He was the golden boy of Formula 1-until he broke.
After a shattered engagement, Charles Leclerc is spiraling-parties, headlines, and mistakes he can't afford.
She was born into legacy but refuses to be owned.
Geneviรจve de Rochefort is building her empire from scratch-despite a family determined to control her future.
When a scandal threatens them both, a deal is struck: a perfect relationship, for the public eye.
Eight million euros. No feelings. No mistakes.
But somewhere between the cameras and the quiet...
they forget what was ever pretend.
โค๏ธ
๐๐๐๐ฉ๐ช๐ง๐๐ฃ๐
โจCharles Leclercโจ - 28 |ย Monagasque
Formula 1's golden boy.
Fast cars. Faster headlines.
Perfect image... perfectly falling apart.
โจGeneviรจve de Rochefortโจ- 25 | French
Born into legacy.
Fighting for independence.
Building an empire they're trying to take away.
--This is a fanfiction.
-- This book is purely a work of fiction and is not related to any driver, team or organization mentioned in the book. All the information mentioned in this book is only for characterization for the purpose of this story.
-- This book shall contain some mature content like explicit language, mentions of anxiety and panic attack, consumption of alcohol and suggestive content and sexual implications andย might ย contain sexual scenes.
Do share this story with your friends who love F1 and Charles , vote and you know the drill- don't be a silent reader, like literally comment all you want because I want this to be an inclusive space for all the F1 lovers.
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INTRODUCTION-
"Sometimes when I look into your eyes
I pretend you're mine all the damn time"
"Cause I know that it'sย delicate"
What happens when two hearts find love at a time they least expect it ?
Kiara Vishwakarma is the ideal girl to the outside world, but that's not the truth. Caught up in a fake life to put in front of the world, behind the cameras everything has been shattering into pieces. What happens when her path collides with Carlos Sainz F1 driver for Scuderia Ferrari the heartthrob of F1 ?ย
The world isn't the kindest but can they navigate their lives amidst the buzz of the world around them.
Can they be good enough for each other ? Will their love prevail and their relationship survive the strongest of challanges ?
Delicateย is about finding true and addicting love after being desperate of it . It is also about protecting the love for the real someone and not concerned about what others say because you know the truth amidst the effect of past on one's reputation.
--This is aย fanfiction.
-- This book is purely aย work of fictionย and is not related to any driver, team or organization mentioned in the book. All the information mentioned in this book is only for characterization for the purpose of this story.
-- This book shall contain some mature content like explicit language, mentions of anxiety and panic attack, consumption of alcohol and maybe some other mature content.
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Link - Delicate | Carlos Sainz - ๐๐ฒ๐ญ๐ท๐ฒ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฝ๐ซ๐ต๐พ๐ฎ55 - Wattpad
Summary: what happens when you combine two identical dachshunds, one dog park mix-up, and a very famous racing driver? Your meet-cute becomes a dognapping crisis!
The late afternoon sun in Monaco is a specific kind of gold. Itโs not the hazy, humid gold of a Spanish summer or the sharp, brittle gold of a Swiss autumn. Itโs a rich, old-money gold, the kind that filters through the leaves of ancient plane trees and spills across the manicured lawns of the Jardin Exotique, making everything it touches look impossibly expensive and serene. Itโs the kind of light that makes you feel like youโre living inside a vintage postcard.
You are watching that very light catch the highlights in the ridiculously silky fur of your dachshund, Gretchen, as she trots with immense self-importance across the dog parkโs pristine grass. Her little legs move in a blur, a determined, stubby piston-action that is entirely at odds with her otherwise regal demeanor.
โGretchen, darling, the ball isnโt going to throw itself!โ You call out, holding up the slobber-covered tennis ball.
She gives you a look over her shoulder, a look that clearly communicates, โAnd your point is?โ before she resumes her patrol of a particularly interesting patch of clover.
