Chapter Twenty-Five
Poppy
T he 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.
He glances at her, amused, then back at me as I visibly stiffen.
“Ah. Your friends are much more polite than you.”
If I could get away with pushing this man overboard, then I honest-to-god would .
“That’s because they’re not being actively tortured,” I seethe.
Emma nudges me harshly in the ribs, and I wince as she takes over.
“Oh, ignore her,” she laughs, the sound far too loud to be considered normal or natural in any way. “This is just Poppy’s way of having fun. And believe me - she’s having so much fun. You should definitely keep bothering her.”
Frederic chuckles as I rub my palm over my sore ribs.
“That was the plan,” he comments as I glare daggers at Emma.
“Perfect,” she beams at him before turning to face me again. “Leah has gone to spend some more time with Jacques again, so I was just letting you know that Jas and I are just going to busy ourselves for a while.”
“Oh, no problem. I’ll come with -”
“ No, ” she interrupts, her voice a little too loud.
My eyes widen at her - silently pleading for her not to do this to me - but she just smirks, her own eyes practically twinkling with mischief as she continues on.
“No, it’s fine. Jas and I are going to have a bit of one-on-one time,” she says. “I feel like I haven’t seen her properly in days . ”
Bullshit .
“You know what?” I say, beginning to turn on my barstool and make my way far, far away from Frederic. “I think I’ll just -”
"Where do you think you're going?" she interrupts, all innocent smiles and devious intent.
I frown at her.
"Literally anywhere that isn’t here,” I say through gritted teeth, keeping my voice low.
Emma gasps dramatically, and I can feel that asshole’s eyes burning into the side of my head.
"Poppy, you can’t wander off!” she says. “What if you get lost? Or worse - what if you fall overboard?”
I blink at her, waiting for whatever she has to come next.
Because honestly, that option sounds so much better than sitting with Frederic.
But like the traitor she is, Emma ignores my waiting gaze and opts to take advantage of her grip on my shoulders by keeping me pressed firmly to the seat that I very much don’t want to be in.
The Frenchman watches the entire interaction with undisguised amusement, one dark brow lifted in a way that makes me itch to throw my drink at him.
The thought actually takes me by surprise - enough that all of the tension in my body immediately loosens. It provides Emma with a new advantage, and she’s able to shove me down with a lot less resistance .
Honestly, I don’t know where this comes from.
I’ve never been a violent or overly aggressive person before. Not that I know of, anyway.
And yet, there’s something about him - or everything about him, really; his infuriating smirk, his obnoxiously perfect face, the way he’s always got a smartass response locked and ready…
It all makes me feel like I could genuinely commit a crime.
The worst part is that he knows it, too. He’s practically thriving off it.
I don’t even know why he pisses me off so much. It’s not like I know him. Not really .
And yet, somehow, he’s still managed to unlock this unexplored part of me - a part that wants to strangle him and shove my tongue down his throat in equal measure.
I hate it. I hate him .
And most of all, I hate that he looks like he’s having the time of his life just watching me suffer.
"Perfect!" Emma beams as I relax back into my seat. "Stay right there, Poppy. We’ll come and find you later."
She begins to skip away like she hasn’t just ruined my life, and I gape after her.
"Are you serious?!" I call out. “ Emma !”
It’s no use.
She’s already gone, disappearing into the crowd of people who are not currently being held hostage by a French menace.
Frederic shifts slightly, turning just enough to fully face me. He has one arm draped lazily over the bar, and I give into my fate as my gaze slides over towards him.
"Well," he muses, adjusting his sunglasses. "This is cosy."
I clench my jaw, begging god, the universe, anything for the patience that I need to get through this encounter without snapping.
"Don't talk to me," I mutter, taking an aggressive sip of champagne.
He hums thoughtfully.
"I could do that."
I exhale, relieved.
"But it doesn’t sound like much fun."
"Come to think of it, do you ever stop talking?" I ask.
"Not when I'm entertained.”
" Great ," I mutter dryly. "Nice to know I'm a walking amusement park."
"Yeah. Something like that."
I groan and tilt my head back towards the sky, my eyes squeezing shut.
This is fine. I can ignore him. I can pretend he’s not here. I can -
"You know," he says, shifting again, "despite your little performance, I think you actually like me being here."
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.
“Oh, that’s rich,” I snort. “Coming from the man who actively goes out of his way to annoy me at every possible opportunity.”
“It’s because you make it so entertaining,” he says, leaning in a little closer like he’s letting me in on a secret. “You’re fun to annoy, mon ange. ”
I exhale deeply, willing myself not to fall into whatever trap he’s setting.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say flatly.
“You should.”
I shift again, suddenly too aware of how close we are, how the early afternoon breeze barely cools the heat prickling over my skin as the yacht gently bobs up and down.
His lips twitch like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and I scowl, determined to turn the tables.
“You know,” I say, dragging my gaze deliberately down his frame, taking in the way-too-perfect fit of his shirt, the way it clings just enough to suggest he absolutely knows how good he looks in it.
The short sleeves mean that his thick, tanned forearms and half of his broad biceps are exposed, and of course - of course - there’s something unfairly attractive about the way he wears effortless confidence like it’s been tailor-made for him.
“Mmhm…?” he prompts, watching me with that damn smirk again.
Shit.
I force my eyes back to his, hoping that my face isn’t flushed on account of being caught fully distracted and ogling him.
“You dress suspiciously well for a man who probably spends most of his time in a fireproof jumpsuit.”
“Well,” he chuckles, stretching again, his obscenely toned forearms flexing in the process ( which I absolutely do not look at for longer than a second ). “I do have some free time outside of work. And when I do, I like to make sure I look…”
He pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully.
“ Presentable. ”
“Right,” I say, raising a brow. “That’s the word I would’ve chosen.”
“And you?” he says. “Do you always look this put together, or am I just lucky?”
I blink.
Because - well, what the hell ?
That seemed dangerously close to actual flirtation .
I shift in my seat, fighting the warmth creeping up my spine as I wait for the punchline.
It never comes, though.
“You make it sound like I’m dressed up for you,” I retort after a long beat .
“I wouldn’t dream of assuming.”
His gaze drops ever so briefly to the long stretch of my legs, to the way my dress cinches at my waist, before flicking back up far too quickly for me to call him out on it.
But I saw it, and he knows I did.
I swallow, hating the fact that the tension between us is so thick I could probably carve my name into it.
Frederic leans in again, and I catch a hint of his cologne - something clean, expensive and infuriatingly attractive.
“Tell me something,” he murmurs.
I arch a brow, keeping my face impassive despite the warzone happening in my brain.
“Go on.”
“How long do you think you can keep pretending you don’t enjoy this?”
I blink, and my stomach tightens.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“ This .” He gestures lazily between our bodies. “ Us. ”
“There is no ‘us’ ,” I tell him.
“Is that so?” he says. “Or is that just what you say to help you sleep at night?”
I want to slap him.
I want to kiss him.
I want to kick him off this yacht and watch him swim all the way back to shore.
Instead, I take one last sip of my sparkling water, place the empty glass deliberately on the bar, and stand up from the barstool.
“I should really try and find my friends now,” I say as I adjust the hem of my dress, pulling the material right down my thigh to ensure I’m decently covered. “Enjoy the rest of the party, Frederic ,” I say, emphasising his name with every ounce of stubbornness in my soul.
Lord help me - I need another drink - pronto.