Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
She looks different now. More relaxed, more at home under the Mediterranean sun. Her hair is loose, catching in the breeze, and when she throws her head back to laugh again, something twists low in my stomach.
Jacques follows my gaze, tipping his sunglasses down his nose slightly as he scans the terrace.
“What are we looking at?”
“Nothing,” I say, too fast.
He smirks.
“Nothing, huh?”
I tear my eyes away, reaching for my drink again.
Fucking hell.
I don’t have time for this. I have a race to win.
And I sure as hell don’t have time to get distracted by a girl who’s already proven to be trouble.
Chapter Nine
Poppy
The sun is setting, casting everything in an impossibly golden-pink light that makes Monaco look like an actual movie set.
The beach club is buzzing, the music has gotten louder, and the drinks are flowing.
Thanks to Leah and her mystery millionaire-slash-potential-billionaire, we haven’t paid for a single thing since mid-afternoon.
Well - except for dignity.
Leah has absolutely been performing for this man; batting her lashes, laughing at every terrible joke, and even doing that thing where she lightly touches his arm while talking.
Honestly, it’s kind of impressive.
It’s like she’s manifested his existence, or something.
“Leah is playing a very dangerous game,” Emma muses, swirling the last of her cocktail in her glass as she looks over at our friend.
“She’s playing a very expensive game,” Jas corrects. “And she’s winning.”
I shake my head, looking away from where Leah is perching on the man’s knee and instead looking around at the sheer wealth on display.
It’s not as though I’m not used to money. My family is comfortable, I went to private school, and I’ve been in enough designer stores to know my way around a Birkin.
But this is insanity.
A man just walked by in a linen shirt that probably cost the same as a small car. Another one, draped casually across a lounge chair, is wearing a Patek Philippe that I know for a fact is worth more than some apartments in London.
It’s overwhelming.
And I’m tipsy.
I’ve been sketching all afternoon, collecting ideas for my modern twist on old-money collection, but now that I’m a few cocktails deep, my sketches are starting to look a little… wobbly.
I spend the next ten minutes or so finishing off the design I’ve been working on, but then I decide it’s probably best to stop before I create something truly tragic.
I set my sketchbook aside and stretch.
“I need another drink,” I declare.
“Leah’s literal millionaire is still paying, you know,” Jas says. “Just order it from here.”
“If you hadn’t noticed, Leah and her literal millionaire have disappeared,” I say. “And I’m not going on a hunt to find them in the name of a free drink.”
Emma pulls her sunglasses down, giving me a look.
“You know where they’ll have gone, right?”
“Honestly?” I grimace. “I dread to think.”
With a sigh, I slide off my sunbed, adjust my oversized hat and my sarong and make my way toward the bar inside the club.
And this?
This is where it all goes wrong.
* * *
The inside of the club is just as extravagant as the outside.
Everything is sleek, polished, and dimly lit - the kind of place where everyone looks like they either own a yacht or are actively trying to marry someone who does.
(One of my best friends included.)
I weave my way through the crowd, sidestepping men in unbuttoned shirts and women in bikinis so tiny they’re practically conceptual, trying to fight off the imposter syndrome as I reach the bar; leaning on its marble surface and smiling at the bartender.
“One frozen strawberry daiquiri, please.”
Yes, I’m aware that I’m in an elite, high-end, ultra-exclusive Monaco hotspot, and yes, I know I could order something chic and minimalistic.
But you know what? I like daiquiris. They’re sweet, they’re strong, and they do the job.
The bartender nods and gets to work, and I take a moment to steady myself.
Okay, so I might be tipsier than I thought.
After a few minutes, a perfectly blended frozen daiquiri in a fancy glass appears before me. I thank the bartender in French as I wrap one of my hands around it, lifting it from the bar -
Just as someone slams into me from behind.
I stumble forwards. My grip on the glass slips, and in what feels like slow-motion, the entire contents of my ice-cold, very red drink spill straight down my front.
I freeze.
A gasp ripples around the bar as I stand there, drenched in a sticky mix of rum, strawberry, and pure horror. My pink bikini is now a darker shade in some very unfortunate places, and I can just about breathe as my body adjusts to the shock.
Behind me, a deep voice mutters, “oh, merde.”
‘Oh, merde’ is right, pal.
I whirl around, my initial shock fizzling out faster than my dignity and quickly morphing into pure, unfiltered rage as I come face-to-face with the absolute menace responsible for turning me into a walking daiquiri disaster.