Is it really just about professional boundaries? Or is it about keeping me at arm's length? About ensuring there's always an exit strategy, a clean break with nothing left behind?
We've shared beds, bodies, secrets and whispers in the dark. Violet curled against me on countless nights, her breath warm against my neck. We've laughed over bad movies on my couch, argued about race strategies, even grocery shopped together when she stayed last month. But she's never left so much as a hairpin behind. Like she's making sure she can disappear from my life without a trace if necessary.
The thought burns cold in my stomach.
I force a grin, pushing past the momentary heaviness. "Fair enough. Though if you change your mind, the empty drawer in the bedroom is yours. I even cleaned it, which, if you know me, is practically a declaration of devotion."
She laughs, the sound genuine this time, and the tightness in my chest eases slightly. "Your housekeeping skills are truly legendary, William."
"Just one of my many talents," I say, waggling my eyebrows in exaggerated suggestion to hide the lingering hurt. "Wait till you see what else I can do."
Violet rolls her eyes, but her smile turns softer, more real. I'll take it. For now. Because she's here, in my kitchen, and that's something. Even if she's packed like someone planning a quick escape.
"So," I say, gesturing expansively around us, "I changed some stuff since you’ve been here last. Want a grand tour? Or would you prefer a drink first? I have that red wine you liked last time."
She steps forward, closing some of the distance between us. "I remember where everything is. Including the wine glasses."
There's a warmth in her eyes now that soothes the raw edges of my uncertainty.Maybe I'm overthinking.Maybe the small bag is just practicality, not a statement of intent.
Or maybe I'm falling faster and deeper than she is, and I need to get my shit together before I scare her away completely. She said she’s indecisive when it comes to love and such, so… maybe she’s overthinking? I… don’t know.
The space between us feels charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. I can't stand it anymore—this careful distance we maintain in public suddenly unbearable in the privacy of my kitchen. I step toward her, my body moving before my brain can overthink it. Her eyes widen slightly, dark and unreadable, but she doesn't back away. That's all the permission I need.
I reach for her, hands finding her waist with familiarity. The fabric of her suit jacket is smooth beneath my fingers like always—this woman only wears the best suits—but the warmth of her body underneath chases the cold from my hands, the give as she exhales slight but obvious. I draw her against me, slowly, giving her time to resist if she wants to.
She doesn't.
Instead, her hands come to rest on my chest, neither pushing away nor pulling closer. Just touching. Connecting. Caressing. Her heartbeat—or maybe it's mine—hammers against my ribslike I'm approaching a difficult corner at full speed, knowing I shouldn't lift but unwilling to brake.
I slide one hand up her back, savoring the elegant curve of her spine beneath my palm. She's strong—has to be, to carry the weight of an entire racing team on her shoulders—but there's a delicacy to her that few people ever get to see. I count myself lucky to be one of them.
My fingers find the nape of her neck, slipping beneath her soft curls to touch her skin. She sighs almost imperceptibly, and something inside me uncoils at the sound. I dip my head, drawn by instinct to the hollow where her neck meets her shoulder. I breathe her in—expensive perfume as always, a scent that's embedded itself in my memory. Last time I visited her place, I made it my mission to know what that perfume is. The label was written in Arabic, but that didn’t deter me from my goal. Opened my translating app andvoilá. Her perfume is indeed Blue Lotus, from an Egyptian perfumer; I was right in my guess early this year.
She barely speaks of her roots—she’s British-Egyptian—but she never forgets her mint tea, theKahkcookies, and the perfume. Also, the cotton shirts she wears at times? Probably Egyptian, too. I find it endearing how she holds on to her mother’s—and in some way, her own—roots. My beautiful Egyptian Queen.
My lips brush against her pulse point. Once. Twice. Feather-light kisses that have her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of my shirt. I trace a path upward, following the elegant line of her throat, the sharp angle of her jaw. Her skin is warm silk beneath my lips.
"I missed you," I whisper against her cheek. Three simple words that carry more weight than they should.
I pull back just enough to look into her eyes, needing to see her reaction. Her pupils are dilated, dark pools that I could drownin willingly. A flush has spread across her cheekbones, bringing additional color to her face that has nothing to do with makeup.
"It's only been two weeks," she says, but her voice lacks its usual crispness. There's a breathlessness there that sends heat spiraling through me.
"Twenty days," I correct, brushing my nose against hers. "But who's counting?"
Her lips twitch. "Apparently, you continue counting."
"Guilty." I trace the curve of her lower lip with my thumb. "I've been counting down the hours. The minutes. Like a desperate teenager waiting for his crush to notice him."
"Quite needy for a professional racing driver," she teases, but her eyes soften. "What would the paddock think if they knew William Foster was so... sentimental?"
"They'd think I have excellent taste." I tuck a stray curl behind her ear, letting my hand linger on the side of her face. "And they'd be right."
Violet leans into my touch, just slightly. A small concession that resembles victory. "Twenty days isn't that long in the grand scheme of things."
"Feels like forever when you're used to seeing someone every day."
"Are we?" Her question is soft, almost hesitant. "Used to seeing each other every day?"
