Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

t h i r t y - t w o (part one)

A/N I promised you a chapter this weekend, but I'm going on holiday soon and haven't quite had time to finish it, so I've decided to split it into two parts. The next part will be with you ASAP, ideally next weekend, but maybe not. Later, I'll move the content back into one chapter. Sorry this is short, and I haven't quite reached the smut part yet! I figured a brief update was better than nothing.

Please vote & comment if you enjoy it!

"Are you hungry?" Charles asked later that evening as he entered the living room, where Fia had strategically draped herself across one of the sofas in a short sundress, book in hand. Charles' eyes were immediately drawn to her breasts, which peaked out of the top of her dress. He looked away when he saw her noticing.

She set her book down with a shrug. "I could eat."

His rejection of her earlier advances had stung. She couldn't understand why he was so hesitant when he was usually the more forward of the pair. If he was going to exercise some kind of bizarre self-control, she decided she would make it as difficult as possible—hence the tiny dress.

Charles nodded, fiddling with the strap of his watch. "Are there any foods you don't like?"

"Hmm." She sat up and rested her chin on the back of the sofa to look at him more directly. The atmosphere between them had shifted somehow, but she couldn't quite put her finger on why it felt so off-kilter, and his expression gave away no clues. "Aubergine."

"That's it?"

"Yep. I'm not a picky eater. Actually, there's another thing—I can't stand gherkins."

He blinked. "What?"

"Oh." Fia laughed quietly. "I don't know what you call them in French—the little pickles you get on burgers."

"Ah, cornichons!"

"Nasty little things." She shuddered at the thought of them. "Those are the only foods I won't eat."

"Aubergines are delicious if you cook them right."

Fia raised an eyebrow. "Are you doubting my culinary skills?"

"No," he said, fighting back laughter. "You can't help being English."

"You bastard!" She grabbed the nearest cushion and threw it at him hard. Unfortunately, he easily caught it and tossed it back onto the sofa. Damn driver reflexes. Still, it felt good to ease some of the tension. She was surprised by how quickly his laughter put her at ease. "Can you even cook?" she blurted out, watching with interest as he rummaged in the fridge. "I mean, don't you usually have someone to do that for you?"

"Often, yes," he replied. "I have a strict diet, and I don't get to cook for myself as much as I would like. But I enjoy it."

"And you're good at it?"

He shrugged beneath an armful of ingredients. "That is for you to decide, no?"

"What are you making?" Charles merely pursed his lips in response. "You know how I feel about surprises." She grabbed her crutches and made her way into the kitchen to survey the ingredients he'd gathered. "Flour, eggs, cheese, pancetta – let me guess, carbonara?"

Placing his hand against her lower back, he reached across her to grab the carton of eggs. "Now you have spoiled it," he murmured, letting his lips graze the shell of her ear. 

A faint shiver coiled down her spine. Somehow, her whole body tingled with intense pleasure from that one tiny touch; such was the effect he had on her. She took a deep breath and did her best to regain her composure. "Me spoiling it?" Her eyes narrowed, and she grabbed a small white tub from the counter with a picture of a cow on the front. "Please tell me you're not about to make it using cream."