Page 250 of My French Love Affair

Emma literally screams. Jas claps a hand over her mouth, cackling. Meanwhile, Leah - who has just reappeared in the lounge, after dipping in and out most of the afternoon - nearly drops her drink.

And me?

I just sit there,stunned, heat rushing to my face as Frederic’s words echo over and over in my head.

My girlfriend, Poppy.

I feel like I’ve just been launched into another dimension. Becausewhat the fuck-

I’m hiswhatnow?

Chapter Sixty-Five

Poppy

The atmosphere crackles with an uncontainable energy, the kind that seeps into your skin and makes your pulse race. The roar of the crowd is deafening, echoing through the streets of Monaco as thousands of people celebrate, chant and scream for the man who has just conquered the most iconic race of the season.

Formy man.

Heaven knows that I can’t take my eyes off him.

The podium ceremony is just about to begin. After the whirlwind of press interviews and technical debriefs, Frederic had to disappear for a moment - no doubt to freshen up, swap out his sweat-drenched race suit for something marginally more presentable.

And now, standing at the foot of the iconic Monaco podium, he looks every bit the victor.

He’s changed into a fresh black fireproof shirt, the material clinging to every defined muscle, accentuating the powerful lines of his torso. His race suit is still on, but the sleeves are tied low around his waist, leaving him looking effortlessly perfect in the way only Frederic Moreau can.

His dark hair is still damp, messy in a way that somehow makes him look even better.

The top three drivers stand together, their fireproofs still sticky with sweat and champagne from their previous celebrations in parc fermé, but none of them seem to care.

Becausethismoment is what they all dream of.

A hush spreads over the grandstands as the anthems play - first the anthem of the winning car manufacturer, and then the French national anthem for Frederic himself.

My stomach twists as I watch him standing there, tall and proud, his hand placed over his heart as his country's anthem blares over the speakers. I’ve heard the French national anthem played before, of course, but it’s different now.

Itmeansmore to me now.

And then, the moment comes.

The race steward steps forward with the gleaming gold winner’s trophy, the silver plate at the base catching the sunlight as it's handed over to Frederic.

He grips it firmly, fingers curling around the handles as the weight of victory settles into his hands -

And then lifts it high above his head.

The crowderupts.

Champagne sprays from all angles as the second and third-place finishers start the traditional podium celebrations, uncorking the bottles and dousing each other in expensive, bubbling liquid.

Frederic tilts his head back slightly, eyes squeezing shut as he lets it rain over him, soaking into his shirt, into his skin as all of the cameras focus in on him.

Andfuck, if I didn’t think he looked good before; right now, he looksuntouchable.

A champion in every sense of the word.

My heart is pounding. My stomach is flipping.

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