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)
And now he’s just standing over there, looking like he’s having the time of his life while I fight the overwhelming urge to climb under the table, bury myself into the ground and never emerge again.
“Please stop talking,” I practically beg them.
Their laughter continues, and I inhale sharply, forcing myself to sit up and smooth my dress down.
Maybe I can somehow collect the dignity I lost in the past five minutes.
Fine - so he’s not a mechanic. So he’s an actual Formula One driver. So I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours publicly challenging a man who drives at a ridiculously high number of miles per hour for a living.
So what?
It doesn’t change anything.
He’s still smug. He’s still obnoxious. And he’s still an absolute dick.
I straighten my shoulders, taking a slow, measured sip of my wine before setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. I refuse to give that asshole the satisfaction of knowing that this revelation has thrown me.
I glance at Emma and Jas, tilting my chin up defiantly.
“I don’t care if he drives for a living.”
Jas raises her brows, clearly amused. “No?”
“No.” I fold my arms, standing - well, sitting - firm. “He’s still an insufferable asshole.”
Emma grins, barely holding back laughter. “But he’s an insufferable asshole who also drives for Mercedes.”
“That doesn’t make him any less of a stalker,” I say, waving one of my hands dismissively.
Jas snorts. “A stalker?”
“I thought he was an abductor,” Emma drawls.
Oh, for the love of -
“Yes, alright? I may have accused him of trying to kidnap me at the airport. And of stalking me. And of being a mechanic who lies to impress women.”
Jas is openly grinning now. “Wow. You’ve really been busy.”
“You’re lucky he hasn’t taken out a restraining order,” Emma giggles into her wine.
I throw my hands up.
“How was I supposed to know he was a professional athlete?”
"The bone structure, babe," Emma deadpans. "It was right there, all along."
"Oh, sure. Because good-looking men have never had normal jobs before."
“Right. Because the guy dripping in designer clothes and arrogance definitely gave plumber energy,” Jas hums.
“I already told you, I was thinking more mechanic.”
Emma nudges me playfully. “Hey - you should at least ask him to get you tickets for the race.”
“I’d rather watch paint dry.”
“Mmhm. I’m sure.”
“I mean it,” I tell her. “I don’t care.”
“If that’s the truth, then why do you keep looking at him?”
I snap my wandering gaze away from Frederic so fast I might actually pull a neck muscle.
Jas and Emma practically howl with laughter all over again.
Frustrated, I grab my wine and down the rest of it in one gulp.
Apparently, this is the only way I’m getting through the rest of the evening.
Chapter Eighteen
Poppy
The music shifts, pulsing through the warm Monaco air.
It’s the kind of beat that makes even the most reluctant partygoer want to move.
I’m not one of those people. But Emma?
Emma is practically radiating energy, her eyes alight with pure mischief as she grabs both Jas and I by the wrists and drags us toward the dance floor.
“Nope! No arguments!” she declares, already weaving through the crowd. “We are dancing, we are having fun, and we are not spending this entire night sitting like sad, unloved mistresses on a terrace.”
“Wow. That’s oddly specific of you, Em,” Jas comments dryly.
"Move!" Emma orders, nudging us forwards. "And if we just so happen to find handsome dance partners along the way, well, that's just Monaco’s way of rewarding us for existing."
Jas and I exchange another look, but we let her pull us towards the centre of the floor, where the air is thick with champagne, laughter, and the scent of expensive cologne.
Leah is already here, wrapped up in Jacques’ arms, looking like she’s starring in her own limited series about a woman who scams rich men for sport.
I can’t help but smile at the sight of her. She looks as beautiful as ever, and beyond that, happy.
Emma barely lasts five minutes dancing with us before she’s swooped back into the maddening height difference that is her Swiss lawyer-come-model, Finn. He twirls her effortlessly, leaving Jas and me swaying together, doing our best to look like we’re having fun even though neither of us is particularly feeling it.
"This isn't so bad," Jas admits, tapping her fingers against my arm in rhythm. "I mean, I could definitely think of worse things to be than your temporary dance partner."
"Yeah," I agree. "You could be -"
Before I can finish that sentence, someone else finds her first.
A tall, broad-shouldered man - objectively handsome, all tanned skin and perfect teeth - sidles up beside Jas with an easy grin. His body language is confident, but not in an overbearing way.
Just enough to say I know I look good, and I know you know it too.
"You look like you could use a proper dance partner," he says smoothly, his French accent just thick enough to be charming.