Style // 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙇𝙚𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙘

6.

Saturday

Wow. Charles has put a lot of effort into this 'lunch'. A small, metal, round table sits in the middle of the shaded balcony. A cream table cloth is draped over the top of the table, with two expensive-looking champagne bottles sitting elegantly in the bronze cooler bucket. The chairs are definitely in the same set with the table, with a similar pattern on the back of the chairs. Roses hung onto the balcony railings give a pop of colour, and also send a pop of questions into my mind.

I thought this was a lunch, not a date...

We don't date, we both know this. But, this looks pretty date-y? Awwww this is so awkward! If I ask and he says 'no' then I'm out of here. If I make a run for the door then I'll end up leaving him with all this set up! How much effort do you think-

"Thank you." Charles replies to my comment, pulling me away from my thoughts. "I thought you'd like it."

"Oh, bless you." I giggle, wrapping my coat tighter around me as we step onto the balcony. "There's nothing you do that I don't like."

Apart from when you spontaneously leave me and come running back.

"I can't remember if you liked champagne." Charles' hand graces off my back, picking up a bottle by it's neck.

"Well, keep it for one of your podiums." I say, eyeing up the bottle.

Charles gives a short hum, his softly joyful face faltering for a brief yet emotionally painful second. The day that Ferrari are better than Red Bull is the day that dinosaurs are brought back to life. Not because of their drivers, but because of Red Bull's flipping amazing cars and Ferrari's flipping awful strategies. Charles knows that as well, but he isn't giving up on them. It's a shame he doesn't have that mindset for our situationships, but both are just as emotionally damaging.

The driver sits across from me in a linen, white shirt that's slightly unbuttoned at the top. He matches the look with tan chinos that doesn't have a single crease in them, and clean white trainers. Another reason for me to think this might be a date! His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, flashing a watch that no doubt costs more than your average car. Or your average life. 

"Where did you get the watch from?" I ask, cocking my head as I stare at it.

"Oh, I can't remember." Charles shakes his head, popping the cork off of the champagne. "Me and my brothers got matching when we went away somewhere, why?"

"It's flashy." I mutter truthfully, though my lips curve into a smirk.

"Hm!" He reacts, his eyes focusing on pouring our drinks. "Brutal."

"You and I both know you're a show-" I pause in my tracks, narrowing my eyes as he pours his own drink first. "What happened to ladies first?"

"Polite ladies first" He tells me, continuing so watch the golden-beige liquid into his glass.

Fair play, if he wants to have things his way!

Charles finishes with his glass, holding the bottle by the base in his palm. As he goes to pour my glass, I pull it back towards me, raising my eyebrow at him. Playing games. It's always something we've both been good at. Crossing the line, however, is something we are yet to learn.

"You're not pouring my drink." I tease, reaching a hand out for the bottle. "Ladies first, otherwise I do it myself."

"Pass me the glass." Charles says with a teasing yet firm tone.

Charles has manners, he is the definition of gentlemanly. You can't have an old-money aesthetic and a pain-in-the-ass attitude to go with it. But, he's so heavily gentlemanly that he rarely lets me pour my own drink.

Charles has manners, his parents taught him well. He's the definition of gentlemanly, but you can't have an old-money aesthetic with a pain-in-the-ass attitude. It goes against all his morals, letting the woman he asked on a date pour her own drink.

Lunch, not a date. Sorry.

"Pass me the bottle, I have two hands." I repeat.

"I'll go get another glass." Charles warns, the bottle still leaning my way.

"I won't drink it."

His ivory green eyes stare into my soul, slowly sucking the life out of me. You can see the cogs in his head working hard, searching for a way to blackmail me into doing what he wants. His posture is tense, pacifying his voice to see if awkward silence will do the trick. Stubborn minds think alike, hence why two fiercely stubborn people will never work together.

"Fine." I say, finally putting my glass on the table.

As Charles pours the bottle, his shoulders relaxing in relief, my eyes wander over the bottle. It's an opaque, gold colour. You can't see the faint line mark that tells you how much is left in the majestic bottle. It has a large Ace of Spades logo on the front, with an 'A' carved in the middle. There's fancy writing underneath the logo, but Charles' hand covers the writing. Is it rude to ask the host what drink he's pouring? Or is it mere curiosity?

"What champagne is that?" I ask, my voice softer than I expected.

"Armand de Brignac." His accent naturally rolls off his tongue. "As Gold Brut, about €360."

Wow, a euro a sip. What a waste of money, if you aren't loaded and living in Monte Carlo. I wonder why it's so expensive, when all champagne tastes like a different brand of liquid soap. Well, for €360, it better taste like I am drinking money! I wait for Charles to put the bottle back in the bucket, then clink our glasses together before taking a sip.

Fuck that's strong.

"How did you escape Stella?" Charles asks, clearly not getting the same initial taste that I am. "She's the strictest mum-friend I know."

"I wonder why." Because she defends me from players like you. "I convinced her to go out with some colleagues."

"Woah, what was that for?" Charles asks with a giggle, frowning at me.

"What was what for?"

"That tone!" He says, his eyes lighting up. "I wonder why, like you're blaming me!"

"Well, you haven't exactly given yourself a great reputation, have you?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"You're framing me to be a heart breaker, Miss Morgan." Charles picks up his drink, bringing the glass to his lips. "I'm not the only one who cuts things off whenever they please."

Charles admits to his faults whilst also blaming me for my own. I chew the inside of my cheek, a guilty smirk sneaking onto my face. I lift the glass to my lips, having my second sip before I put the glass down. We've both cut each other off before, with no remorse, but here we are! So why does it matter? If we can look back and make fun of these moments, who cares?

"I'm used to it by now, I don't let it affect my performance." I lean back into my chair, crossing my arms. "Unlike someone."

"Mhmm, even though I won the first race after our recent split." Charles mimics my actions, putting his glass down. "Break ups fuel your motivation, I'm surprised you haven't found out by now."

"I became a hygienist after one of our first splits, you've always been a reactive driver that relies on other people's downfalls to reach pole position." I fight back, though my tone remains civil. "Even then, you end up throwing yourself into the barrier."

Bahrain 2022 was any man's race once both the Redbulls DNF'd. The top four were your standard racers, with Charles, Sainz, then both the Mercedes. But, the results from there down look like someone's span a wheel with all the driver's names on, and whoever was picked got the next position. Magnussen in 5th, Bottas in 6th in an Alfa Romeo. Tsunoda in 8th place driving an Alpha Tauri, just to top it off. Now, I am no crazy F1 fan that lives and breathes the sport, but those results don't sound right to me.

"Feisty." Charles mumbles with a smirk, looking away from me and out at the horizon. "Are you like this with your patients?"

"No, not many of my patients are F1 drivers that I have on and off relationships with." I smile, cocking an eyebrow.

"Are you going to say anything nice today?" Charles chuckles, shrugging his shoulders.

Probably not!