Page 198 of My French Love Affair

Not in his element. Not as this version of Frederic Moreau: the driver, the athlete, thecompetitor.

His broad shoulders roll back as he walks, his posture effortlessly confident. It’s the kind of confidence that comes with knowing you belongexactlywhere you are - the kind that demands attention without needing to ask for it.

And heaven help me -I am paying attention.

Even from up here, even through the glass, I can see the intensity in his gaze, the way his jaw tightens as he listens to someone speaking beside him, the way the sunlight catches against the damp strands of his dark hair - slightly tousled, like he’s just pulled off his helmet or run his hands through it in thought.

A team member hands him a bottle of water, and he takes it without looking, his grip strong, assured. My eyes wander everywhere, all at once; trailing over the veins subtly flexing along his forearm as he twists the cap and takes a sip.

And that should not be as attractive as it is.

Butfuck.

The way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way he runs the back of his wrist across his mouth before tossing the bottle to another team member -

It does something to me that I can’t even begin to unpack.

He barely acknowledges the people around him, completely locked in, completely focused.

But for the first time,I see it.

I see the switch - the shift from the arrogant, teasing, insufferably charming man who texts me like he has all the time in the world, to this version of him.

Themachine.

And I am absolutely staring.

I don’t even realise it - don’t realise how I’ve gone completely silent, don’t realise that I’m clutching my champagne glass a little too tightly.

Not until Leah leans in beside me, following my gaze.

“Oh,” she smirks. “There’s your man.”

Emma spins so fast she nearly spills her drink. “Wait,where?”

I snap out of it, quickly looking away, but it’s too late - the damage is done.

All of the girls turn to look in his direction, and Jas hums, sounding slightly amused.

“Kind of surreal, huh?” she says.

I exhale, pressing my lips together. Honestly, surreal is an understatement.

Because that’shim.

Not the man who spent the night whispering filth in my ear, not the man who ordered me breakfast in bed, not the man who texts me casually as if we’re just two normal people.

No - that’s Frederic Moreau, the F1 driver.

The man who belongs to this world in a way I never will.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Poppy

The atmosphere inside the VIP suite shifts as the first cars begin rolling out onto the track.

I knew today was just practice - the first real taste of the weekend’s Grand Prix - but I hadn’t expected the palpable tension in the air.

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