Page 21 of My French Love Affair

And nothing -nothing- compares to that.

Matthieu stands beside the sim rig, tablet in hand.

"Good run," he says. "But you lost a tenth in sector two. Your exit out of Mirabeau needs work."

I drag a hand through my damp hair. "Then we run it again."

Matthieu arches a brow.

"You know, most people would take a second to celebrate being fastest on the board."

I don’t celebratepractice.

"Most people aren’t me," I respond dryly, reaching for the water bottle beside the rig.

Before Matthieu can reply, something flickers in my peripheral vision.

A streak of blonde.

It’s gone as quickly as it came, just a blur of movement in the background. Some staff member, probably, moving between workstations.

But my mind snags on it like a hook, yanking me backwards.

To thoughts of a light sundress and sun-kissed skin. To sharp, amused eyes. To pretty, plump lips.

What the fuck?

The memory slams into me, uninvited and unwelcome. I exhale sharply, gripping my water bottle a little tighter than necessary, my fingers flexing around the plastic as if I can physically squeeze the thought out of my head.

I should be reviewing data. Thinking about my laps, about where I need to shave time off.

Instead, I’m thinking about an English girl who stole my car.

An English girl who hijacked it with complete confidence, like she owned the damn thing. Who tossed her golden hair over her shoulder and turned her nose up at me likeIwas the one in the wrong.

Like I was the one in her way.

No onelooks at me like that.

People -women- either fawn over me or act too nervous to meet my eye. She did neither. Just laughed at my suggestion of sharing a ride, accused me of trying to abduct her, and then drove off inmyfucking car.

I should be pissed. Iampissed.

So why the fuck is my mind replaying it like some kind of highlight reel?

Why do I keep seeing her smirk, the way her lips curved around words laced with sarcasm, the way her brown eyes lit up with mischief?

Fuckingridiculous.

I set my jaw, rolling my shoulders back, forcing myself out of the distraction.

I don’t have time for this. Not now.

Not ten days before Monaco.

I pop the cap off my water bottle and take a slow, measured sip, letting the cool liquid cut through the heat of irritation creeping up my spine.

But for some fucking reason, those eyes - thoselips- refuse to leave me alone.

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