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)
“I mean… yeah?” I frown. “He did say that he races cars, but I figured that’s just something guys in Monaco say to sound impressive. So, I guessed that he’s probably a mechanic. Or at least someone that works with cars, rather than in them.”
Emma blinks.
“Just let me get this straight,” she says, her tone so serious that I immediately know I’m doomed. “He told you he races cars, but you assumed that translated to him being a mechanic?”
I hesitate.
“…Yes?”
Finally, Emma lets out a high-pitched laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth like she’s trying not to lose it completely.
“Oh, Poppy.”
Jas leans back in her chair, shaking her head with a deeply amused expression. “Surely not.”
“Oh, this is better than I could have ever imagined,” Em laughs.
I look between the two of them, my stomach dropping.
“What?” I prod, just wanting them to put me out of my bloody misery at this point. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?!”
Emma just grins - the kind of grin that sets off warning bells in my head.
“That’s not a mechanic, babe.”
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline.
“Okay,” I say, dragging out the word. “And you know this how?”
Emma places a delicate hand over her heart, like she’s about to deliver the final, devastating blow.
“That,” she says, her voice practically dripping with amusement, “is Frederic Moreau. One of the newer Formula One drivers for Mercedes.”
My stomach plummets, and I freeze.
I swear that the world tilts slightly beneath me, like I’ve just stepped off a curb I didn’t see coming. In fact, I actually start to feel a little dizzy.
Because somehow, in the disastrously short span of less than twenty-four hours, I have -
One: Started a full-blown verbal war with an F1 driver.
Two: Accused him of attempted abduction - at the airport, no less.
Three: Accused him of stalking me - because apparently, that’s just how my brain works.
And, finally,
Four: Just to really solidify my place in the Hall of Poor Life Choices, I’ve now downgraded his entire career by calling him a mechanic.
Truly a masterclass in humiliation.
“Bloody hell, Pops,” Jas snorts. “He’s an F1 driver, and you told him he fixes cars.”
I think I’m going to throw up.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut. “I can’t do this. I need to leave this country. Immediately.”
My friends are hardly sympathetic to my crisis.
Emma howls with laughter. “Poppy, you - you thought -”
“Don’t talk to me.”
Jas leans back as she cackles, the sound loud and unrestrained as she shakes her head in pure delight. Meanwhile, Emma wipes actual tears from her eyes.
I let out a long, agonised groan, pressing my hands firmly against my face and willing the ground to swallow me whole.
Apparently, the universe really has it out for me.
“No, no,” Jas chokes out, gasping for breath between her laughter. “I need to hear this one from the beginning. Please - tell us again. Right from the start.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I grumble.
The pair of them laugh even harder.
The only thing keeping me from throwing myself off this terrace is the tiny sliver of hope that he hasn’t noticed our collective breakdown over here.
That maybe - just maybe - I can escape this situation with the tiniest shred of dignity intact.
(Ha. Next joke.)
I peek through my fingers, just in case.
He’s still there, of course. Still standing directly across the terrace. Still looking completely at ease. Still chatting with his group of equally well-dressed, equally smug friends.
But he’s also glancing up in my direction between his conversations.
Even from a distance, I can tell there’s a knowing glint in his blue eyes, a flicker of pure amusement that makes my blood heat with fresh mortification. My stomach twists.
Oh, he knows.
He definitely knows.
I knew he was full of himself before, but now?
Now, he looks like a man who has just confirmed something he suspected all along, and my god do I hate it.
I hate that I can practically feel his amusement from here.
I hate that he’s just standing there, enjoying every second of my public humiliation.
And most of all, I hate that he looks so bloody good doing it.
I let out a long, guttural groan and slam my forehead onto the table.
Emma snorts. “Oh, babe. He’s watching us, isn’t he?”
I muffle my response against the tabletop.
“I hate him.”
“No, you don’t,” Jas laughs.
I lift my head just enough to glare at her. “Yes. I do.”
“Nope. You’re officially not allowed to hate him,” Emma says.
“Why not?”
“Because,” she gestures pointedly across the terrace, “he let you fully believe he was a mechanic.”
Jas lifts a knowing brow. “He could have very easily proved to you who he is, but if he didn’t -”
“- then it’s almost like he wanted to see how far you’d take it,” Emma finishes.
They’re so right that it almost hurts.
He had let me go on and on about it - had egged me on, even.