Chapter Fifty-Three
Poppy
T he atmosphere inside the VIP suite shifts as the first cars begin rolling out onto the track.
I knew today was just practice - the first real taste of the weekend’s Grand Prix - but I hadn’t expected the palpable tension in the air.
I know next to nothing about car races, but what I do know is that this isn’t even the official qualifying session.
And yet everyone around me is completely locked in, conversations dropping to hushed murmurs and their eyes fixed onto the screens and on the track below.
Leah and Emma are still whispering between themselves, but I can’t focus.
Not when he’s right there .
Down in the Mercedes garage, standing beside his car with a helmet in one hand and listening intently as an engineer speaks to him.
He’s still in the same black race suit, although it’s zipped up properly now, the logo bold across his chest with every sponsorship patch meticulously stitched into the fabric .
I barely recognise him like this.
He seems so… Serious . So calculated.
Untouchable , even.
Then - movement.
I watch intently as he lowers the helmet over his head, and in a single, smooth motion, he’s gone.
The moment the visor snaps shut, I feel it: the complete transformation.
Frederic Moreau, the man , disappears.
Frederic Moreau, the driver , takes his place.
And then, he gets in the car.
A ripple of anticipation spreads through the suite as his car rolls out of the garage, slotting into position behind another vehicle. Around us, the screens flicker, shifting to display live footage from onboard cameras - one mounted just behind his helmet, another showing the full view of the track ahead.
I swallow hard.
Holy shit . This is real .
A voice crackles over the speakers - one of the commentators providing updates as cars begin their first test runs, tires screeching against the tarmac as they weave out of the pit lane, slotting into position on the track.
The roar of engines vibrates through the suite, a thunderous, deafening sound, even through the thick glass. Cars streak past, flashes of color and movement. The speed is close to terrifying, and my heart is practically in my throat as my eyes flicker; watching the track through the glass and the many screens.
And then -
Him .
His black-and-silver Mercedes darts into view, moving with effortless precision, gliding around a corner so fast my stomach flips.
My eyes flick to the screen, catching the onboard view: Frederic’s helmet barely shifting as he navigates the turn, completely still, completely composed, like he’s hardwired into the car itself.
I can’t explain it, but I feel it.
The sheer power of it all.
The way the car responds to his every movement, the way he slots into a turn so perfectly it looks like the laws of physics don’t apply to him.
The way that, even at ridiculous speeds, even as he weaves through the tight Monaco circuit, he looks like he’s barely trying.
The lap times start appearing on the screen, each driver setting their first benchmark. Frederic’s name flickers into place - top three - and I barely stop myself from smiling.
I turn my attention back out of the large windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, when -
“Oh my god, look!” Emma squeals, grabbing my arm. “Poppy, LOOK!”
I jerk my gaze up, and there he is - on the screen directly in front of us.
Helmet off, race suit unzipped to his waist again, the black compression shirt clinging to his torso. He’s standing right outside the garage, speaking with one of his engineers, but there’s a cameraman lingering close by, along with a reporter .
A live interview.
“Oh, this is not fair.” Emma sighs dramatically, practically draping herself over the railing. “How does he look that good after driving around like a maniac?”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
She’s right - he looks insanely good.
His hair is messily pushed back, slightly damp at the edges. His jaw is sharp and his lips are curved ever so slightly in that signature smirk, like he’s fully aware of the effect he has on the entire world.
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.