Page 193 of My French Love Affair

“What?!No!”

Emma grins, raising her brows. “Notyet, you mean.”

I sigh heavily, ignoring them completely.

And as I type out my next response to Frederic, I can’t deny it -

I’mcompletelyin over my head.

Chapter Fifty-One

Frederic

My phone vibrates against the nightstand. Again.

I already know who it’s from before I even glance at the screen.

Poppy.

For days, we’ve been circling each other through texts. Messages that start with biting sarcasm and end with something else entirely - something unspoken but undeniably charged.

Something that has me gripping my phone at all hours, waiting for her next reply like an addict chasing his next hit.

She’s consuming me.

Between practice sessions, between meetings with my engineers, between debriefs and training - when I should be thinking about the car, about every millisecond of performance - I’m thinking about her.

And it’s fuckingdangerous.

I exhale sharply, rolling onto my side in the dim glow of my hotel room. The city outside vibrates with anticipation, the sound of the harbour lapping against the docks, the distantthrum of engines being prepped, the occasional hum of the nightlife still trailing into the early morning.

Monaco. My home. My playground.

My battlefield.

But for the first time, it’s not the track I’m most focused on.

I unlock my phone. Two messages.

Try not to crash today, Mr. Formula One.

I’d hate to have to find someone else to entertain me.

My jaw clenches, my lips curling into something between amusement and frustration.

She knows exactly what she’s doing, knows exactly how to get under my skin.

And the worst part?

Iloveit.

I should leave her on read. I should focus. I should let my mind settle, let the routine take over.

Instead, I type out a reply.

You’d be disappointed. No one else would keep up with you.

The message delivers, and I force myself to set the phone down, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling.

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