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)
But - no. I refuse to let him have the last word, or pull me into another one of his ridiculous traps like he did at the bar.
So I make a point of stepping past him, my movements deliberate and slow, so close that I almost brush his arm.
Almost.
"That’s cute," I say, my tone sweet yet deadly as my expression drops and my eyes narrow. "But I think I’d rather set myself on fire."
And with that, I walk away, leaving him standing there.
Screw the new bikini.
Screw him.
Chapter Sixteen
Frederic
I watch her walk away, and for the first time in a long time, I laugh.
It’s quiet, under my breath, but it’s real.
Because she’s funny.
And not in the way most women try to be around me. Laughing a little too hard at my jokes, feigning amusement at whatever I say just to keep my attention.
No. She’s genuinely funny. Sharp-witted, quick-tongued, the kind of funny that sneaks up on you and catches you off guard.
And completely unimpressed by me.
It’s refreshing.
I lean against the cool marble of the hallway, crossing my arms as I exhale, still smirking to myself.
In the space of a few days, this girl has accused me of being a potential kidnapper, a stalker, and now - and now - a mechanic.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting back another laugh at the thought.
Of all the things she could have assumed...
Not an athlete. Not some billionaire’s kid. Not a Formula One driver whose face is plastered on billboards, magazines, and giant TV screens around the world.
No. A mechanic.
And the best part?
She was so fucking sure of it.
She looked me up and down like she was analysing some great mystery, and then just decided - with full, unwavering confidence - that I was a guy who works in a garage and lies to women to impress them.
I let my head tip back slightly, inhaling deeply through my nose.
She has no fucking clue who I am.
None.
The realisation sits in my chest like a slow burn, hot and unfamiliar.
Women always know who I am.
It’s a given, a part of my existence. I don’t have to introduce myself; they already have an idea of me built in their heads before I even open my mouth. They see the cars, the lifestyle, the money, the power.
They see Frederic Moreau, the racing driver.
But her?
She sees nothing. Just some guy who pissed her off three times in as many days.
I don’t know why that’s so intoxicating.
She’s interesting. Annoying as hell, sure, but interesting all the same.
And she’s stubborn. Hot-tempered. Completely, utterly unbothered by me.
She’s not swooning. Not looking at me like I’m something impressive, something rare, something to admire.
No, she’s irritated.
And I fucking love it.
I don’t know why I followed her out here. Not really. I saw her step away from her friends, saw her heading down the hall, and like an idiot, I followed. As if I had nothing better to do. As if I wasn’t supposed to be entertaining actual guests, putting on the effortless, untouchable image everyone expects from me.
Instead, I chased after some girl I don’t know.
And for what?
For the pure fucking thrill of it.
Of watching her glare at me. Watching her lips purse, her arms fold, her brain tick as she tried to figure me out like a puzzle she had zero interest in actually solving.
And that’s the thing.
She doesn’t want me. Not in the way other women do.
And that is so fucking addictive.
I drag my tongue over my bottom lip, shaking my head slightly, telling myself to let it go. To turn back, rejoin the party, drink something - a non-alcoholic something, because I have a goddamn race coming up - and forget all about her.
But my mind refuses to obey.
I can still hear her voice, clipped and English and filled with just enough venom to make my lips twitch.
If you’re trying to get my number, you can get fucked.
I huff out another short laugh, rubbing my jaw.
God, she’s funny.
Why is that so dangerous?
I should not be thinking about her this much. I should be thinking about the race. About strategy. About my training.
Not about her.
Not about how she barely looked at me until I irritated her enough to hold her attention.
Not about how she’s probably flounced back to her friends, rolling her eyes and recounting our entire conversation in exasperated detail.
Not about how beautiful she is when she’s pissed off.
I let out a slow breath and straighten up, rolling my shoulders back.
Enough. I have bigger things to focus on.
She’s a distraction. A beautiful one, no doubt, but still a distraction.
I tell myself that, over and over, as I turn and make my way back to the party.
And yet I can’t help but wonder when I’ll see her again.
Chapter Seventeen
Poppy
The evening has settled.
The air is warm, the music is low and just the right level of ambient, and the garden terrace - lit by soft, twinkling lights - feels like something out of a movie.