“Auri—“
“You messaged me once,” she said, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “After Shanghai. You sent a message about pistachio croissants and said you saw them and thought of me.”
I blinked. That wasn’t flirting. That had been… instinct. Desire, want, longing—I didn’t know how to name it back then.
“That’s the café I want to take you to,” I murmured.
She looked down at her hands. “That message meant more than you probably realized.” Her voice cracked, barely above the noise of the crowd, but it hit me like a gut punch. There was a beat of silence before she added, “It was my birthday.”
The air went still.
Fuck.
“I didn’t know,” I said, guilt coiling instantly in my gut. But I should’ve known, right? There should have been posts, acknowledgements…anything.
She gave the tiniest shrug. “No one did. Or they did and didn’t care.” She forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Étienne and I share a birthday, obviously—the tenth of April. Guess who got the birthday wishes and all the attention? I didn’t get a single birthday wish from the team, barely any acknowledgement from my family.” She shook her head.
My throat constricted. I wanted to reach out and pull her into my arms, but we were out in the open, and thousands of fans were waving and screaming at us. We both took a moment to wave and offer fake smiles. Then she sighed and turned to me, leaning her hip on the railing. I shifted to face her, crossing my arms over my chest. Her eyes dipped to my arms, and she bit her lip.
I glanced down, trying to see what she was distracted by, but I came up empty. When I looked at her face again, I groaned. “Jesus, Auri, you cannot look at me like that in public.” It was a mumble, for her ears only.
She sucked in a breath and snapped her eyes to mine. And suddenly all I could think about was her entire body glowing that post-orgasm color.
“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—mon Dieu,” she stuttered. “You’ve just got those… forearm ropes.”
I blinked. “Forearm ropes?”
She winced. “No, wait. That’s not right. That’s not the word.”
“Oh, it’sexactlythe word now.”
Her face wentredand she did this adorable little stomp that totally went with the whole pissed-off tourist look she had going on. It also made Marco and Kimi look over at us from their spot on the other side of the truck. They grinned like the idiots they were. I wanted to flip them off but wasn’t in the mood to deal with a fine from the FIA over it.
Because this was a serious sport and should be treated as such. Their words, not mine, because here I was, lusting after this five-foot-three woman of a driver and thinking about how good she looked when she came screaming my name.
“Merde. No. I meant veins. Veins! I don’t know why I said ropes. That sounds... pirate-y.”
A laugh burst out of me. “You called my veins pirate ropes. You’re flustered.”
“I panicked!”
“Youalwayspanic when you’re flustered,” I said, taking a tiny step closer.
“I do not,” she seethed, turning away from me.
“You do. It’s adorable. And you only fuck up English when you’re flustered, which, evidently, only happens when I’m around.”
Aurélie huffed. “I’m going to push you off this truck.”
“Try, love. I’ll drag you down with me.”
“I spent the night in my flat in Paris,” she continued, eyes locked on the water as the truck rolled along the marina. “No calls, no gifts, no flowers. I bought myself a cupcake and ate half of it by myself after…” She paused and sniffled. “After singing to myself. And then your text popped up, talking about pistachio croissants, and for a second…” She swallowed hard. “For a second, I didn’t feel invisible.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until she looked up at me again, her eyes glassy but steady. I don’t think I’d everhurtfor someone else as much as I had at this moment.
“I’m sorry,” I said, voice low and sincere. “For all of it. You deserved better. That day. Every day.”
“You didn’t even know,” she whispered.
