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)
The water pounds over me as I brace myself, steadying my breath, my heart still hammering, pulse still racing, body still thrumming with the aftershocks.
I should feel better now. Lighter.
But I don’t. If anything, I feel worse.
This isn’t me. I don’t let my focus slip like this. I don’t get caught up in distractions.
And Poppy is nothing if not a distraction.
I push off the wall, shutting off the water and dragging a towel around my waist as I step out of the shower.
The cool air in the suite does nothing to settle me. It’s beyond frustrating.
I need to pull myself together.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back to normal. Back to focus. Back to winning.
And Poppy?
She won’t cross my mind again.
I’ll make sure of it.
Chapter Twenty
Poppy
I wake up to the sound of aggressive rustling and the distant clinking of coffee cups.
I groan, cracking one eye open, fully prepared to tell whoever is moving around to shut up - but then I remember where I am.
Monaco.
And then, after a few more seconds, the rest of it comes flooding back - particularly the events of last night.
Jacques’ ridiculous mansion. The dancing. The drinking.
The utter humiliation of discovering that the man I had been verbally sparring with for the last twenty-four hours is, in fact, a Formula One driver.
I groan again, louder this time, rolling onto my stomach and pressing my face into the pillow.
Nope. I’m not dealing with this today.
Unfortunately, the universe has other plans.
“Rise and shine, my loves!” Leah says in a sing-song voice, appearing out of nowhere with a suspicious amount of energy for someone who has been missing in action for most of this trip.
Jas groans from the other bed, and I crack my eye open just in time to witness her blindly reaching for a pillow and chucking it in Leah’s general direction.
“Get out.”
Leah dodges the pillow effortlessly, grinning as she slides into a chair by the table, which is now covered in a hotel-worthy breakfast spread - croissants, fresh fruit, juices, and, thank god, coffee.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as I sit up, blinking blearily. “Shouldn’t you be living it up with your future husband?”
“Jacques has meetings this morning,” Leah says. “And - well. A little birdie texted me last night that I missed something very important.”
Emma - who is somehow already dressed and drinking coffee like she didn’t just dance the night away in the arms of a Swiss model - grins over her cup.
“Oh, believe me - you did.”
Leah beams. “Tell me everything.”
Em scoots onto the bed next to me, grinning far too much for my liking.
“Would you like to do the honours, Poppy?” she teases.
I scowl at her. “No.”
Jas grins as she sits up, stretching her arms above her head.
“Oh, allow me, then.”
I watch and listen in horror as Jas and Emma tag-team the storytelling, dramatically reenacting last night’s entire sequence of events - starting from the bathroom collision, to the dance-floor ambush, to my absolutely iconic (their words, not mine) declaration that I wasn’t into tortured poets.
Leah is riveted, gasping in all the right places and grinning like she’s watching a live-action rom-com unfold before her eyes.
When they finally finish, she places her hand over her heart and exhales dramatically.
“This,” she says, clearly delighted, “is cinema.”
Emma nods. “I know.”
“It’s not cinema,” I groan, pressing my hands against my face. “I’m not interested in him. Not in the slightest.”
Leah smirks. “Mmmhmm.”
“Don’t you start, too,” I glare at her.
Jas, now sipping a cappuccino like this is a casual Monday morning discussion, hums.
“I think it’s time we do some research.”
Emma grins, already reaching to unplug her phone from the charging socket.
“Oh, you’re so right.”
“No.” I point at her. “Absolutely not.”
But it’s too late.
Leah grabs her phone, Jas leans forward, and within seconds, the three of them are deep into Google’s treasure trove of information on Frederic Moreau.
I sip my coffee, watching in silent horror as they scroll through page after page.
“Ooooh,” Emma says, delighted, “he’s twenty-six. I didn’t realise that.”
“Older man,” Jas muses. “Respectable.”
“Six foot one - that’s tall for an F1 driver,” Leah grins.
“From northern France,” Emma adds, scrolling. “Not much personal info, though.”
Jas narrows her eyes at the screen. “Yeah. Weirdly private.”
I take an aggressive bite of my croissant.
“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t want people like you doing this exact thing.”
Leah ignores me as she clicks onto his Instagram.
“Oh, hello,” she says, eyes twinkling as she scrolls through his perfectly curated feed.
Emma leans over her shoulder. “Tagged photos check?”
Leah nods and taps the tagged photos section. More photos appear - some with his team, some from racing weekends, some clearly from nights out, and Jas hums.
“Well, he looks very single.”
Leah sighs dramatically. “Tragic.”
“You should fix that,” Emma grins at me.
I almost choke on my coffee.
“Absolutely not.”
Leah grins at me, wiggling her brows.
“Come on, Poppy. He’s French. He’s charming. He’s insufferable in a way that’s clearly doing something to you.”