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)
"You left out the part where I’m incredibly good-looking."
I burst out laughing, unable to help it. "Oh my god - you are insufferable."
He grins. "You didn’t deny it, though."
I shake my head, reaching for my wine glass. "You really need to be humbled."
"And yet, here you are," he murmurs, watching me over his glass. "Having dinner with me."
Damn him.
"Yes, well. Even the most irritating people deserve a meal every now and then,” I retort.
Frederic chuckles, tipping his glass slightly towards me in a lazy toast. "I’ll drink to that."
And just like that, the tension shifts. The atmosphere between us is less sharp, less combative.
For the first time, we’re not just challenging each other.
We’re enjoying each other.
"So,” I say, straightening my spine and attempting to distract myself from the brilliant blue of his eyes. “How’s everything going for you? With the race preparation, I mean."
"It’s going well," he says. "Busy. Physically exhausting. Mentally draining. But that’s part of the job."
I nod like I understand, even though I definitely do not understand what it takes to drive a car at ridiculous speeds for a living.
"So… what does that actually involve?" I ask, trying not to sound completely ignorant. "You just… drive around a track a few times to warm up?"
He actually laughs at that, the sound low and deeply amused.
"You’re definitely not a fan girl," he muses, shaking his head.
"You don’t say,” I respond, attempting to fight a smile (and failing miserably).
"Training is more than just driving,” he explains. “There’s physical endurance training, reaction drills, simulator sessions, strategy meetings, team debriefs -"
I hold up a hand, my mind already spinning. "Okay, okay, I get it. It’s a lot."
His smirk deepens. "It is a lot."
I tilt my head slightly, considering him.
"I guess I must be pretty lucky then," I say. "You’ve spared time for me."
Frederic doesn’t miss a beat.
"No," he murmurs, his voice lower now, his gaze holding mine. "I’m the lucky one."
Heat pricks at the back of my neck, and I curse myself for the way my stomach flips just a little at his words.
Because damn - he’s good.
* * *
The plates from dinner have long been cleared, the bottle of wine drained between us, and the soft hum of conversation fills the secluded part of the restaurant as Frederic leans back slightly against the booth.
"Something sweet?" he suggests, reaching for the dessert menu. "Or are you too full?"
I exhale, resting a hand lightly on my stomach. "I could not eat a whole dessert by myself."
"Then we’ll share," he says easily, and apparently, that settles it.
Before I can argue, he’s already gesturing for a waiter, placing an order in smooth, effortless French. I only catch half the words, but I definitely recognise crème brûlée in the mix.
Of course. Something classic, simple, but still indulgent.
"Decisive," I murmur as the waiter walks away.
Frederic smirks. "It’s one of my many talents."
We don’t have to wait too long before the dessert arrives, all golden and caramelised, the sugar cracked perfectly on top.
But when the waiter places it down in front of us, there’s only one spoon.
Frederic eyes it, then lifts a brow.
"Posh restaurants," I mutter, shaking my head with amusement. "Always trying to force people into uncomfortable levels of intimacy."
Frederic laughs, the deep sound rolling through his chest. "You say that like you’re suffering."
He picks up the spoon, scooping a perfect bite from the dish, and before I can reach for it, he holds it out toward me.
I hesitate.
This kind of thing - being fed a bite of dessert by a man across the table - should be so cringeworthy, the kind of thing I’d usually find unbearably cheesy.
And yet…
I haven’t stopped smiling all evening.
I haven’t stopped enjoying myself.
With Frederic, it’s different.
So, before I can second-guess myself, I lean forwards and part my lips, letting him feed me the bite of dessert.
The instant it touches my tongue, I moan.
"Oh my god," I murmur, closing my eyes briefly as the rich, creamy texture melts in my mouth.
When I open my eyes again, Frederic is watching me.
And fuck.
His gaze is dark, his blue eyes locked onto my mouth like he wants to devour me right here, right now.
The air thickens between us, and a slow smirk tugs at his lips.
"Good?" he asks.
“Mmhm,” I nod as I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “You should try it."
His eyes stay on me as he brings the spoon to his own lips, taking a bite, and I watch as his expression shifts into something indulgent.
"Delicious," he admits, before scooping another portion and holding it out to me again.
This time, I don’t hesitate.
But as I lean forward, I don’t drop my gaze.
I keep my eyes on his as I move forwards, parting my lips just so.
Frederic doesn’t so much as blink. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he didn’t breathe.