I knew I should keep walking, get out of hearing range. I should ignore it. But I glanced at where he stood, still in his race suit, hair damp, easy grin already in place for the cameras.
“Not at all,” Fraser said, but there was something in his voice that made my breath hitch. Like he was daring me to listen. “She's quick. I've seen her drive before, and I expected her to be exactly where she was today.”
Exactly where she was today.
The words settled in my stomach in a way I didn't have time to analyze.
I turned before I could catch myself, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes caught mine. The camera flashes caught it, too, and just like that, the moment became something bigger.
“Fraboisis about to eat this up,” one of the reporters muttered, and I forced my feet to move, not letting Fraser see the way my fingers curled at my sides as I slipped away.
Not letting myself acknowledge that I had just let him get into my head.
Once the interviews were done,I retreated to the sanctuary of my room, packed my things,and caught the first flight home. For now, I needed space. Space to recover, to reflect, to plan.
But as I sat on the plane, scrolling through my phone, the internet had other ideas.
The video was already viral.
Fraser and I, caught in that moment in the media pen. The way his gaze lingered. The way I'd turned. The way my fingers twitched before I walked away.
@fastcarsandromancebooks: Okay but WHY did this feel like a slow burn moment??
@overtakeandobsess: The way Callum looked at her before she walked away. I feel SICK.
@gridwitch: Fraser really said "I expected her to be there" like he wasn’t fighting for his life on track. MY MAN IS DOWN BAD ALREADY.
My head hitthe seat rest, an exhausted groan leaving my lips.
For fuck's sake.
I was already struggling to not replay every interaction with him in my head. I'd gotten off to fantasies of him. The last thing I needed was for the internet to plant more images of him in my mind.
I shut my phone off, shoved itdeep into my hoodie, and closed my eyes. Let the world obsess over him. I had bigger things to chase. Because next time, I wouldn’t settle for P4.
The champagne was already dryingon my skin, sticky and reeking of victory. It should've felt good. Hell, it should've felt fucking phenomenal.
P1in the first race of the season. Setting the tone. Making a statement.
And yet?—
I let my head drop back against the cool surface of themotorhomewall, staring at the ceiling. My pulse was still hammering, but not because of my win.
Because of her.
Aurélie fucking Dubois.
I'd looked for her while I was on the podium, my eyes searching for her in the crowd. I wasn't sure why I even cared, or why it bothered me that I couldn't find her.
I should've been focused on the trophy, on the victory, on the celebration. I should've been watching back my own footage, breaking down my overtakes, my strategy, my execution.
Instead, I was watching her. Over and over. Every replay of her moves on track, the way she threw that car into corners like she was playing with fire—like she wanted to get burned.
While I was the one fuckingburningfor her. A feelingso foreign, its intensity alarmed me. It made my race suit itch against my fevered skin.
And then there was the clip.
The one that kept looping on my phone even though I should've turned it off by now.
