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)
Though there is one other thing that’s playing on my mind:
That I have a feeling that this game between us is only just getting started.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Poppy
The music pulses, the warm night air thick with the scent of salt and expensive perfume, and my limbs are pleasantly loose from dancing.
I’m not drunk - not even tipsy, really, since I’ve been nursing the same glass for a while - but I definitely need a break, so I make my way to the bar, sliding onto a sleek, high stool and ordering some sparkling water.
I stretch my neck, rolling my shoulders back and letting out a slow exhale as I wait for my drink.
It’s been a good night.
Peaceful and mostly Frederic-free.
Well.
Until it isn’t.
Just as my drink is placed on the bar, a familiar presence settles into the stool beside mine.
I stiffen immediately, glaring straight ahead and willing myself not to react.
But I swear, I can feel him there. The warmth of his body, the casual sprawl of his obnoxiously long legs, the smooth weight of his stare pressing against my side.
I ignore him. Or at least, I try to.
From the corner of my vision, I see him lift his glass, tipping it back effortlessly, his throat bobbing slightly as he swallows down his drink.
And then -
“You seem surprised to see me,” he muses, setting his glass down with a quiet clink.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, reaching for my sparkling water before I turn to face him.
Big mistake.
He looks obnoxiously good, with his dark shirt slightly looser than before, the top buttons undone just enough to now be distracting. His hair is tousled from the heat, and his cheeks are slightly sunkissed.
“I’m not surprised. I’m just disappointed.”
He laughs at that - an actual laugh, deep and warm and frustratingly nice, before he tilts his head, pushing his sunglasses down just slightly so that I can see his eyes.
Bright blue, unreadable, and still filled with that same infuriating glint.
I hate it.
(I hate how I don’t hate it enough.)
“So,” he says smoothly. “Have you recovered from your… revelation?”
I blink, momentarily thrown off.
“My what?”
“You know,” he smirks. “From finally realising who I am.”
My mouth opens and closes repeatedly, and in the end, I just stare at him for a long, drawn-out moment.
Honestly, I can’t quite believe him. Talk about arrogant.
“Are you seriously bringing this up?”
“Why not?” he muses. “It’s funny. It doesn’t happen much.”
I scoff, already feeling beyond irritated.
This trip was supposed to be a relaxing break, but at this rate, my blood pressure is going to be higher than it's ever been.
“Oh, I’m so sorry for not immediately recognising you, Mr. Formula One Driver.”
Like the condescending asshole that he is, his lips twitch. I hate the fact that this is all so amusing to him - that I’m so amusing to him.
“That’s not my name.”
“No, but it’s the only one you’re getting from me today.”
“Ah, I see,” he says as his smirk widens. “We’re back to playing games again.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say as I glare at him. “We were never playing games.”
He looks entirely unconvinced. “Whatever you say, mon ange.”
I bristle. “Stop calling me that.”
“But it suits you so well.”
I groan, tipping my head back toward the sky, praying for patience.
Then - because I am apparently incapable of just letting things go - I glance back over at him.
“You know, for someone who is supposedly super busy driving at deadly speeds for a living, you seem to have an excessive amount of free time to irritate me.”
“I think you’ll find that I’m very good at multitasking, Poppy.”
He drags out my name, and oh, fuck me - I hate him.
I hate that he’s good-looking in the most annoying way possible.
I hate that he clearly knows I’m annoyed and is thriving off it.
I hate how lovely his French accent is.
And I especially hate that I suddenly can’t stop looking at him.
“I don’t know why you’re complaining,” he continues. “If anything, you should be grateful.”
“Grateful?” I scoff. “Grateful for what?”
I raise my glass to my lips again, and fucking hell - I’m going to need another drink already.
Arguing with this irritating prick is thirsty work.
“For Monaco’s relentless ability to keep us in each other’s space,” he says, gesturing vaguely around us. “It’s almost like fate, non?”
“Oh my god,” I splutter, almost choking on the last of my drink.
“What?” he smirks.
“You did not just say that.”
He lifts a shoulder, completely unbothered. “Would you prefer I call it a coincidence?”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t talk,” I mutter.
“A tragedy,” he grins.
I inhale sharply, clenching my jaw.
Just before I can make the objectively smart decision to remove myself from this situation, Emma suddenly appears at my side, grinning like she’s just found treasure.
“Poppy, darling!” she smiles, before turning her attention over to my nemesis. “Oh, hi, Frederic,” she says, her voice suddenly much higher in pitch, her tone far too innocent.