Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
I force myself to look away, only to realise that Jas is smirking at me.
“Uh-huh,” she hums knowingly, sipping her drink. “You know, it’s kind of weird - how you pretend not to care. Especially since you’re the only one actually blushing right now.”
I glare at her, my mouth opening for a rebuttal, but Emma shushes me aggressively.
“It’s starting!” she hisses, pointing at the screen. “Shh, shh, I want to hear what he’s saying.”
The French is rapid, flowing smoothly between the journalist and Frederic, and while I pick up on some words - setup, track conditions, tire strategy - I’m still too distracted by the way he’s standing, casual, effortlessly confident, his hands flexing slightly at his sides as he speaks.
“I don’t even need subtitles,” Emma sighs. “Just look at him.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the way my heart is still pounding.
We watch intently for another minute or so, before Frederic is pulled away by one of his crew members and the reporter turns to move on to the next driver they can find.
I take a much-needed sip of my drink just as my phone buzze.
Did I sound good?
I almost choke.
Fuck.
I keep forgetting, but he knows I’m watching.
Stop texting me and focus on your job.
I’m trying to play it cool, but he makes it impossible to do so -
I’d rather focus on you.
- especially when he sends me messages like that.
Emma, Jas and Leah are still ogling the screen, but I suddenly feel like I can’t sit still.
Because this is insane.
Frederic Moreau - star driver for Mercedes, one of the biggest names in motorsport, the man who has been the absolute bane of my existence since I touched down in Nice - is flirting with me in the middle of a Grand Prix weekend.
I can’t make any sense of it - but the worst part?
I love it.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Poppy
“Mademoiselle Taylor?”
The voice comes from behind me, thick with a French accent.
It takes a second to register that they’re speaking to me.
I blink, turning around to find myself face-to-face with a well-dressed man in a Mercedes team polo and a sleek radio headset resting around his neck.
I hesitate.
“Uh - yes?”
He nods politely, then gestures slightly.
“If you would please follow me, mademoiselle.”
Emma stiffens immediately from where she’s sitting besides me, but it’s Jas who speaks first.
“Excuse me?” she says sharply.
Emma crosses her arms. “And why exactly would she do that?”
“What’s going on?” I swallow, suspicion creeping in.
The man remains calm, his expression neutral but polite.
“Monsieur Moreau has requested your presence.”
Oh.
Frederic.
He sent someone.
For me.
Emma’s jaw drops. “Are you serious? He just - he just sent for her?”
I’ve been watching him all day - from behind glass, from the screens, from a safe distance. But I didn’t actually expect to see him. Not really.
And now, he’s summoning me.
“Wow,” Jas drawls. “Do you feel like a princess or a hostage?”
I snap out of my trance, shooting them both a look.
“Would you two stop?”
The man remains stoic, patiently waiting, and I swallow, my heart practically hammering at this point before finally nodding.
“Okay,” I say, trying to sound calm and unaffected - like my pulse isn’t roaring in my ears. “Let’s go.”
“Text us immediately if he locks you in a dungeon,” Jas says as she gives me a pointed look.
“Or if he doesn’t lock you in a dungeon but you want him to,” Emma smirks.
“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.
Like him.
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.