Page 200 of My French Love Affair

“Oh my god, look!” Emma squeals, grabbing my arm. “Poppy, LOOK!”

I jerk my gaze up, and there he is - on the screen directly in front of us.

Helmet off, race suit unzipped to his waist again, the black compression shirt clinging to his torso. He’s standing right outside the garage, speaking with one of his engineers, but there’s a cameraman lingering close by, along with a reporter.

A live interview.

“Oh, this isnotfair.” Emma sighs dramatically, practically draping herself over the railing. “How does he look that good after driving around like a maniac?”

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.

She’s right - he looksinsanelygood.

His hair is messily pushed back, slightly damp at the edges. His jaw is sharp and his lips are curved ever so slightly in that signature smirk, like he’s fully aware of the effect he has on the entire world.

I force myself to look away, only to realise that Jas is smirking at me.

“Uh-huh,” she hums knowingly, sipping her drink. “You know, it’s kind of weird - how you pretend not to care. Especially since you’re the only one actually blushing right now.”

I glare at her, my mouth opening for a rebuttal, but Emma shushes me aggressively.

“It’s starting!” she hisses, pointing at the screen. “Shh, shh, I want to hear what he’s saying.”

The French is rapid, flowing smoothly between the journalist and Frederic, and while I pick up on some words -setup, track conditions, tire strategy- I’m still too distracted by the way he’s standing, casual, effortlessly confident, his hands flexing slightly at his sides as he speaks.

“I don’t even need subtitles,” Emma sighs. “Just look at him.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the way my heart is still pounding.

We watch intently for another minute or so, before Frederic is pulled away by one of his crew members and the reporterturns to move on to the next driver they can find.

I take a much-needed sip of my drink just as my phone buzze.

Did I sound good?

I almost choke.

Fuck.

I keep forgetting, but he knows I’m watching.

Stop texting me and focus on your job.

I’m trying to play it cool, but he makes it impossible to do so -

I’d rather focus on you.

- especially when he sends me messages likethat.

Emma, Jas and Leah are still ogling the screen, but I suddenly feel like I can’t sit still.

Because this is insane.

Frederic Moreau - star driver for Mercedes, one of the biggest names in motorsport, the man who has been the absolute bane of my existence since I touched down in Nice - isflirting with me in the middle of a Grand Prix weekend.

I can’t make any sense of it - but the worst part?

Iloveit.

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