Chapter 10
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 not completely 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 casa and 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.
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 ribs like 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 and voilá. 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, the Kahk cookies, 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.