You sigh, a fond, exasperated sound. Having a dog named Gretchen Wieners means accepting a certain level of high-maintenance sass. It was funny when you named her, a perfect joke for a tiny, cream-colored wiener dog who seemed to be full of secrets. It is slightly less funny when sheโs actively ignoring you in favor of sniffing something that is, in all likelihood, the ghost of a croissant from someoneโs picnic last Tuesday.
You lean back on the park bench, the wrought iron cool against your sundress, and close your eyes for a moment, just soaking it in. The gentle murmur of French and Italian, the distant hum of a supercar winding its way down Avenue Princesse Grace, the happy yapping of dogs. Itโs a peaceful symphony.
The symphony is interrupted by a new sound. A frantic, happy scrabbling of claws on gravel, followed by a leash-jangle and a low, musical voice speaking in a mix of French and English.
Standing by the gate is Charles Leclerc, looking somehow both exactly like he does on television and completely different. Heโs not in a race suit, but in a simple white t-shirt and dark shorts, his hair artfully messy from the breeze. Heโs wrestling with the clasp of a leash, and at the other end of it is a carbon copy of your dog. A small, cream-colored, long-bodied, short-legged dachshund, vibrating with the sheer, unadulterated joy of reaching a field of grass.
โOkay, okay, you win,โ he laughs, finally unclipping the leash.
The dog is a missile. A low-to-the-ground, cream-colored torpedo of enthusiasm. And its target is Gretchen.
He barrels towards her. Gretchen, who had been engrossed in her clover investigation, looks up, her ears perking. She sees the approaching blur and, instead of her usual aloofness with strange dogs, she does something extraordinary. She wags her tail. Not just a polite little flick, but a full-body, a-stranger-is-a-friend-I-havenโt-sniffed-yet wag.
They meet in the middle of the lawn in a flurry of sniffing and tail-chasing. Itโs an instant, profound connection. A dachshund love story for the ages.
Charles walks over, a sheepish, devastatingly charming smile on his face. He shoves his hands into his pockets. โAh, sorry. He is โฆ a lot.โ
โDonโt be,โ you say, your own smile blooming effortlessly. โGretchen is usually the queen of social distancing. Iโve never seen her take to another dog so fast.โ
โThey are, euh, they look like twins.โ He gestures towards the two dogs, who are now engaged in a chaotic game of chase that involves a lot of tumbling and playful nips.
โThey really do,โ you agree. โWhatโs his name?โ
โLeo.โ
โI love that. This is Gretchen.โ
Charlesโs eyebrows raise in amusement. โGretchen? Like, from Germany?โ
You canโt help but laugh, a real, genuine laugh that makes him smile wider. โNo. Well, yes, technically. But her full name is Gretchen Wieners.โ
He blinks. Once. Twice. Then his head tilts, a look of slow-dawning comprehension on his face. He lets out a sudden, surprised bark of laughter. Itโs a wonderful sound, not performative or polite, but deep and real.
โNon. You did not.โ
โI absolutely did,โ you confirm, feeling a ridiculous surge of pride. โSheโs a wiener dog. It felt like a moral obligation.โ
โThat is the best name for a dog I have ever heard,โ he says, still chuckling. He runs a hand through his hair. โNow I feel bad. Leo is just Leo.โ
โLeo is a great name! Itโs classic. Strong. Lion-like.โ
โHe is not very lion-like,โ Charles says, watching as Leo dramatically trips over his own feet while trying to catch Gretchen. โHe is more like a small piece of bread with legs.โ
You laugh again, covering your mouth with your hand. โA baguette?โ
โExactly! A tiny baguette.โ
You both fall into a comfortable silence for a minute, just watching your identical dogs play. The golden light deepens, casting long shadows across the grass.
โYou live around here?โ He asks, his voice a little softer now.
โJust up the hill,โ you say, gesturing vaguely. โMoved here about a year ago.โ
โAh, okay. Me too. Well, I have always lived here. But my apartment is new.โ
โRight. Of course.โ A silly thing to forget. โIt must be strange. To have your hometown be this place.โ You gesture around at the opulent, postcard-perfect scenery.
