Page 241 of My French Love Affair

Well - since my very first message to him, anyway.

By the time we’re stepping into the car, my phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down, my stomach flipping at his name.

You look breathtaking. I knew I picked well.

Keep it on for me all day - I need my good luck charm.

I bite my lip, my pulse quickening as warmth spreads through my chest.

A good luck charm? That’s a lot of pressure.

His reply is instant.

I perform well under pressure. Would you like me todemonstrate later?

I practically choke on air.

Emma glances over. "Oh, what did he say?!"

"Nothing!" I say quickly, locking my phone and shoving it away in my new clutch before she can grab it.

But inside? Inside, I’mscreaming.

* * *

The ride to the venue is pure chaos - a blur of gleaming supercars, packed sidewalks, and streets alive with energy.

The roads are clogged with eager fans, some draped in team merchandise, others waving flags, and a few even climbing onto balconies for a better view.

The closer we get, the more the atmosphere shifts. The city feels electric, charged with an undeniable buzz - as if Monaco itself is holding its breath, waiting for the race to begin.

Our car inches forward, past the sparkling harbour where mega-yachts are packed with guests sipping champagne on deck and past terraces filled to capacity, every prime viewing spot occupied by the elite.

And then, there’s the track itself: legendary, transformed from its usual city streets into a battleground of speed and precision. The air vibrates with anticipation, the scent of hot asphalt, sea salt, and engine oil mixing with the unmistakable aroma of expensive perfume and champagne.

I press my palm against my stomach, inhaling deeply.

This is it. The biggest race of the weekend is about to start.

And I can’t help but feel that, one way or another, this day is going to changeeverything.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Poppy

The atmosphere is electric.

From the moment we step into the Paddock Lounge, it’s clear that today isn’t just a race.

It’s an event; a spectacle, a celebration of speed and luxury that only Monaco can provide.

The excitement is palpable as we move through the space, waiters in crisp uniforms weaving between guests with trays of champagne and fresh seafood, screens displaying live feeds from every camera angle, and the unmistakable hum of engines revving below us, vibrating through the very floor beneath our heels.

Emma practically bounces on her toes, her eyes darting between the screens, the view of the track, and the flowing bar.

“We should make a bet!” she announces suddenly, spinning toward us with a devious grin.

Leah raises a brow, adjusting her sunglasses as she sinks onto one of the velvet-lined seats.

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