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)
The process is seamless - VIP tickets mean no lines and no waiting: just exclusivity. Staff in crisp uniforms guide us past the throngs of people, scanning our passes before ushering us through sleek, glass-paneled doors.
Inside, the VIP area is stunning.
A spacious, elevated lounge with panoramic views of the track. White leather seating, golden accents, and waiters circulating with trays of champagne and gourmet hors d’oeuvres.
The large screens display live footage from the practice runs, and a DJ spins soft house music in the background.
This isn’t just a sporting event - it’s a spectacle.
And somehow, I’m here.
“Okay, Jacques, I take back every bad thing I ever said about you,” Emma says, her eyes widening as she glances around.
“Don’t lie,” Jas snorts.
* * *
I adjust my sunglasses, tilting my head back slightly as I sip on a perfectly chilled glass of champagne.
The Paddock Lounge is beyond anything I expected. Every inch of it oozes exclusivity, and we have been well and truly spoiled.
One thing’s for certain - Jacques really came through, after all.
The decor in the lounge is sleek and minimalist, and I now understand that the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the pit lane and the paddock below. Waiters seem to just constantly be gliding effortlessly through the space, offering fresh glasses of champagne, cocktails and an array of absurdly fancy hors d’oeuvres - mini caviar tarts, smoked salmon blinis and delicate truffle-infused bites.
It’s insane.
The atmosphere is a mix of calm sophistication and underlying excitement. The calm before the storm, I think.
On the massive screens surrounding the lounge, the broadcast is already showing footage of the pit lane. The first Free Practice session begins in less than twenty minutes, and engineers in team uniforms move quickly around the garages, mechanics work on last-minute car setups, and the drivers are starting to appear.
“Jacques says the paddock area is completely locked down before the sessions,” Leah says as she scrolls through her phone. “The drivers have to go straight from the motorhomes to the garage.”
Emma exhales dramatically as she peers out of the window.
“So you’re telling me Poppy doesn’t get to run up to Frederic for a pre-race good luck kiss?”
I nearly choke on my champagne. “Are you insane?”
“I mean, it would be very WAG of you,” Jas smirks.
“Ugh. And who says I want to be a WAG?”
“You kind of are,” Leah says. “Besides, I bet he’d like it.”
“I bet the cameras would like it more,” Emma grins.
I pointedly ignore them and glance down at the paddock, watching as a group of mechanics move towards the garage, preparing for the session. My gaze flickers across the area - Red Bull, Ferrari, McLaren - every team working in precise synchronisation.
I try and play it cool, but as the conversation goes on, my eyes keep flicking towards the window and down at the paddock, my heart skipping at each false glimpse.
But then, I see him.
Frederic.
He moves into view like a scene from a damn movie.
The race suit clings to his tall, powerful frame, the iconic black and silver fabric unzipped at the front. The sleeves are tied low around his waist, revealing the tight, black compression shirt that stretches over every lean, honed muscle of his torso.
I have never seen him like this before.
Not in his element. Not as this version of Frederic Moreau: the driver, the athlete, the competitor.
His broad shoulders roll back as he walks, his posture effortlessly confident. It’s the kind of confidence that comes with knowing you belong exactly where you are - the kind that demands attention without needing to ask for it.
And heaven help me - I am paying attention.
Even from up here, even through the glass, I can see the intensity in his gaze, the way his jaw tightens as he listens to someone speaking beside him, the way the sunlight catches against the damp strands of his dark hair - slightly tousled, like he’s just pulled off his helmet or run his hands through it in thought.
A team member hands him a bottle of water, and he takes it without looking, his grip strong, assured. My eyes wander everywhere, all at once; trailing over the veins subtly flexing along his forearm as he twists the cap and takes a sip.
And that should not be as attractive as it is.
But fuck.
The way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way he runs the back of his wrist across his mouth before tossing the bottle to another team member -
It does something to me that I can’t even begin to unpack.
He barely acknowledges the people around him, completely locked in, completely focused.
But for the first time, I see it.
I see the switch - the shift from the arrogant, teasing, insufferably charming man who texts me like he has all the time in the world, to this version of him.