He considers this, his gaze distant for a second. โSometimes. But most of the time, it is just home. Where my dog is, you know?โ
โI know exactly,โ you say, your eyes soft as you watch Gretchen roll onto her back, submitting to Leoโs playful attack. โItโs funny how they anchor you. Doesnโt matter where you are, as long as theyโre waiting for you.โ
โFor sure,โ he agrees. He turns his head to look at you, and his eyes, a warm, clear green, hold your gaze. Thereโs an intensity there you werenโt expecting, a flicker of something that makes the air feel suddenly warmer. โIt is grounding.โ
You feel a blush creep up your neck. You break the gaze, looking back at the dogs. โSo, uh, does Leo have any other special skills? Besides the baguette impression?โ
He grins, the moment broken but the warmth lingering. โHe is very good at sleeping. A champion, really. He can sleep for twenty hours, I think. And he is very good at stealing my socks. And you? What about Gretchen Wieners?โ He says her full name with a delighted reverence that makes you ridiculously happy.
โSheโs an expert at judging people. She has this look โฆ it can cut you to your very soul. Sheโs also a master manipulator. Sheโll pretend she hasnโt been fed when she absolutely has. She has my parents completely wrapped around her little paw.โ
โA clever girl.โ
โThe cleverest.โ
You talk for what feels like five minutes but, when you glance at your phone, you see itโs been almost an hour. The sun is kissing the horizon now, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and soft orange. The park is emptying out.
โOh, wow,โ you say. โI should probably get going. Itโs her dinner time. And if the queen is not fed on time, there will be a rebellion.โ
Charles nods, a hint of disappointment in his expression. โYes, me too. Leo, he gets very dramatic.โ
He whistles, a sharp, clear sound. โLeo, viens ici!โ
You call out at the same time. โGretchen! Time to go home, sweetie!โ
The two cream-colored blurs, now thoroughly exhausted and panting happily, detach from each other and trot towards the sound of their respective ownersโ voices. Or, at least, thatโs the general idea. In their post-play haze, they seem to aim for the nearest tall human.
The little dog that arrives at your feet looks up at you with big, brown, adoring eyes, its tongue lolling out. You reach down and scratch behind its ears, the fur just as soft as you remember. โGood girl,โ you murmur, clipping the leash onto its collar without really looking.
You stand up and smile at Charles, who is doing the same with the dog at his feet.
โIt was really nice to meet you, Charles.โ
โYou too,โ he says, and his smile is genuine. โAnd you, Gretchen Wieners.โ He winks.
โBye, Leo the Baguette,โ you say with a little wave to the dog beside him.
As you walk away, a giddy, light feeling bubbles in your chest. Itโs the kind of feeling you get from a perfect, unexpected moment. A little cinematic scene dropped into the middle of an ordinary day. You donโt ask for his number. He doesnโt ask for yours. It feels too transactional. This was just a nice moment at a dog park. Maybe youโll see him again. The thought brings another smile to your face.
The walk home is pleasant. The dog trots happily by your side, only occasionally pulling to sniff at a particularly fragrant potted plant. When you get into the elevator of your apartment building, it licks your hand.
โYouโre extra sweet today,โ you coo, stroking its head. โDid you have fun with your new boyfriend?โ
Inside your apartment, you unclip the leash. The dog immediately does a perimeter check, sniffing every corner of your living room with a seriousness that suggests itโs searching for contraband. This is normal. Gretchen always does this, reacquainting herself with her kingdom.
You go to the kitchen and pull out her food bowl โ a ceramic one with โHer Majestyโ painted on the side. You fill it with her special, grain-free kibble and add a splash of water, just how she likes it.
โDinner is served, my lady!โ You call out.
The dog trots into the kitchen, gives the bowl a cursory sniff, and then looks up at you. And whines. A soft, confused little sound.
โWhat?โ You ask. โItโs your favorite. Donโt be difficult.โ
It ignores the bowl and nudges its head against your leg, looking for more pets.
