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)
Like I’m beneath her.
Like I’m some inconvenience in her otherwise perfect little world.
The gall of it. The sheer audacity of her, standing in front of my friends, in my space, and telling me - me - that she finds my presence exhausting. That I keep appearing at the moments she least wants to see me.
That should have pissed me off. And it does.
But what’s most infuriating?
She enjoys it.
It’s there in the little smirk she fights each time she hits me with a quick-witted remark. The glint in her eyes when she bites back. She enjoys riling me up, likes pushing my buttons and clapping right back at me, as if it’s all just some game for her amusement.
And the worst part?
I’m fucking playing.
I exhale sharply through my nose, gripping my glass tighter and somehow resisting the overwhelming urge to hurl it into the fucking ocean.
“She’s funny,” Étienne remarks, breaking the thick silence that Poppy left in her wake.
A few others hum in vague agreement.
But not Bastien.
Bastien, who’s always the first to talk too much, the first to run his mouth when he shouldn’t. He scoffs, shaking his head as his lip curls in something borderline derisive.
“Funny?” he sneers. “She’s got a fucking attitude.”
I still.
My fingers curl a fraction tighter around the glass, my grip shifting, my body tensing.
I say nothing.
Bastien notices.
And the fucker smirks. Clearly emboldened by my silence - by the fact that I haven't immediately shut him down - he leans back in his chair, stretching out like he’s about to deliver some groundbreaking fucking insight.
“Someone needs to shut that pretty mouth of hers,” he continues casually. “I’d be happy to do it.”
The crack of my glass hitting the table is sharp and final.
The energy shifts instantly, and a thick, heavy silence slams down over the group.
Not a single fucking sound.
I lean forwards - slowly, deliberately, the movement unhurried but dripping with intent. My arms brace against the table, my posture loose yet controlled, but every single part of me is coiled like a predator ready to strike.
Bastien’s smirk falters.
Good.
I don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Don’t waver as I lock onto him, my stare turning sharp, dangerous, a lethal warning cloaked in silence.
I wait.
Let him feel it.
Let him understand what happens when he forgets who the fuck he’s talking to.
The tension thickens, pressing down and almost suffocating. Étienne shifts slightly beside him, discomfort flickering across his face. Renaud clears his throat, his fingers twitching against his drink like he’s debating whether or not to intervene.
He doesn’t. No one does.
No one is stupid enough.
“Don’t speak about her like that,” I say.
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a warning.
A final fucking warning.
Bastien knows it.
After all, he knows me, and he knows when to back the fuck down.
For a second too long, he holds my stare, his jaw shifting slightly. A bead of sweat forms at his temple.
Then, finally, he scoffs under his breath, shaking his head like I’m the one being irrational.
“She’s got you wound up, man,” he mutters after a beat, lifting his drink to his lips, feigning indifference. “That’s all I’m saying.”
I don’t respond.
I don’t fucking have to.
The moment hangs, the weight of my silence pressing down on the table, on him.
No one speaks. Not a single person so much as shifts in their seat.
The ice in someone’s drink melts with an audible crack -
And then, just like that, someone mutters a new topic under their breath - some safe, neutral, boring bullshit. After a slight pause, the conversation picks up again, shifting and moving on.
But I’m not listening. Not fucking remotely.
I lean back in my chair, rolling my neck, trying to ease the unbearable tension still wired through my body. My fingers curl around my glass again, and for the first time in a long time, I wish I had something stronger.
I never drink in the build up to races. But even if I did, I already know the truth.
Nothing would work, because she’s already in my head.
Poppy.
A stupid, soft little name for a woman who’s anything but soft.
Sharp tongue. Sharp mind.
A wild little thing, untamed and unpredictable, a hurricane wrapped in silk and stubbornness.
And I want her.
I want to wipe that smirk off her face, make her bite her lip for a different reason. I want to push her until she stops pretending she’s not affected by me, until she stops lying to herself.
I want to break her.
And fuck, I think I want her to break me, too.
I take a slow sip of my drink, my jaw tight, my entire body thrumming with something I can’t fucking name.
I need to pull myself together.
I’ve got a race to win. I don’t do distractions.
Who am I kidding at this point?
How many times have I repeated this same mantra to myself, over and over and over again?
All since I met her: the most beautiful, infuriating, intoxicating distraction.