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 smirk, shaking my head slightly. "I don’t fluster."
"Oh, I bet you do," she teases. "Maybe we just haven’t found the right thing yet."
I chuckle lightly, brushing off the comment.
The problem is, I already know what flusters me, and I fucking hate it.
A certain blonde English girl.
I shift in my seat, pushing the thought away.
The journalist watches me, clearly hoping for some kind of slip-up.
I don’t give her one.
Instead, I meet her gaze with an easy confidence, my voice smooth and unwavering.
"You’ll have to keep searching," I say simply.
She pouts, but her amusement doesn’t fade.
"Well," she says, flipping to the next page in her notes. "Let’s talk about something else that’s been making headlines."
I already know where this is going.
She glances down at her notes, reading directly from them.
"Rumors about your personal life have been swirling lately. There’s been some speculation -"
I exhale sharply through my nose.
Of course there has.
It’s always the same. Every season, every win, every event. The speculation, the gossip, the who is Frederic Moreau dating? headlines that litter the tabloids.
I have no interest in playing that game.
"No comment," I say smoothly, before she can even finish her question.
“Oh, come on,” she lets out a small, breathy laugh. "Just a hint?"
"Do I look like someone who gives hints?"
"Fine. You’re impossible, you know that?" she sighs, shaking her head.
"So I’ve been told."
The interview wraps up soon after, and as she stands, she flashes me one last smile.
"If you ever decide to break that no comment rule," she says lightly, "you know where to find me."
I nod politely, but my attention is already elsewhere.
I’ve got more training to do. More work to put in.
I don’t have time for this.
I don’t have time for anything outside of racing.
And yet, as I leave the media room and make my way back towards the paddock, my mind drifts again.
Not to the journalist. Not to the race.
To her.
To Poppy.
To the way she looked up at me on the dance floor, lips parted, eyes flashing with something both infuriated and intrigued.
To the way she resisted, the way she pushed back, only to fall in step with me so easily.
To the way she walked away, leaving me standing there, smirking like she hadn’t just managed to burrow her way into my head.
I shake my head to myself, exhaling sharply.
Get a fucking grip, Moreau.
I’ve got bigger things to worry about.
Like the fact that my phone is ringing, and it’s Jacques’ name that’s flashing on screen. He only calls me when he needs or wants something, and so I sigh as I raise the phone to my ear, dreading to think what he wants now.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Poppy
Last-minute deviations are never a good sign.
One minute, we’re all set for a low-key afternoon - something involving cocktails, sunbathing, and zero run-ins with infuriating Frenchmen - the next, we’re on our way to a yacht party.
Apparently, Jacques - Leah’s new millionaire husband (in the making) - has invited us all aboard his obnoxiously massive floating palace.
And I should have known.
I should have known that agreeing to this - agreeing to a party hosted by a man who seems to exclusively surround himself with people who own at least three passports and far too many offshore accounts - would mean one thing:
That Frederic Moreau would be here.
Because of course he is.
This is Monaco, and apparently, the universe has decided that I can’t escape him for more than a day at a time.
I groan internally as I step aboard the yacht that’s so large it probably has its own postcode, sliding on my sunglasses in an attempt to shield my eyes from the blinding afternoon sun.
“You owe me for this,” I mutter to Leah, who looks positively glowing in a white linen dress, her golden tan flawless.
“Oh, I absolutely do not,” Leah grins, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she slips her sunglasses up her nose.
Emma smirks beside me. “You literally have nothing better to do.”
“Yeah,” Jas says in agreement. “What were you going to do instead - sit in the hotel and sketch angry couture designs?”
“That sounds amazing, actually.”
The girls ignore me as Leah gestures to the yacht’s ridiculously extravagant bar.
“Well, we’re here now,” she says, adjusting her sunglasses. “We might as well enjoy it.”
She’s not wrong.
This is exactly what I’d expect from a Grand Prix weekend yacht party - an absurd display of wealth, dripping in excess.
The yacht’s deck alone is the size of a small nightclub, lined with plush white loungers and glimmering glass railings that make the entire thing look like a floating five-star hotel.
Waiters glide effortlessly through the crowd, balancing trays of perfectly chilled champagne flutes while groups of models, socialites, and suspiciously well-groomed men cluster together, sipping drinks and laughing in the way that only rich people do.
Like they don’t have a single real concern in the world.