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)
He’s already at a table near the window when I arrive, waving with both hands like I might miss him otherwise.
“Poppy!” he calls, loud enough for half the restaurant to glance up. “Over here!”
I squeeze out a smile, my cheeks warming, and make my way over.
The moment I sit down, he takes both of my hands in his.
"Wow," he says, eyes wide. "You look really lovely. Like... like a goddess dipped in moonlight."
"Oh - thanks,” I say.
I force myself to hold the moment, to enjoy the compliment, and then I clock the pin on his lapel.
A little silver badge that reads Love Wins.
Interesting choice, but - I mean, okay. Sure.
"So, what are we ordering? Pasta? Pizza?” he asks as he releases my hands and sits back, grinning. “You do love your carbs, don’t you?"
The statement isn’t mean-spirited, exactly, but something about the way he says it - like it’s an adorable quirk, like I’m a greedy little kid stuffing my face with spaghetti - makes my jaw twitch.
"Uh... yeah," I respond after a slightly awkward beat, forcing a small laugh. "I guess I do."
The waiter arrives - a guy around our age with dark curls and a dimpled smile. His eyes flick to me as he takes our orders, and I sit up a little straighter.
Noah notices.
“I’ll have the chicken salad,” he says, voice suddenly louder. “Got to stay lean, you know? Formula One drivers aren’t the only ones who need to stay sharp - especially when they’ve got a girl like this on their arm.”
He gestures towards me with a wink, and I give him a sideways look.
Noah doesn’t even drive. Like, not even a provisional license.
The closest he’s been to Formula One is probably a dodgy racing game on his phone.
But my best friends are currently in Monaco, waiting to watch the Grand Prix.
He knows that I had been invited, though he’d made it pretty clear he didn’t approve of the idea. The champagne, the dresses, the unapologetic fun -
So is this supposed to be a little dig, or something?
I shake the thought away and opt for the carbonara. I figure why the hell not to something sweet, too.
But the moment the waiter leaves, Noah raises an eyebrow at me and eyes me like I’ve committed some dietary betrayal.
"A milkshake?" he asks.
"What?" I frown. "I like milkshakes."
"I can’t remember the last time I had a milkshake. I must have been, like, ten. You’re such a kid sometimes,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Plus, pasta and a milkshake? You're going to crash from all that sugar later."
My grip tightens around the menu, but I don’t say anything.
Because Noah is a nice guy. Really.
He’s just a little…
Opinionated.
* * *
By the time the food arrives, I’ve sat through an entire monologue about Noah’s latest business idea: personalised poems for couples.
"And we could have different packages," he says, gesturing with his fork. "For example, the Platinum Package could include a handwritten poem delivered by singing telegram. Imagine it: a guy showing up to his girlfriend's work to serenade her with a personalised sonnet. Romantic, right?"
I stab at my pasta. "Or a fast track to a restraining order," I mutter.
He doesn’t hear me. Or maybe he just chooses not to.
Instead, he grins.
"Which, speaking of serenades…"
Oh no.
"I have a little surprise for you," he says, winking.
No no no -
"Noah." I swallow. "What did you do?"
Panic prickles up my spine, but instead of answering, he throws one arm dramatically into the air like he’s hailing a cab.
“Maestro!” he calls, actually clicking his fingers like this is a Vegas lounge act; and for some strange reason, a man with a guitar materialises beside our table.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" he announces, his voice deep and dramatic as he calls the attention of the restaurant towards him. "Tonight, we have a special serenade, dedicated from Noah to his lovely girlfriend, Poppy. This one’s just for you, little petal."
The guitarist starts strumming, and I swear that my soul tries to flee my body.
And then -
Oh god.
Noah starts singing along.
Loudly. Off-key.
And with dramatic hand gestures.
I swear that the entire restaurant turns to watch just as he clutches his chest like he’s auditioning for some tragic West End musical, eyes locked on me like this is the climax of our great love story.
My vision blurs. My ears ring.
And the tablecloth is starting to look like a viable hiding place.
Somewhere between the second verse and what I pray is the final chorus, he attempts a falsetto, and I have to force myself not to slide under the table.
Instead, I experience an out-of-body event.
I watch in horror as he winks at a child two tables over. The child looks haunted. I briefly consider faking a seizure.
Finally - mercifully - the song stumbles to an end, and Noah beams, breathless and flushed like he’s just performed at a sold-out arena.