Chapter Nine
Poppy
T he sun is setting, casting everything in an impossibly golden-pink light that makes Monaco look like an actual movie set.
The beach club is buzzing, the music has gotten louder, and the drinks are flowing.
Thanks to Leah and her mystery millionaire-slash-potential-billionaire, we haven’t paid for a single thing since mid-afternoon.
Well - except for dignity.
Leah has absolutely been performing for this man; batting her lashes, laughing at every terrible joke, and even doing that thing where she lightly touches his arm while talking.
Honestly, it’s kind of impressive.
It’s like she’s manifested his existence, or something.
“Leah is playing a very dangerous game,” Emma muses, swirling the last of her cocktail in her glass as she looks over at our friend.
“She’s playing a very expensive game,” Jas corrects. “And she’s winning. ”
I shake my head, looking away from where Leah is perching on the man’s knee and instead looking around at the sheer wealth on display.
It’s not as though I’m not used to money. My family is comfortable, I went to private school, and I’ve been in enough designer stores to know my way around a Birkin.
But this is insanity .
A man just walked by in a linen shirt that probably cost the same as a small car. Another one, draped casually across a lounge chair, is wearing a Patek Philippe that I know for a fact is worth more than some apartments in London.
It’s overwhelming.
And I’m tipsy.
I’ve been sketching all afternoon, collecting ideas for my modern twist on old-money collection, but now that I’m a few cocktails deep, my sketches are starting to look a little… wobbly .
I spend the next ten minutes or so finishing off the design I’ve been working on, but then I decide it’s probably best to stop before I create something truly tragic.
I set my sketchbook aside and stretch.
“I need another drink,” I declare.
“Leah’s literal millionaire is still paying, you know,” Jas says. “Just order it from here.”
“If you hadn’t noticed, Leah and her literal millionaire have disappeared,” I say. “And I’m not going on a hunt to find them in the name of a free drink.”
Emma pulls her sunglasses down, giving me a look.
“You know where they’ll have gone, right? ”
“Honestly?” I grimace. “I dread to think.”
With a sigh, I slide off my sunbed, adjust my oversized hat and my sarong and make my way toward the bar inside the club.
And this?
This is where it all goes wrong.
* * *
The inside of the club is just as extravagant as the outside.
Everything is sleek, polished, and dimly lit - the kind of place where everyone looks like they either own a yacht or are actively trying to marry someone who does.
(One of my best friends included.)
I weave my way through the crowd, sidestepping men in unbuttoned shirts and women in bikinis so tiny they’re practically conceptual, trying to fight off the imposter syndrome as I reach the bar; leaning on its marble surface and smiling at the bartender.
“One frozen strawberry daiquiri, please.”
Yes , I’m aware that I’m in an elite, high-end, ultra-exclusive Monaco hotspot, and yes , I know I could order something chic and minimalistic.
But you know what? I like daiquiris. They’re sweet, they’re strong, and they do the job.
The bartender nods and gets to work, and I take a moment to steady myself.
Okay, so I might be tipsier than I thought.
After a few minutes, a perfectly blended frozen daiquiri in a fancy glass appears before me. I thank the bartender in French as I wrap one of my hands around it, lifting it from the bar -
Just as someone slams into me from behind.
I stumble forwards. My grip on the glass slips, and in what feels like slow-motion, the entire contents of my ice-cold, very red drink spill straight down my front.
I freeze.
A gasp ripples around the bar as I stand there, drenched in a sticky mix of rum, strawberry, and pure horror. My pink bikini is now a darker shade in some very unfortunate places, and I can just about breathe as my body adjusts to the shock.
Behind me, a deep voice mutters, “oh , merde. ”
‘ Oh, merde ’ is right, pal .
I whirl around, my initial shock fizzling out faster than my dignity and quickly morphing into pure, unfiltered rage as I come face-to-face with the absolute menace responsible for turning me into a walking daiquiri disaster.
It's him .
The smug, ridiculously attractive, possibly deranged French man from the airport.
His blue eyes flash with recognition just as mine do, and for a brief, fleeting second, I think that he’ll at least have the basic human decency to look embarrassed.
“What. The. Fuck !”
I place my empty glass down on the bar, trying to ignore the fact that my sticky sheer sarong is clinging to me uncomfortably.
I grit my teeth as a cold chill rolls through my body and watch as the corners of his lips twitch, like he’s desperately trying to hold back a laugh .
Oh, I hate him.
"Do you find this funny?" I demand.
He exhales, shaking his head.
"No, no -"
But he definitely laughs.
