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)
My eyes fly back open as I turn to face him once more. "Have you lost your mind?"
"You tell me, mon ange. After all, you're the one who keeps ending up in my presence."
"Excuse me,” I scoff, unimpressed. “You keep appearing where I am."
"That’s one way to see it," he shrugs.
"It’s the only way to see it!"
“I was here first,” he says, clearly amused. I narrow my eyes as he lifts his glass, studying the liquid casually, like this conversation is completely beneath him. "Like I said before - perhaps it’s fate after all."
I lean forwards to snatch a cocktail napkin from the side of the bar and whip it at his face as quickly as I can.
Despite my speed, he just laughs, dodging the napkin easily.
Ugh. I mean it - I hate him.
I hate him so much.
But for one reason or another, my ridiculous brain refuses to ignore the way he’s lounging so effortlessly, how the bright afternoon sunlight catches the edge of his sharp jawline -
How his stupid, infuriating smirk is so dangerously attractive it should be illegal.
He tilts his head and looks at me - really looks at me - and something in his expression changes.
"You're staring," he murmurs, his voice lower, now; almost playful.
I quickly snap out of it.
"I was not."
He lifts a brow. "Hmm."
I hate the way that one noise makes my face heat.
I clear my throat and straighten my posture, trying to regain control of this entire situation.
"So," I say, voice flat. "Do you spend a lot of your free time terrorising women on yachts?"
"Only the ones who steal my car, accuse me of stalking them, and claim I'm a mechanic pretending to be a driver."
I momentarily close my eyes and shake my head from side to side, my lips rolling together as I cling to the last of my patience.
"I knew you were never going to let that go.”
"What can I say? It was an excellent moment for me."
"And a terrible moment for me,” I grumble.
"See? Balance," he grins, sipping his drink.
And then - because apparently, I’m incapable of shutting up - I blurt out, "you're really not as charming as you think you are, you know."
He lowers his glass slightly, amusement dancing across his handsome features. "No?"
"No."
He leans in just enough to send my heart into an outright panic, voice dropping to something far too smooth.
"Then why are you still sitting here?"
I stiffen.
The asshole has a point, and I desperately want to have an answer that isn’t I hate how much I fancy you and it’s ruining my life.
So, I roll my eyes instead, pointedly ignoring the way he’s watching me as I reach towards the nearest bowl of olives just to busy myself.
But then, without breaking eye contact, I very deliberately pluck one from the dish, pop it into my mouth, and chew slowly - like I have all the time in the world.
Frederic's smirk deepens, his amusement undeterred.
I keep my gaze on him and watch as he shifts back slightly, stretching in his seat, but his eyes - bright, sharp and entirely too focused - don’t waver from me.
Or, more specifically, from my mouth.
The way his gaze lingers - tracking the slow movement of my lips - sends an unexpected warmth curling through my stomach.
And as with everything else associated with this man, I hate it.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, and drop the olive pit onto a napkin, forcing myself to act unbothered.
Frederic chuckles, shifting again - just enough to make it infuriatingly obvious that he’s comfortable, that he’s winning whatever this new game is.
I quickly shove another olive into my mouth just to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret.
Frederic watches me with pure, unfiltered amusement, like I’m the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all day, and I chew, trying with all my might to ignore the way his obnoxiously blue eyes continue to flicker to my mouth.
I swear, it’s almost like he’s waiting to see if I’ll crack first.
Spoiler alert: I won’t.
The fabric of my silk dress brushes against my skin as I shift slightly in my seat, the cinched waist and low neckline suddenly feeling far too revealing under his intense scrutiny.
My blonde hair, styled into loose, tousled waves, feels too perfectly placed for a man who’s looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out, and so I brush it back off my face as I take another sip of champagne, hiding behind the glass before forcing myself to match his energy.
“You’re one to talk about staring, you know,” I say, tilting my head. “You look like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”
Frederic smirks, shifting slightly so that his ridiculously broad shoulders stretch against the crisp material of his open-collared shirt.
“Maybe you bring out the worst in me,” he muses, voice dripping with something I don’t trust.