Chapter Seventeen
Poppy
T he evening has settled.
The air is warm, the music is low and just the right level of ambient, and the garden terrace - lit by soft, twinkling lights - feels like something out of a movie.
I’m sitting at a sleek, marble-topped table with Jas, an obscenely expensive glass of wine in one hand and a plate of hors d’oeuvres in front of us. We have small, delicate bites of things I can’t entirely identify, but they taste so good that I don’t question any of them.
Leah has unsurprisingly vanished into the depths of Jacques’ luxury estate again, and Emma is currently in the very attractive clutches of what I swear just might be a seven-foot-tall Swiss lawyer. He looks like he walked straight out of a Hugo Boss campaign and appeared here, though honestly, I’m not surprised - most of the people are stunning.
“Okay,” Jas says, sipping her wine and giving a slow, approving nod. “This is nice. Just about the perfect amount of ridiculous.”
I hum in agreement.
“I hate to admit it, but… Yeah. It is a good party. ”
A waiter glides past, depositing a fresh plate of canapés in front of us. Jas doesn’t even hesitate, just reaches for one immediately.
“ This is what we deserve,” she says as she bites into it. “A little glamour. A little luxury.”
“A little free food?” I smirk.
Jas points at me. “Girl - you just get it .”
After a little while, Emma reappears, slipping into the seat next to me with her cheeks thoroughly flushed from dancing. She reaches for a glass of wine from a passing waiter, sighing dramatically as she settles in.
“Okay,” she says, lifting her glass. “That man? Phenomenal .”
“I take it Mr. Switzerland met expectations?” Jas grins.
“ Met them? Oh, honey - he exceeded them,” Emma confirms. “I think I have to move to Geneva now. It’s the only logical conclusion.”
I open my mouth to answer, but that’s when it happens.
I see him .
Again .
And just like that, any possibility of relaxation vanishes.
Of course, he’s out here; standing across the garden and looking perfectly at ease.
He’s not alone. He’s gathered with a small group of people, all well-dressed and varying in age, but all with the same unmistakable air of wealth and importance even from this distance.
He’s chatting animatedly with one of them - a man who looks to be at least in his late thirties, who nods along enthusiastically to whatever he’s saying .
He’s the picture of effortless charm, and for a brief moment, I think he doesn’t notice me.
But then his gaze shifts.
It’s weird. It’s almost like he feels me watching. Like he knew I would find him again eventually.
Like he was waiting for it.
His blue eyes lock onto mine, and before I can even react, his lips curl into a slow, knowing smile.
Not a smirk, this time. No, it’s something smaller. More self-satisfied.
Like he’s in on a joke I haven’t quite figured out yet.
It makes my skin prickle with irritation.
He seems to notice me glaring, and his smile only deepens. I have to wonder whether he actually realises quite how much I hate him.
“Poppy?” Jas frowns. “Who are you…”
Before I can even think about covering my very obvious staring, Emma lets out a dramatic, breathy gasp.
“Oh my god.”
She grabs my arm with a grip that should not be that strong for someone who’s been sipping cocktails all evening.
“Poppy, who are you looking at?”
Jas’ eyes snap to where I’m staring.
“Who is it?”
I swallow and shake my head quickly. “No one.”
Emma narrows her eyes, her expression suddenly turning dead serious .
“Poppy. That man is not ‘no one.’”
Jas tilts her head, studying him for a moment.
“Wait. Is that -”
“ Nope ,” I cut in quickly. “It’s not him. I don’t know him. Never seen him before in my life.”
Emma gives me the biggest side-eye in human history.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” she muses. “Because I distinctly remember you saying you had two run-ins with some French guy who looks exactly like that man standing right over there.”
Oh, fuck .
Alright then. I’ll play along.
“Oh, him ?” I say, my voice pitching slightly higher than usual. My eyes quickly flicker over in his general direction before I return my attention back to the girls. “Yeah, he’s just some random guy. I saw him at the bar yesterday and bumped into him outside the bathroom earlier. Nothing major.”