"Oh my god," I seethe. "You do find it funny!"
" No ," he insists again, his French accent thick as his lips continue to twitch. "It’s just… it is a very dramatic color, no?"
I gape at him.
I am soaked. I am sticky. I am freezing.
And I am absolutely, unequivocally furious.
Not only because this is the second time in two days that this man has appeared in my life uninvited, but because he has now ruined my outfit in the process.
The thought has me narrowing my eyes as I glare at him, hard .
"Are you following me?"
He blinks, genuinely looking confused.
" Pardon ?"
"I mean, first the airport, now here?" I press on. "Let me guess - you just so happened to be at this bar, just so happened to be standing right behind me, and just so happened to knock into me at the exact moment I was holding my drink?"
He tilts his head, amusement dancing in his annoyingly bright eyes.
"You think I am… what? A stalker ?"
I gesture dramatically at myself. "You tell me! "
His lips curve into a slow, lazy smirk, like this is all some great source of entertainment for him.
"If I was stalking you, mon ange ," he says smoothly, "I would be much better at it."
I bristle.
The bartender leans over and hands me some napkins, and I just about manage a tight-lipped smile in thanks before I begin furiously dabbing at my ruined outfit.
"Do you know how expensive this bikini is?" I huff.
Honestly, I don’t even know what possesses me to say it. But I’m cold, wet, and thoroughly pissed off, and I need to make that very, very clear.
He simply lifts a brow, his gaze flicking down to the damp mess of my once-perfect outfit.
"I would guess… not as expensive as you want me to think."
Oh, he did not just say that.
I exhale sharply, my tipsy brain scrambling for the correct level of fury.
"You are buying me another drink."
He shrugs. "Bien s?r."
He subtly nods in the direction of the bartender, who I assume is still staring at the absolute state of me, just like everyone else around us.
"And you are apologising properly."
The bastard smirks again, like he’s enjoying winding me up.
"Oh? The ' merde ' was not enough for you?"
"Not even close. "
He presses a hand to his chest, his expression mock-sincere, and his blue eyes glint with mischief.
"Well, then I am deeply sorry for ruining your incredibly expensive bikini."
I glare.
"You're not taking this seriously."
"Because, mon ange ," he murmurs, leaning in slightly, "you are very funny when you are mad."
I scowl, refusing to acknowledge the fact that my stomach tightens slightly at the way he says mon ange .
I hate him.
I hate that he has the audacity to be this good-looking whilst tormenting me.
And I especially hate the fact that some deranged part of me kind of enjoys arguing with him. Just a little.
The bartender slides a fresh daiquiri onto the bar, and I snatch it up, fully ignoring the way Mr. Smug Frenchman watches me over the rim of his own drink.
I take a long sip, willing myself to recover even a shred of dignity.
It does not work.
Because then, with the audacity of a man who has never suffered consequences in his entire life, he tilts his head, smirks that infuriating smirk, and says -
"Are you always this much of a disaster?"
I literally gasp .
"Excuse me?" I splutter, gripping my glass so tightly I might actually shatter it .
He has the nerve to look intrigued, like I’m some kind of fascinating little spectacle that’s wandered into his night uninvited.
"It’s just an observation," he muses, leaning an elbow against the bar, far too relaxed for someone who just turned me into a human cocktail. "First, you manage to spill an entire drink all over yourself -"
I stab a finger in his direction. "You knocked into me."
"That’s not how I remember it."
"Oh? And how do you remember it?"
He tilts his head, like he’s about to deliver something profound.
"I remember you stumbling into me -"
"That is absolutely not true -"
"And like the true gentleman that I am," he continues, ignoring my protest, "I was simply trying to steady you."
I let out a slow breath, willing myself not to lean over and strangle him.
Before I can argue further, he turns slightly, speaking in rapid French to the group of men standing beside him.
I’d been so blinded by rage - and, fine, maybe mildly distracted by how obnoxiously good-looking he is - that I hadn’t even noticed his friends standing nearby, watching our entire shit show of an interaction.
Whatever he says is apparently hilarious ( though I highly doubt it ), because one of them bursts out laughing. The man shoots him a knowing look before the whole group picks up their drinks and saunters off towards the main crowd, leaving him alone at the bar with me .
I exhale sharply, watching them disappear.
So. He’s not alone.
Great. Now there are more witnesses to the crime I’m about to commit.
"What?" he asks as he turns back to me, smirking like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself.
I shake my head, exhaling sharply.
"I’m leaving,” I tell him. “Before I develop an actual criminal record."
