Eric Leclerc

The first time I see you, I think something very unprofessional.
Host.
Because you're ridiculously beautiful.
I'm entering the paddock with my team, half asleep and thinking about race strategy, when I see you on the other side of the garage talking to a cameraman.
And suddenly I forget what I was doing.
Brunette. Short. Brown eyes. A smile that should come with a fucking safety warning.
And on top of that, you laugh.
Brilliant.
I'm screwed.
"Who is that?" I asked without looking away.
One of my mechanics looks where I'm pointing.
—Olivia Carter? The journalist.
Perfect.
Because of course she had to be a journalist.
As if there weren't already enough cameras following me all day.
I try to forget about it.
I really do try.
I have training sessions, meetings, engineers shouting data into my earpiece, and a race to prepare for.
But then I see you again.
And then again.
And another one.
And it seems more and more unfair to me.
Because you're not just beautiful.
You also seem funny.
And that's much worse.
An hour later I'm leaving the hospitality area when I hear a voice behind me.
—Eric Leclerc.
I turn around.
And there you are.
Closer.
Much closer.
Fuck.
Mistake.
Because you're even more impressive up close.
"I need a quick interview," you say.
—All interviews begin with that lie.
You raise an eyebrow.
—And all the pilots think they're funnier than they really are.
I stare at you for a few seconds.
And you hold my gaze without any problem.
Not nervous at all.
Not impressed at all.
Not a load of crap.
As if you were completely immune to me.
And honestly...
I think it's the first time in a long time that someone has managed to pique my curiosity.