Page 52 of My French Love Affair

It’s refreshing.

I lean against the cool marble of the hallway, crossing my arms as I exhale, still smirking to myself.

In the space of a few days, this girl has accused me of being a potential kidnapper, a stalker, and now - andnow -a mechanic.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting back another laugh at the thought.

Of all the things she could have assumed...

Not an athlete. Not some billionaire’s kid. Not a Formula One driver whose face is plastered on billboards, magazines, and giant TV screens around the world.

No. Amechanic.

And the best part?

She wassofucking sure of it.

She looked me up and down like she was analysing some great mystery, and then just decided - with full, unwavering confidence - that I was a guy who works in a garage and lies to women to impress them.

I let my head tip back slightly, inhaling deeply through my nose.

She has no fucking clue who I am.

None.

The realisation sits in my chest like a slow burn, hot and unfamiliar.

Womenalwaysknow who I am.

It’s a given, a part of my existence. I don’t have to introduce myself; they already have an idea of me built in their heads before I even open my mouth. They see the cars, the lifestyle, the money, the power.

They see Frederic Moreau, the racing driver.

But her?

She sees nothing. Just some guy who pissed her off three times in as many days.

I don’t know why that’s so intoxicating.

She’s interesting. Annoying as hell, sure, but interesting allthe same.

And she’s stubborn. Hot-tempered. Completely, utterly unbothered by me.

She’s not swooning. Not looking at me like I’m something impressive, something rare, something to admire.

No, she’sirritated.

And I fuckinglove it.

I don’t know why I followed her out here. Not really. I saw her step away from her friends, saw her heading down the hall, and like an idiot, I followed. As if I had nothing better to do. As if I wasn’t supposed to be entertaining actual guests, putting on the effortless, untouchable image everyone expects from me.

Instead, I chased after some girl I don’t know.

And for what?

For the pure fucking thrill of it.

Of watching her glare at me. Watching her lips purse, her arms fold, her brain tick as she tried to figure me out like a puzzle she had zero interest in actually solving.

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