This is the first red flag. Gretchen lives for her food. She would trample over a line of puppies for a single piece of kibble. She never, ever, turns down a meal.
โAre you feeling okay?โ You ask, crouching down. You run your hands over the body, checking for any tenderness. It just wags its tail and tries to lick your face. Everything seems fine. Maybe itโs just tired from playing so hard.
You leave the food and go to the living room, flopping onto the sofa. The dog hops up next to you โ another small, almost imperceptible oddity. Gretchen always waits for a formal invitation to come onto the couch. She sits, puts a single paw on the cushion, and stares at you until you pat the seat beside you. This one just launched itself up.
โYouโre being very bold tonight,โ you say, stroking its long back.
It snuggles into your side, letting out a contented sigh, and promptly falls asleep. Okay, this part is normal. The post-park crash. You turn on the television, keeping the volume low. After an hour, you realize the food in the kitchen is still untouched. Thatโs not right.
You gently nudge the sleeping form beside you. โHey. You really need to eat something.โ
The dog stirs, blinks its sleepy brown eyes, and then yawns, a wide, cavernous yawn. You smile and go to give it a belly rub, your fingers seeking out that perfect spot that makes its leg start thumping.
Your hand moves across its warm, soft belly. You rub and you rub. And then you stop.
Your brain, which has been happily coasting on the fumes of a charming encounter, suddenly slams on the brakes.
There is โฆ anatomy here. Anatomy that Gretchen, a female dog, definitively does not possess.
You stare down at the dog. The dog stares back up at you, tail giving a lazy thump-thump-thump against the sofa cushion.
โOh my god,โ you whisper. The words hang in the quiet air of your apartment.
You gently lift the dogโs back leg. You confirm the evidence.
This is a male dog.
This is not Gretchen.
This is Leo.
โOh my god.โ
You have Charles Leclercโs dog. Which means โฆ Charles Leclerc has yours.
A wave of panic, so potent itโs almost nauseating, washes over you. You jump up from the couch. Leo โ because this is definitely Leo โ looks at you, confused by the sudden movement.
โOkay. Okay, okay, okay, think,โ you say to yourself, pacing the length of your Persian rug. โHow do you fix this? How do you fix this?โ
You donโt have his number. You donโt know which apartment is his. Monaco is small, but itโs not that small. You canโt just go door-to-door. โExcuse me, are you a world-famous Formula 1 driver? And if so, have you accidentally stolen my dog?โ
You snatch your phone, your hands trembling slightly. What do you even do? Post on Instagram? Tag him? That seems insane. Mortifyingly insane. Hi @charles_leclerc, sorry to bother you during what Iโm sure is a busy schedule of being handsome and driving fast, but I appear to be in possession of your dachshund.
Leo hops off the couch and comes over to you, nudging his wet nose into your hand as if to say, โWhatโs all the fuss about? Iโm comfy here.โ
You look down at him, your heart sinking. โYour dad is going to think Iโm a complete lunatic,โ you tell the dog. โOr a dognapper. A very incompetent dognapper.โ
You check the collar. Itโs a beautiful, soft leather. Thereโs a small, silver tag attached. You flip it over, your heart pounding with a sliver of hope.
Itโs engraved with one word: Leo.
Of course. Why would it have his phone number on it? Heโs Charles Leclerc. That would be a security risk.
You sink onto the floor, pulling your knees to your chest. Across the principality, in another apartment that probably has a much better view than yours, is your sassy, judgmental, food-obsessed little girl. And sheโs with a man you just met. A very famous, very handsome man who probably thinks youโre, at best, an idiot, and at worst, a kidnapper.
This is, without a doubt, the most bizarre and stressful thing that has ever happened to you.
Leo rests his head on your knee and lets out a tiny, sympathetic sigh.
***
Meanwhile, in an apartment overlooking the glittering expanse of Port Hercules, Charles is frowning at a ceramic bowl that says โLEOโ in bold, masculine letters.
