Chapter Forty-One
Poppy
A s soon as I step through the grand entrance of the restaurant, I know I’m in trouble.
This isn’t just fancy.
This is opulent.
The lighting casts a soft, ambient glow over every pristine surface. Mirrored walls reflect their twinkle, and the murmur of conversation is hushed and controlled - punctuated only by the occasional clink of delicate glassware against fine china.
In the corner, there’s a pianist playing softly, and every single person looks like they belong - men in perfectly tailored suits and women in couture gowns that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.
I’ve been to nice places before. Fancy dinners. High-end events.
But this is another level.
And yet… no one looks at me like I don’t belong. No one gives me a second glance. No whisper of disapproval, no raised brows .
I smooth my hands down the fabric of my dress as a suited ma?tre d’ approaches me with a practiced smile. He takes my name and quickly references his system before nodding.
“Mademoiselle, please follow me.”
His tone is low and professional, and he doesn’t so much as blink at me - like I’m exactly the kind of person who should be dining here. It’s unsettling, but also oddly reassuring.
Especially if I am going to try and branch out into something more than dresses that I make for myself.
I exhale slowly and nod, following him as he guides me through the restaurant.
We move past tables adorned with flickering candlelight and rare vintages of wine. Every detail feels curated, every guest appearing as though they’ve stepped out of a lifestyle magazine; but then he takes me past all of that.
Towards the back, where it’s quieter.
Where the noise of the restaurant dulls into a mere hum.
Where the lighting is even softer, warmer, more intimate.
Where the booths are curved and secluded, the dark leather giving an illusion of absolute privacy.
And that’s when I see him.
Effortlessly leaning back against the plush leather of a private booth, a glass of something dark and rich in his hand, his long, thick fingers wrapped lazily around the stem.
He looks -
Unbelievable.
His shirt is white and long-sleeved, a crisp contrast against his sun kissed skin. The sleeves are rolled up just enough to give me a glimpse of his forearms - strong and defined, his veins subtly visible beneath the golden light.
His dark hair is styled back, not in a way that’s overly intentional, but still just so effortless - in that way only men like him can pull off. His jawline is freshly shaven, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and his lips are slightly parted as he watches me approach.
And then his eyes - those brilliant blue eyes - meet mine.
They darken, and I swallow thickly.
He stands and moves towards the entrance to the booth, the movement smooth and controlled, his gaze never leaving mine.
The sound of my heels is muffled against the thick carpet, and when I get close enough, his lips twitch into a slow, knowing smirk before he leans in, pressing a kiss to one cheek and then the other.
His breath is warm against my skin, his scent - clean, expensive cologne - completely unfair.
“You look…” he pauses, stepping back just slightly, his gaze dragging over me, lingering for just a second too long. “ Incredible. ”
I swallow.
Okay. This is very charming.
A little too charming.
And judging by the barely-there smirk on his lips, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I manage a slow exhale, forcing myself to smirk.
“And you look very…” my eyes roam over him now that he’s standing. “ French .”
He laughs, a deep, smooth sound that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“Would you rather I be less French?” he muses, his voice dipping slightly.
I blink, surprised at the strange, unfamiliar feeling fluttering low in my abdomen.
Abort. Abort!
I hum softly as he stands back, gesturing towards the booth.
I’m very much prepared to sit down and reclaim my sanity as Frederic gives a drink order to the waiter, and I step into the booth, placing Leah’s handbag down on the plush seat.
It’s then that I see it.
On the table, placed exactly where I’m about to sit.
A shopping bag.
Not just any shopping bag, either.
Cartier.
My breath catches, and I stare.
Frederic steps into the booth, and I blink up at him, my jaw relaxed.
He says nothing. He just stands there, waiting.
Watching .
I inhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay level as I step forward and lower myself onto the chair.
Then, and only then, does he move.
He rounds the table, taking his seat directly across from me. His movements are languid and almost effortless, and as I shuffle my way somewhat awkwardly across the booth, closer and closer towards the shopping bag, I can’t help but envy his seemingly natural grace, his control .
When I finally reach the spot I was aiming for and lift my gaze to meet his, he’s already watching me.
Maddening. Unreadable.
And that’s when it hits me.
Frederic Moreau doesn’t just play games.
He plays to win .