I turn, fully prepared to march away, but he can’t just let me have the last word.
"Running away so soon, mon ange? " he drawls, tilting his head.
I freeze mid-step, my fingers tightening around my glass.
Oh, hell no.
I turn back around so fast that I nearly knock into him again, slightly dizzy from the rapid movement.
" Wow ," I scoff, throwing my hands up. "You’re actually the worst."
"No. I’m just very good at handling dramatic situations."
" Dramatic ?" I echo, voice rising. "You poured an entire cocktail down me!"
He waves a hand dismissively, as though I’ve just accused him of something as minor as stealing a parking space.
"A little daiquiri never hurt anyone."
I gesture at myself - my once-faultlessly chic outfit now a sticky, strawberry-scented catastrophe.
" A little daiquiri ?” I say. “I look like a crime scene!"
His lips twitch.
"A very fashionable crime scene, at least."
I swear on all that is good and holy -
I inhale sharply, willing myself not to shove my entire drink into his obnoxiously symmetrical face.
Really, it would only be fair. That way, we’d be even.
"I’m sorry," I deadpan, "are you trying to piss me off?"
"No." He takes another slow sip of his drink, completely unbothered by my righteous fury. "I truly am very remorseful."
I glare at his stupidly handsome face, his sarcastic tone only winding me up impossibly more.
"You’re still laughing."
"I am not," he insists, though his bright blue eyes are practically sparkling with amusement.
"Alright, then. You’re holding back laughter."
He looks like he’s barely keeping it together, shaking his head again.
"That is not the same thing."
"Oh, it absolutely is."
His smirk deepens. "Maybe," he muses, leaning a little closer. "But… I think you like it."
I blink.
"Like what ?"
He leans in even further, his voice dipping into something low and smooth .
"That you have my full attention."
"Oh, please ,” I scoff, barely resisting the urge to laugh in his face.
"What?" He lifts a brow, swirling his drink like we’re having some casual, sophisticated conversation and not a post-daiquiri disaster standoff. "If you ask me, it seems like you love arguing with me."
"No," I say firmly. "The only thing I would love to do is leave . Right now. Except…”
Shit.
Why am I still here?!
“...I’m still waiting for you to fix this mess."
"Ah. Of course. The expensive bikini." He pretends to contemplate for a moment before waving his hand dismissively. "No worries. I will replace it."
Oh.
Well.
That was surprisingly easy.
"Damn right, you will. Especially since you’ve ruined my entire evening."
"Where did you buy it?" he asks.
I pause.
Double shit .
"...Selfridges."
"Ah. London," he hums.
" Obviously ." I take a leaf out of Leah’s book and toss my blonde hair over my shoulder, like I’ve just made the most obvious statement in the world.
"And what brand?"
I hesitate. Again.
His smirk flickers, like he knows what’s coming. My mouth opens and closes.
Why the hell can’t I think of a single swimwear brand sold in Selfridges?!
I spend half my life in that department store, and now, when it actually matters, my brain decides to shut down.
The seconds tick on, and I accept defeat, mumbling under my breath.
"What was that?" he asks, tilting his head.
I scowl at him.
"I... made it. It’s mine ."
He laughs.
Fully laughs .
A deep, warm, infuriating sound that rumbles through his chest, like he’s just won something.
I cross my arms tighter, seething.
"You know what? Forget it."
"No, no," he says, righting himself, though his grin still lingers. "I am a man of my word. I will make it up to you."
"The time for that was before you poured a drink all over me and laughed in my face about it."
"I thought we established that this wasn’t my fault," he says, acting all innocent. "You’re making this sound like I held you down and forced the daiquiri upon you. "
"You basically did,” I grumble.
He lifts his drink slightly, like he’s cheers-ing himself.
" Merde , how powerful I must be," he muses. "Stealing taxis, ruining outfits, altering moods… What else can I do?"
Irritated and at a loss for what to do with myself, I snatch another cocktail napkin from the bar and aggressively dab at the sticky mess he caused. It only seems to make it worse as stray bits of tissue stick to my sarong, and with a frustrated huff, I shove the now-stained napkin towards his chest.
"Forget the new bikini," I say as I stab a finger at him. "You can just owe me dry cleaning."
He catches the napkin with ease, flicking his gaze down at it like it’s some amusing little gift.
Then he looks back at me, his blue eyes twinkling with barely concealed amusement.
"And how do I pay?"
Well. I hadn’t thought of that.
"Figure it out, asshole."
Then, before he can say another infuriating word, I spin on my heel and march away.
Behind me, I swear I hear him laugh again.