steps back dramatically, hand covering her nose. "Or is this some new psychological warfare tactic to scare off competitors?"
"It's just sweat," I protest, already backing toward the front door. "The simulator room gets hot."
"That's not sweat. That's biological weaponry."
I fumble for my house keys with my free hand, laughing despite my embarrassment. "If you think this is bad, you should smell the garage after a race in Singapore."
"I have. It's a miracle anyone survives."
She follows me at a safe distance, the duffle bag slung over her shoulder looking ridiculously small. Like she's packed for an overnight stay, not a week.
The front door swings open, dim lights turn on, and I step inside, the familiar scent of my home—sandalwood and coffee and old wooden beams—momentarily overwhelming the gear stench. Without pausing, I head straight for the washing machine tucked in the alcove off the kitchen.
"Welcome back to Casa Foster," I call over my shoulder. "Make yourself comfortable while I dispose of the evidence."
Her feet pad on the wooden floors as she follows me, the sound oddly satisfying. Domestic. Like she belongs here. I unzip the bag and dump its contents directly into the washing machine, adding detergent liberally before slamming the door and starting the cycle.
"Problem solved," I announce, turning to find her leaning against the kitchen doorframe, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. She's set her duffle bag down beside her, and again, I'm struck by how small it is. "You travel light."
She glances down at the bag. "I have what I need."
I move closer, sliding my hands into my pockets to resist the urge to touch her immediately. "You know, you could leave some things here. For convenience." The words come out casual, but my heart pounds like I've just proposed something far more significant.
In a way, I have.
Violet's expression flickers, something uncertain passing behind her eyes. "I don't need much," she says, deflective. "Just the essentials."
"Right." I nod, keeping my tone light despite the weight settling in my chest. "But just saying—if you wanted to leave a toothbrush. Some clothes. Hell, your own coffee mug.Mi casa es su casaand all that."
She offers a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Let's start with the week before we discuss real estate arrangements, shall we?"
The joke lands flat between us. Real estate arrangements. Like I'm suggesting a business transaction instead of offering her a small piece of belonging. My hands are suddenly cold, despite the warmth of the kitchen. I study her face, searching for what's really behind her hesitation.
