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 .
Instead, I’d texted him, and now I’m left in limbo - overthinking every possible reason he hasn’t responded yet.
Maybe he didn’t get it.
Maybe he did get it and just doesn’t care.
Maybe he decided that I’d waited too long to text him.
Maybe he’s already bored of this. Of me .
The thought sends an unexpected pang through my chest, which only irritates me more.
I don’t care. Or at least, I shouldn’t care.
I sigh, throwing back the covers and climbing out of bed.
Enough.
I have a day to enjoy, and I’m not going to let some arrogant, insufferable driver ruin it.
* * *
By the time I emerge into the living space after my shower, Jas and Emma are already at the dining table, both looking like complete opposites of each other.
Jas, ever put together, is sipping an iced coffee while browsing something on her phone.
Emma, meanwhile, is slumped dramatically over the table, sunglasses perched on her nose again as if the dimly lit room is too much for her to handle.
"Morning," Jas says, not looking up.
Emma lets out a low groan.
I smirk. "Feeling fragile, are we?"
" Dead ," Emma mutters. "Don’t speak to me until I’ve had at least three more coffees and maybe a priest."
I chuckle as I sit down, reaching for some fruit from the spread in front of us.
“You didn’t even have that much to drink at dinner, did you?” I ask.
That’s when my phone buzzes.
I freeze, my hand hovering over the bowl of strawberries as the screen lights up.
Frederic.
Oh, fuck.
Emma’s halfway through answering my question as I reach for my phone, grabbing it so fast that it nearly skids off the table.
My heart launches itself straight into my throat as Jas glances up at the sudden movement, and I immediately force myself to act normal.
Totally calm. Completely chill.
Nothing to see here.
Thankfully, neither of them notice anything unusual. Emma has just finished her rant about hangovers lasting for more than one day and is now busy groaning into her coffee, and Jas is still focused on whatever it is that she’s doing on her phone.
I subtly tilt my screen away as I unlock it, my pulse hammering as I sneakily read his message.
You’re welcome.
I assume that means you like them .
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around the device.
This is fine. Totally, utterly, completely fine.
In fact, this is nothing . It’s just a simple, polite response.
I don’t even need to reply.
Right?
Before I can dwell on it, the front door opens, and Leah saunters in, laden with shopping bags.
Emma sits up so fast that her sunglasses nearly fall off her face.
"Oh my God," she breathes. "What the hell is all that?"
Leah grins, unbothered by the fact that she looks like she’s just come from a high-end shopping spree in Paris.
"This," she announces, setting the bags down dramatically, "is how you apologise."
"How badly did this man fuck up?" Jas raises an eyebrow.
"Let’s just say that Jacques felt terrible for being preoccupied on the yacht the other day." She plucks a delicate Dior box from one of the bags and opens it, revealing a stunning silk scarf. "And you know what? I’m not even mad anymore."
Emma practically drools as Leah pulls out more gifts - jewelry, shoes and an insane handbag.
"I guess that men apologising with gifts is a Monaco theme now," Jas smirks.
My stomach clenches as Leah turns to me.
"What’s this?” she asks, her eyes narrowing slightly as her lips curve upwards in amusement. “Did you hear back from that F1 driver of yours?*"
"Of course she did,” Emma perks up again. “Did you cave and text him, Pops?"
I shove a bite of fruit into my mouth to stall, then shake my head.
" Nope. "
Leah lifts an impressed brow. "Good. You need to make him work for it. If he really wants to make it up to you, he should take notes from Jacques." She gestures to her ridiculous pile of gifts. "Tell him that this is how you apologise."
I force a laugh, nodding. "Right. Exactly."
I don’t look at my phone again.
* * *
By early afternoon, we’re stretched out on sun loungers at one of Monaco’s most exclusive beach clubs, a bottle of rosé chilling in an ice bucket beside us.
The music is soft, the waves are gentle, and the sun is warm against my skin as I flip open my sketchbook, letting my pencil glide over the page.
Emma watches me from behind her oversized sunglasses, twirling a straw between her fingers.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t wear the bikini he bought you.”
I glance down at my swimsuit - a sleek khaki coloured one-piece from my own designs.
"I already told you, I need content for my social media. My followers have gone up loads since I got here. People are loving the Monaco backdrop."
"Oh, please ," Emma scoffs. "Any of us could have modelled it for you. You just don’t want to give him the satisfaction."
"That too,” I smirk.
She huffs but drops it, sipping her drink as she returns to scrolling through her phone.
Jas is half-asleep beside us, her straw hat shielding her face, and Leah is relaxing back on a lounger, her headphones in and her eyes closed.
I continue to work away at my designs, the creativity flowing thanks to all of the recent inspiration, when my phone buzzes from beside me.
I glance down at it, and then do a double-take.
It’s him.
What are you doing right now?
I hesitate, my eyes narrowing as I look around me.
None of the girls are paying me any attention. They’re all preoccupied themselves, and I swallow thickly as I reach for my phone and unlock it.
Then, before I can overthink it, I type back:
Enjoying my day. Why?
A response comes almost immediately.
Good. So am I.
I roll my eyes but can’t help the small, traitorous smile that tugs at my lips.
And just like that - between sketches, between sips of wine -
I start texting him.