Jas lifts a brow.
“Is that the guy you said spilled a drink on you last night?”
“I mean, technically, he knocked into me, and then I spilled my drink on myself. But, you know… details .”
Emma’s lips curl, like she’s already enjoying where this is going.
“Did he really?”
“Look, it doesn’t matter. He’s just some - ” I wave a hand vaguely, scrambling for an explanation. “ Mechanic , or something.”
A beat of silence passes between us .
And then Emma’s eyes practically bulge out of her head while Jas pauses mid-sip of her wine.
“I’m sorry, what ?”
“What?” I ask, shifting uncomfortably.
Jas and Emma stare at me like I’ve just declared the sky isn’t blue.
“You think… Wait.” Emma pauses, looking genuinely pained as she processes this before she gestures wildly toward the other side of the terrace. “That man over there. The one with the ridiculously perfect floppy brown hair, absurd bone structure, and an obnoxiously smug but sexy aura,” she says. “You think he’s a mechanic ?”
“I mean… yeah?” I frown. “He did say that he races cars, but I figured that’s just something guys in Monaco say to sound impressive. So, I guessed that he’s probably a mechanic. Or at least someone that works with cars, rather than in them.”
Emma blinks.
“Just let me get this straight,” she says, her tone so serious that I immediately know I’m doomed. “He told you he races cars, but you assumed that translated to him being a mechanic?”
I hesitate.
“…Yes?”
Finally, Emma lets out a high-pitched laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth like she’s trying not to lose it completely.
“Oh, Poppy .”
Jas leans back in her chair, shaking her head with a deeply amused expression. “Surely not.”
“Oh, this is better than I could have ever imagined,” Em laughs.
I look between the two of them, my stomach dropping.
“ What ?” I prod, just wanting them to put me out of my bloody misery at this point. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?!”
Emma just grins - the kind of grin that sets off warning bells in my head.
“That’s not a mechanic, babe.”
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline.
“ Okay ,” I say, dragging out the word. “And you know this how ?”
Emma places a delicate hand over her heart, like she’s about to deliver the final, devastating blow.
“ That ,” she says, her voice practically dripping with amusement, “is Frederic Moreau. One of the newer Formula One drivers for Mercedes.”
My stomach plummets, and I freeze.
I swear that the world tilts slightly beneath me, like I’ve just stepped off a curb I didn’t see coming. In fact, I actually start to feel a little dizzy.
Because somehow, in the disastrously short span of less than twenty-four hours, I have -
One : Started a full-blown verbal war with an F1 driver.
Two : Accused him of attempted abduction - at the airport, no less.
Three : Accused him of stalking me - because apparently, that’s just how my brain works.
And, finally ,
Four : Just to really solidify my place in the Hall of Poor Life Choices, I’ve now downgraded his entire career by calling him a mechanic.
Truly a masterclass in humiliation.
“Bloody hell, Pops,” Jas snorts. “He’s an F1 driver, and you told him he fixes cars.”
I think I’m going to throw up.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut. “I can’t do this. I need to leave this country. Immediately .”
My friends are hardly sympathetic to my crisis.
Emma howls with laughter. “Poppy, you - you thought -”
“Don’t talk to me.”
Jas leans back as she cackles, the sound loud and unrestrained as she shakes her head in pure delight. Meanwhile, Emma wipes actual tears from her eyes.
I let out a long, agonised groan, pressing my hands firmly against my face and willing the ground to swallow me whole.
Apparently, the universe really has it out for me.
“No, no,” Jas chokes out, gasping for breath between her laughter. “I need to hear this one from the beginning. Please - tell us again. Right from the start.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I grumble.
The pair of them laugh even harder.
The only thing keeping me from throwing myself off this terrace is the tiny sliver of hope that he hasn’t noticed our collective breakdown over here.
That maybe - just maybe - I can escape this situation with the tiniest shred of dignity intact .
(Ha. Next joke.)
I peek through my fingers, just in case.
