Page 197 of My French Love Affair

Inside, the VIP area isstunning.

A spacious, elevated lounge with panoramic views of the track. White leather seating, golden accents, and waiters circulating with trays of champagne and gourmet hors d’oeuvres.

The large screens display live footage from the practice runs, and a DJ spins soft house music in the background.

This isn’t just a sporting event - it’s a spectacle.

And somehow, I’mhere.

“Okay, Jacques, I take back every bad thing I ever said about you,” Emma says, her eyes widening as she glances around.

“Don’t lie,” Jas snorts.

* * *

I adjust my sunglasses, tilting my head back slightly as I sip on a perfectly chilled glass of champagne.

The Paddock Lounge is beyond anything I expected. Every inch of it oozes exclusivity, and we have been well and truly spoiled.

One thing’s for certain - Jacques really came through, after all.

The decor in the lounge is sleek and minimalist, and I now understand that the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the pit lane and the paddock below.Waiters seem to just constantly be gliding effortlessly through the space, offering fresh glasses of champagne, cocktails and an array of absurdly fancy hors d’oeuvres - mini caviar tarts, smoked salmon blinis and delicate truffle-infused bites.

It’sinsane.

The atmosphere is a mix of calm sophistication and underlying excitement. The calm before the storm, I think.

On the massive screens surrounding the lounge, the broadcast is already showing footage of the pit lane. The first Free Practice session begins in less than twenty minutes, and engineers in team uniforms move quickly around the garages, mechanics work on last-minute car setups, and the drivers are starting to appear.

“Jacques says the paddock area is completely locked down before the sessions,” Leah says as she scrolls through her phone. “The drivers have to go straight from the motorhomes to the garage.”

Emma exhales dramatically as she peers out of the window.

“So you’re telling me Poppy doesn’t get to run up to Frederic for a pre-race good luck kiss?”

I nearly choke on my champagne. “Are youinsane?”

“I mean, it would be veryWAGof you,” Jas smirks.

“Ugh.And who says I want to be a WAG?”

“You kind ofare,” Leah says. “Besides, I bet he’d like it.”

“I bet the cameras would like it more,” Emma grins.

I pointedly ignore them and glance down at the paddock, watching as a group of mechanics move towards the garage, preparing for the session. My gaze flickers across the area -Red Bull, Ferrari, McLaren- every team working in precisesynchronisation.

I try and play it cool, but as the conversation goes on, my eyes keep flicking towards the window and down at the paddock, my heart skipping at each false glimpse.

But then, I see him.

Frederic.

He moves into view like a scene from a damn movie.

The race suit clings to his tall, powerful frame, the iconic black and silver fabric unzipped at the front. The sleeves are tied low around his waist, revealing the tight, black compression shirt that stretches over every lean, honed muscle of his torso.

I haveneverseen him like this before.

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