Swerve | 𝑷.𝑮.

Part 10

Italics is French

Francesca walked into her apartment breathing heavily and coated in a layer of sweat.

She immediately beelined for the kitchen, catching her breath through her heaving chest as she filled a glass with water.

The woman let out a sigh, leaning against the kitchen counter and dropping her head. She managed to kick off her shoes - etiquette that she learnt from growing up in England - before lifting her head again and moving to open up some windows in the living room.

She had just returned from a morning run, having woken up to her alarm at 6am to force herself to do some form of exercise because she knew that she would end up procrastinating doing it if she didn't. As much as Francesca hated exercising, a morning run always lifted her mood for the rest of the day so she tried to get one in where she could.

Once feeling like she wouldn't fall on her wobbly legs, she jumped into the shower.

Dressed in a hoodie which was slightly to big for her and had the significant smell of Charles - she had definitely stolen it from him at some point - and a pair of leggings, Francesca grabbed her car keys. Her fridge was pretty much empty after she had spent the evening before emptying it of the food which had been out of date in there, so she forced herself to head to the shops.

Monaco was a small country and it was very well-known that quite a few Formula One drivers resided there whether it was during the season or not. So it was no surprise to Francesca to find fans asking for photos and signatures whenever she went, and it wasn't like she had the most subtle car in the entire world.

The pure black Mercedes GTR with the number 12 embossed just above the front wheel arches and Red Bull written across the top of the back wing in a shade of black just lighter to that of the rest of the car was a dead give away.

But she did have a flare for the dramatics...

So it made perfect logical sense.

Francesca couldn't help but give teasing waves and winks at the cameras she found pointed at herself as she finally climbed out of the car, trainers hitting the concrete floor of the car parked she'd parked in.

A parking job much better than Charles ever did.

If she could say so herself.

Although, it wasn't harder to be a better parker than him - how he'd passed his driving test,

She. Did. Not. Know.

Anywaysssss...

"Francesca!" A small group of teenage girls with French accents were the first to approach her. "Can you sign these please?"

"Of course!" Francesca grins happily.

The four Red Bull caps that were handed to her were signed with the effortless signature.

Francesca noticed the fourth and younger girl compared to the rest holding her phone up videoing the interaction with the Formula One driver, giving the small blonde a quick wink, Francesca whisked the phone out of the girls hand, smirking at the camera before handing it back.

"Thank you!"

🏎️💨

"Alright, Little Leclerc, what do you want?"

Arthur Leclerc grinned brightly as he stood at the other side of the now open door of Francesca Lewis' apartment.

The woman in question was leant against the door itself, arms folded across her chest and an eyebrow raised as she stared the mischievous Leclerc down.