The small, cream-colored dog sitting primly at his feet looks from the bowl, to him, and back to the bowl, her expression one of utter disdain.
โWhat is this?โ Charles asks the dog, his voice laced with confusion. โIt is your favorite. You love this.โ
He had arrived home feeling lighter than he had in weeks. The encounter at the park had been โฆ nice. Genuinely nice. The woman โ he hadnโt even gotten her name, he realizes with a pang of regret โ was funny and warm, with a laugh that made you want to do whatever it took to hear it again. And her dogโs name โฆ Gretchen Wieners. He smiles to himself just thinking about it.
Heโd walked in, unclipped Leoโs leash, and expected the usual routine: Leo would sprint to his water bowl, drink for a solid minute, then come demand his dinner with a series of impatient yaps.
But this dog hadnโt done that. It had walked calmly to the center of the room, sat down, and just watched him. Politely.
โAre you tired, mon bรฉbรฉ?โ Heโd asked, scratching behind its ears. The dog had leaned into his touch, but it felt different. Less frantic. More refined.
Now, it is refusing to eat.
โLeo, come on. Eat.โ
The dog lets out a delicate little huff, turns its back on the bowl, and trots over to the sofa. It sits on the floor and looks up at the cushion, then back at Charles.
โWhat? You want up?โ
The dog just stares.
โOkay โฆโ Charles says, patting the seat next to him. โCome on, then.โ
The dog, with an air of someone who feels theyโve finally been understood, hops gracefully onto the sofa and curls up in the corner, tucking its nose under its tail.
Charles stares at it. Leo is not a graceful hopper. Leo is a scrambler, a climber. Leoโs method of getting on the couch involves at least two failed attempts and a final, desperate lunge. This was โฆ elegant.
A strange, unsettling feeling begins to prickle at the back of his neck.
He walks over to the sofa and sits down, observing the dog. Itโs the same color. The same size. The same long body and short legs. Butย is its face a little โฆ narrower? Are its eyes a little more โฆ almond-shaped?
โAm I going crazy?โ He murmurs.
The dog opens one eye, regards him, and then closes it again, as if to say, โThat is a question for your therapist, not for me.โ
He leans back, trying to shake it off. Heโs just tired. Itโs been a long week. The dog is just tired, too. Thatโs all.
He scrolls through his phone for a while, replying to messages from his team, his family. The dog doesnโt move. Doesnโt snore. Leo snores. Not loudly, but a soft, whistling sound. This dog is perfectly, unnervingly silent.
Finally, he decides to go to bed.
โOkay, time for bed,โ he says, standing up. โCome on, boy.โ
The dog on the sofa doesnโt move.
โLeo?โ
Nothing.
He walks over and gently picks the dog up. Itโs warm and sleepy in his arms. He carries it towards his bedroom, talking to it in a low, soothing mix of French and Italian, the way he always does.
โโฆ and tomorrow we can go for a long walk, eh? Maybe see your girlfriend again.โ
He sets the dog down on its bed at the foot of his own. As he pulls back his hands, his fingers brush against its stomach.
His hand freezes.
He slowly, carefully, moves his hand again.
There is a distinct lack of something. Something that should be there. Something that has been there every single day of Leoโs life.
Charlesโs blood runs cold.
He lets out a string of curses, a fluent, panicked mix of French, Italian, and English.
โMerde. Porca miseria. No, no, no.โ
He turns on the main bedroom light, flooding the room in a harsh, bright glare. He kneels down and, with the gentleness of a bomb disposal expert, confirms his horrifying suspicion.
This is a female dog.
This is not Leo.
This is Gretchen Wieners.
He stands up so fast he feels a little dizzy. He runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing.
โOkay. Okay.โ
He has her dog. The woman from the park. The funny, beautiful woman whose name he doesnโt even know. He has her dog. And she has his.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat. This is a disaster. But itโs also absurd. He pictures her, wherever she is, having the same moment of shocking discovery.
Unlike you, however, his panic is quickly replaced by a wry sense of determination. He can fix this. But how? He paces his bedroom, Gretchen watching him from her temporary bed with an expression of mild curiosity.
