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 way he leans in, deliberate and slow, testing my patience, daring me to break first.
Fuck, he’s infuriating.
And then there was our game of cat and mouse. I can’t help but think of the way my pulse had raced as I weaved through the yacht, adrenaline thrumming through my veins as I refused to admit even to myself that I’d wanted him to follow.
That I’d wanted him to catch me.
And when he finally did - when he grabbed me and pulled me into the room, when he pressed me up against that door and took what we both knew was inevitable, what we both knew was his - my body had sung with the thrill of it.
Even now, even after everything, my body still betrays me.
I swear that I can still feel the phantom press of his hands on my skin, the heat of his breath against my throat. I can still hear it loud and clear - the way he murmured my name like he was staking a claim.
Like he already knew I would let him.
I exhale sharply, my fingers tightening around the arms of the chair.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I swore I was done with men. That this summer was about me. About focusing on my career, my future, my designs.
And yet, here I am, folding for the first man I met in Monaco.
Not just any man, either. A man who is the exact opposite of everything I should want.
He’s reckless. Unpredictable. The human embodiment of trouble.
But he’s also magnetic, pulling me in whether I like it or not.
And I’m certainly not one for poetry, but it is strange how we keep colliding over and over again.
With a sigh, I push myself up from the chair and step back inside, the cool air of the suite a stark contrast to the balmy night outside. I slide the balcony door shut and twist the lock, double-checking it before pulling the curtains closed, shutting out the glittering expanse of Monaco beyond.
Something about the night feels too open, too exposed.
I cross the room, padding barefoot across the plush carpet. I check the main door to the suite, pressing down on the handle just to make sure it is in fact locked.
Jas is still in the shower - water running, muffled sounds of whatever song she’s singing floating faintly through the door. Emma is dead to the world, sprawled face down in bed, barely moving, her slow, even breaths the only sign of life.
And I should get into bed. I need to sleep.
I do the first part, at least.
Slipping beneath the sheets, I roll onto my side and close my eyes, willing my mind to go quiet, willing my body to relax.
But sleep doesn’t come.
My head is full of him.
Of the way his hands felt on me. Of the way his voice curled around my name. Of the way I let him touch me, take me, claim me in a way I swore I wouldn’t let any man do again.
With a frustrated exhale, I sit up and reach for the nightstand.
The black card is still there, right where I left it.
I pick it up, turning it between my fingers, brushing my thumb over the embossed digits.
It’s ridiculous, really. That something so small could carry so much weight.
That a single string of numbers could be the difference between walking away and walking straight back into the fire.
I should have thrown it away and forced myself to forget it ever existed. That he ever existed.
Instead, I reach for my phone.
With one last wavering breath, I type in the digits, hesitating for a fraction of a second before entering his name as a contact.
Frederic.
And, with my heart pounding, I type out a message.
Thank you for the swimwear.
I hover over the send button, my finger trembling slightly. After all, once I send it, there’s no taking it back.
Before doubt can creep in - before I can talk myself out of it - I press send.
And the instant the message delivers, I know that there’s no undoing this.
Whatever happens next, I’ve just set it in motion.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Poppy
I wake with a start, the morning light spilling in through a small gap in the curtains.
My body feels heavy. Probably because I barely slept.
No matter how hard I tried, sleep never fully claimed me. Instead, I tossed and turned for hours, my thoughts tangled in one infuriating man.
I may have checked my phone once.
Or twice.
Okay - closer to thirty times.
And every single time, the result was the same.
Nothing.
No reply. No acknowledgment.
Not even a single read receipt.
I bury my face into the pillow, resisting the urge to scream in frustration.
Why did I message him? Why did I let myself get sucked into whatever this is?
I should’ve just thrown that stupid card into the bin and gone to sleep, but no.