He’s still there, of course. Still standing directly across the terrace. Still looking completely at ease. Still chatting with his group of equally well-dressed, equally smug friends.
But he’s also glancing up in my direction between his conversations.
Even from a distance, I can tell there’s a knowing glint in his blue eyes, a flicker of pure amusement that makes my blood heat with fresh mortification. My stomach twists.
Oh, he knows.
He definitely knows.
I knew he was full of himself before, but now ?
Now, he looks like a man who has just confirmed something he suspected all along, and my god do I hate it.
I hate that I can practically feel his amusement from here.
I hate that he’s just standing there, enjoying every second of my public humiliation.
And most of all, I hate that he looks so bloody good doing it.
I let out a long, guttural groan and slam my forehead onto the table.
Emma snorts. “Oh, babe. He’s watching us, isn’t he?”
I muffle my response against the tabletop.
“I hate him.”
“No, you don’t,” Jas laughs.
I lift my head just enough to glare at her. “Yes. I do .”
“ Nope. You’re officially not allowed to hate him,” Emma says .
“Why not?”
“ Because ,” she gestures pointedly across the terrace, “he let you fully believe he was a mechanic.”
Jas lifts a knowing brow. “He could have very easily proved to you who he is, but if he didn’t -”
“- then it’s almost like he wanted to see how far you’d take it,” Emma finishes.
They’re so right that it almost hurts.
He had let me go on and on about it - had egged me on, even.
And now he’s just standing over there, looking like he’s having the time of his life while I fight the overwhelming urge to climb under the table, bury myself into the ground and never emerge again.
“Please stop talking,” I practically beg them.
Their laughter continues, and I inhale sharply, forcing myself to sit up and smooth my dress down.
Maybe I can somehow collect the dignity I lost in the past five minutes.
Fine - so he’s not a mechanic. So he’s an actual Formula One driver. So I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours publicly challenging a man who drives at a ridiculously high number of miles per hour for a living.
So what ?
It doesn’t change anything.
He’s still smug. He’s still obnoxious. And he’s still an absolute dick .
I straighten my shoulders, taking a slow, measured sip of my wine before setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. I refuse to give that asshole the satisfaction of knowing that this revelation has thrown me.
I glance at Emma and Jas, tilting my chin up defiantly.
“I don’t care if he drives for a living.”
Jas raises her brows, clearly amused. “No?”
“No.” I fold my arms, standing - well, sitting - firm. “He’s still an insufferable asshole.”
Emma grins, barely holding back laughter. “But he’s an insufferable asshole who also drives for Mercedes.”
“That doesn’t make him any less of a stalker,” I say, waving one of my hands dismissively.
Jas snorts. “A stalker?”
“I thought he was an abductor,” Emma drawls.
Oh, for the love of -
“Yes, alright? I may have accused him of trying to kidnap me at the airport. And of stalking me. And of being a mechanic who lies to impress women.”
Jas is openly grinning now. “Wow. You’ve really been busy.”
“You’re lucky he hasn’t taken out a restraining order,” Emma giggles into her wine.
I throw my hands up.
“How was I supposed to know he was a professional athlete ?”
"The bone structure, babe," Emma deadpans. "It was right there, all along."
"Oh, sure . Because good-looking men have never had normal jobs before."
“Right. Because the guy dripping in designer clothes and arrogance definitely gave plumber energy,” Jas hums .
“I already told you, I was thinking more mechanic. ”
Emma nudges me playfully. “Hey - you should at least ask him to get you tickets for the race.”
“I’d rather watch paint dry.”
“Mmhm. I’m sure.”
“I mean it,” I tell her. “I don’t care.”
“If that’s the truth, then why do you keep looking at him?”
I snap my wandering gaze away from Frederic so fast I might actually pull a neck muscle.
Jas and Emma practically howl with laughter all over again.
Frustrated, I grab my wine and down the rest of it in one gulp.
Apparently, this is the only way I’m getting through the rest of the evening.