He pulls out his phone. He doesnโt have her number. He doesnโt know her name. But he knows where she was. And he has a very particular set of skills. None of which are useful in this situation.
He checks Gretchenโs collar. A simple leather one, with a gold, heart-shaped tag. He flips it over, hoping for a number, a name, anything.
The tag is engraved.
Gretchen Wieners
If Iโm lost, my mom is probably ugly crying.
Charles reads it. Then he reads it again. And then he throws his head back and laughs. A loud, genuine, relieved laugh that echoes in the silent apartment.
โOh, you are kidding me,โ he says to the dog, a massive grin spreading across his face. โYour mother is a comedian.โ
Gretchen thumps her tail once, as if to say, โThe best.โ
The tag is useless for contact information, but itโs a jolt of pure personality. It reminds him so clearly of her laugh in the park. The stress melts away, replaced by an overwhelming urge to see her again.
He has to find her.
He has a plan. Itโs simple. Itโs perhaps a little optimistic. But itโs all heโs got.
He will go back to the dog park first thing in the morning. And he will pray that she has the exact same idea.
***
You did not sleep.
You spent the night with a very cuddly, very sweet male dachshund who seemed thrilled to be having a sleepover. Leo, it turns out, is a world-class snuggler. He burrowed under the covers and pressed his warm little body against your back all night. It was nice. But it wasnโt Gretchen.
Every tiny sound from the hallway had you jumping, half-expecting a knock on the door from a frantic, or angry, Charles Leclerc. You imagined him with Gretchen, who you know for a fact is a bed-hog and will systematically push a person to the very edge of the mattress over the course of a night. You hope she hasnโt declared a coup and claimed his bed for herself.
At 6 AM, unable to lie there any longer, you get up. Leo follows you, stretching his long body with a groan.
โOkay, new friend,โ you say, your voice rough with exhaustion. โHereโs the plan. We are going back to the scene of the crime.โ
You get dressed with a sense of grim purpose, pulling on jeans and a simple sweater. You forgo makeup. This is a rescue mission, not a fashion show. You clip the leash onto Leoโs collar, your hands clammy.
โPlease be there, please be there, please be there,โ you chant under your breath as you walk out the door.
The morning air is cool and fresh, the sky a pale, promising blue. Monaco is still sleepy, the streets quiet save for the early-morning hum of street cleaners and the cry of gulls. The walk to the park feels ten times longer than it did yesterday. Leo trots beside you, sniffing the air, perfectly content. He has no idea of the international dog-swapping crisis currently unfolding.
As you approach the gates of the park, your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs. The park is mostly empty. An elderly man throwing a ball for a golden retriever. A woman jogging on the perimeter path.
And then you see him.
Heโs standing near the same bench from yesterday, looking out over the grass. And at his feet is a very familiar, very regal cream-colored dachshund.
Relief washes over you so intensely your knees feel weak.
โGretchen!โ You cry out.
Charles turns at the sound of your voice. His face breaks into a wide, relieved smile. Gretchenโs head snaps up, her ears perked, and the moment she sees you, her tail starts whipping back and forth like a metronome on high speed.
At the same time, Leo spots Charles and lets out a series of excited yips, pulling on the leash.
You half-walk, half-run towards each other, meeting in the middle of the lawn like soldiers being reunited in a black-and-white movie.
โI am so sorry,โ you both say at the exact same time.
You stop a few feet from each other, a little breathless, and then you both start to laugh. Itโs a slightly hysterical, sleep-deprived, utterly relieved sound.
