Page 202 of My French Love Affair

“I hate you both,” I glare.

“You love me though, right?” Leah chimes in, finally glancing up from her phone.

I just roll my eyes as the other two blow me kisses, and before I can overthink this any further, I turn and follow the man.

The crowd thins as we walk, leaving behind the buzz of the VIP section as we move through restricted areas and pass through private hallways where staff, team members, and officials bustle around.

He keeps a few steps ahead of me, leading the way through the unfamiliar space. I don’t say a word; focusing only on acting like I belong here, even though I’m definitely out of place.

But nobody stops me, or throws me an odd glance. Nobody frowns or questions me.

Eventually, we reach a discreet doorway where another team official nods to my escort before stepping aside to let us through.

And just like that, I step into Frederic’s world.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Poppy

The shift is instant.

The noise, the chaos, the roaring of engines outside - it all disappears.

This space is similar, but different.

It’s cool, sleek, and modern. Much like in the VIP area, there are floor-to-ceiling glass windows, plush seating, and a fully stocked bar to one side. It’s quiet, though, and the air smells of espresso and something clean - like leather and cedar and…

My heart stalls.

Likehim.

It’s a private retreat. A place where drivers can unwind, reset, escape the madness of the paddock.

And there, leaning casually against a sleek black leather couch, still in his race suit, is Frederic Moreau.

My breath catches.

Holy. Fuck.

His suit is unzipped to his waist, the arms tied loosely aroundhim, revealing the black compression shirt that is still very much clinging to every sharp muscle of his torso - perhaps even more so than before.

His hair is still messy from the helmet, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his skin, like he’s just finished something physically demanding.

Which, I guess, he has.

His blue eyes find mine immediately, and his resulting smirk?

Devastating.

He looks unbelievable. Like he isn’t even real.

“Poppy.”

His voice is pure liquid confidence, laced with something infuriatingly amused.

He pushes off the couch, standing tall and commanding. I faintly register the sound of the door closing - no doubt my escort has left us in peace. But I can’t look away, can’t take my eyes off him.

My stomach tightens as he starts toward me, and I inhale sharply.

---