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“I understand that. If you let me, I would love to watch you do your thing.”
“That works for me,” he replied.
Violet followed him into the locker room, where she waited for him to bathe. She decided she would look him up on her phone to distract her from the sexy thoughts about him in the shower, naked and with soap lathered all over his delicious body.
She clenched her thighs together, hearing the water run in the background. She scanned over a few articles about Franco’s racing career, a few fan photos, and even some celebrity gossip pieces. The ones with the fans showed that he had an obvious female fan base; the man was a bombshell. He would have no problem getting a girlfriend.
But then other articles confirmed what Cornel had told her about the racer; he wasn’t ever known to be dating anyone, even for a brief fling. He was laser-focused, though he had no problem indulging his fans with photos and autographs every now and then.
Violet wasn’t sure if she felt reassured or afraid. Likely both, despite her tiger’s protests. He had kept romantic and even physical relations at a distance for a reason. It would distract him and keep him from his career goals.
Was he going to feel the same way about her, even though she was his fated mate?
Violet felt her stomach coil again, and then the water from the shower clicked off. She turned her phone off, too, and placed it inside her purse, her legs beginning to bounce up and down with worry.
Ten minutes later, he came out of the bathroom wearing dress pants and a tasteful polo. His stubble was immaculately shaved away, leaving space for that sharp jaw to showcase its magnificence. She blushed the second he approached her.
“Wow, you clean up well,” she jested.
Franco laughed, then touched her shoulder. She looked at it, abruptly feeling slightly annoyed. The shoulder was a platonic place to touch someone. The lower a man went on your body, the more intimate he either was or wanted to be with you. But the shoulder was neutral; you could touch your mom, your female friend, your best friend there, and no one would bat an eye.
Violet stifled the urge to snuggle into the crook of his arm and rose from the bench, picking up her purse and sliding it onto her shoulder. She couldn’t keep from smiling up at him despite her slight irritation.
“Thank you, Violet,” he said, seeming genuine. “The press conference is just outside the venue. You can stay backstage with the other press members or in the crowd.”
Hearing him say her name made stars shoot through her spine. She was barely able to comprehend what he had said, the question gliding into her awareness like a lazy cloud.
“Um, yes, backstage is fine,” she said.
Franco’s hand left her shoulder, and he led her out of the locker room. They passed through a series of tunnels out to the entryway of the venue they had passed earlier that morning. Except a stage had been set up in front of the massive Eden Speedway sign, with cameras clicking and flashing before any of the drivers had arrived.
They stopped at the velvet curtain, and Franco gave her one last look of reassurance.
“Tell anyone if you need anything,” he said.
Violet nodded, then she watched his body language change right before her eyes.
She had seen hundreds of shifters change in her short lifetime. It wasn’t anything spectacular or new anymore. But watching Franco stand up straight, roll his shoulders back, and set his feet, Violet couldn’t help but feel the same addicting rush that must pass through his blood when his tires hit that track.
He pushed past the curtain, and instantly, flashes increased. The clicks were loud as he sat behind the microphone, greeting the reporters and taking questions in stride. They yelled their questions at him over the snaps and flashes, with Franco answering them all with a gentle honesty and appeal that the media soaked up like a sponge.
Violet stood there, wringing her hands, peering through the curtain. She felt like she was an intruder in his life, showing up unwelcome and unexpected, gazing into places she shouldn’t ever have walked into.
He had been kind to her so far, but that didn’t mean he necessarily wanted her. The pull of the fated mate’s connection was something that couldn’t be denied; it was cosmic. But Franco’s life was already full and bursting with potential.
Violet felt like drifting away into the shadows.
EIGHT
FRANCO
The trial run on the track and the press conference went as smoothly as possible. Franco was used to it, as it had formed into a kind of ceremonial rite of passage, heightening his excitement as he allowed the adrenaline to flow. As he drove, he was studying not only the gentle curves of the track but the movements of his own mind.
It was a meditation of sorts that had helped him get through some of the most harrowing challenges of his life, both within the sporting world and outside of it. He had practiced for so long and with such discipline that it all ran like clockwork, his body and mind in tune like a ballet dancer moving through a performance.
But that had all changed since he’d met Violet.
When he drove, thoughts about her rammed their way into his serenity like a door being smashed down. He thought about studying the curves of her body, the ethereal sounds he’d love to summon out of her as he wandered her skin in the depths of his bedroom. He wanted to make her see God through the crashing of their bodies, giving her a night she wouldn’t soon forget.