โI am so, so sorry,โ you say again, crouching down to unleash Leo, who immediately bounds over to Charles, jumping up on his legs. โI didnโt even look. I just clipped the leash and walked away. I feel like the worst person on the planet.โ
Charles is doing the same, unclipping Gretchen, who sprints the last few feet and practically leaps into your arms. You bury your face in her soft fur, inhaling her familiar dog-smell. โOh, I missed you, you little monster.โ
โNon, non, it is my fault,โ Charles says, ruffling Leoโs ears. โI was โฆ I think I was a bit distracted.โ He looks up at you, and the meaning is clear in his warm eyes. โI am just happy you are here. I was not sure if you would come.โ
โWhere else would I go?โ You say, stroking Gretchenโs back. โI had your dog hostage. I was about five minutes away from creating a city-wide amber alert.โ
He chuckles. โI saw the tag on her collar.โ
You groan, hiding your face in your hands. โOh, god. You saw that.โ
โThe part about the ugly crying?โ he says, his smile teasing. โIt was very, uh, descriptive. I felt I had a responsibility to prevent this.โ
โMortifying. Absolutely mortifying.โ
โI thought it was charming,โ he says softly.
You look up, your cheeks flushing. โSo, how was she? Was she a nightmare? Did she steal your side of the bed?โ
He laughs. โShe is a princess, for sure. She refused to eat from Leoโs bowl. She would not get on the sofa until I formally invited her. And yes, she sleeps horizontally. I think I had maybe ten centimeters of the bed last night.โ
โThat sounds about right,โ you say, shaking your head. โLeo was an angel. Heโs the worldโs best cuddler. And he didnโt eat either. He just whined at Gretchenโs โHer Majestyโ bowl and looked at me like I was trying to poison him.โ
โHe is not used to such a fancy dish,โ Charles says. โHe is a simple man. A baguette.โ
You both smile, the morning sun warming your faces. The dogs, happy to be with their rightful owners, are now sniffing each other again, their crisis averted, their world restored to its proper order.
An easy silence settles between you, filled with the relief of the situation being resolved. But underneath it, thereโs a new tension. The excuse for seeing each other is gone. The dogs are back where they belong. This could be another goodbye.
You canโt let that happen.
He canโt let that happen.
โSo,โ he says, breaking the silence. He shoves his hands in his pockets, a gesture youโre starting to find incredibly endearing. โTo prevent, you know, a future canine mix-up of this magnitude โฆโ
โโฆ we should probably be more careful,โ you finish for him, your heart starting to beat a little faster.
โYes. That. But also, maybe I should have your number,โ he says, his gaze direct and hopeful. โJust in case. For emergencies.โ
โRight,โ you say, your voice a little shaky. โEmergencies. Like if I accidentally take your dog again.โ
โExactly,โ he says, a playful glint in his eye. โOr if, for example, I wanted to ask if you were free for dinner sometime, to properly apologize for my part in the dognapping.โ
A huge, brilliant smile spreads across your face. โI think I could be free for that particular emergency.โ
โGood,โ he says, his own smile mirroring yours. โThat is very good.โ
You pull out your phone, and he pulls out his. You trade numbers, your fingers brushing as you hand his phone back to him. A tiny spark zings up your arm.
โIโll text you,โ he says, his voice low.
โOkay,โ you breathe out.
He lingers for a moment, as if he doesnโt want to leave. โI never got your name yesterday.โ
You tell him. He repeats it, testing it out, the sound of it in his accent making your stomach do a little flip.
โIt was very nice to meet you. Properly, this time,โ he says.
โYou too, Charles.โ
He gives a final scratch to Gretchenโs head. โBe good for your mother, Princess.โ Then he looks at Leo. โCome on, baguette. Letโs go home.โ
You watch him walk away, Leo trotting happily by his side. Just before he exits the park, he turns and gives you one last smile and a wave.
You wave back, your hand feeling floaty and light.
You look down at Gretchen, who is looking up at you with an expression that is somehow both smug and loving.
โWell,โ you say, clipping her leash back onto her collar. โI guess youโre a pretty good wingwoman after all.โ
Gretchen wags her tail, as if to say, โYouโre welcome.โ
charles saw carlos and team 55 overtake them in the middle of an interview, he ditched his interview to try and chase them, got them eventually, โhello mateโ โcarlos is so much better than meโ ๐ญ๐ญ