Chapter Four
Poppy
I should have known things were going too smoothly.
The moment I step inside Nice C?te d’Azur Airport, whatever magical, cinematic illusion I had about my grand arrival in the South of France shatters.
The heat inside is stifling, thick and claustrophobic as though the airport has been converted into a very expensive greenhouse. The air conditioning - if it even exists - is doing absolutely nothing to help.
People are everywhere , crammed into queues that don’t seem to be moving, talking loudly, sighing dramatically, and, more than anything else, absolutely losing their minds.
I pull out my phone and scroll aimlessly through my socials, catching up with some of my more recent comments and casually eavesdropping as I stand in line.
“We were stuck on the plane for over an hour before they let us off,” one man grumbles.
“My colleague landed two hours ago and she’s still waiting for her bag,” someone else complains, voice clipped with irritation .
A woman in sunglasses and an obnoxiously large hat huffs from where she stands slightly in front of me. “I don’t know why we’ve got to listen to these people complaining. They said there’s a technical issue with the systems. Nobody is getting through quickly.”
Great .
I glance around, noting the general aura of extreme impatience.
This is not a crowd that’s used to waiting. There’s a lot of ‘ do you know who I am?’ energy happening from men in tailored suits and women in designer sunglasses, all one-upping each other with their levels of VIP self-importance.
None of it is working.
The French airport police look deeply unimpressed by the attempted power plays. They’re simply repeating the same phrase over and over again:
"You have to wait like everyone else."
So. We wait.
By the time I finally make it through baggage claim and customs, I’m half-melting, my hair clinging to the back of my neck in the least glamorous way possible.
I brace myself for the next battlefield: the queue for a taxi.
I should have known this would be a disaster, because every single person who has just been held up for ages is now apparently in full-blown survival mode. We’re all crammed into the same stretch of pavement, with suitcases everywhere and tempers fraying dangerously.
It’s absolute chaos.
I hear actual shouting up ahead - grown men arguing over who has been waiting the longest. Someone’s waving a wad of cash at a driver, while a large group of tourists are gesturing wildly and insisting that they should have the next three cars between them.
The last thing I want to do right now is drag my suitcase and bag through a mess of sweaty, sunburnt and impatient people who are all apparently willing to throw hands over a car.
I glance around, weighing my options -
And that’s when I spot it.
A sleek, expensive-looking car pulling up near the edge of the arrivals area.
It’s far enough that no-one has noticed it yet - at least that I can tell - and I instinctively steer my body towards it. It’s clearly a higher-end taxi, which means it’ll be more expensive, but given the current hell-hole that I’m in, I’d say it’s definitely worth the extra fee.
Before anyone else clocks onto my discovery, I make my move, cutting through the crowd with laser focus.
As soon as I reach the car, I pull open the back door and shove my suitcase onto the seat, ignoring the fact that the driver hasn’t even stepped out or so much as offered to help.
Rude , but whatever. I’ve secured my golden ticket out of this nightmare.
Or so I think.
Because just as I’m about to climb in, a low, amused cough sounds behind me.
I turn, and -
Oh .
There’s a man standing there.
A very, very handsome man.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered and unfairly good-looking in a way that should be illegal this early in the day.
Messy dark brown hair. Sun-kissed skin. A sharp jawline that could probably be classified as a weapon.
And eyes .
Bright blue, watching me with far too much amusement.
I blink. He smirks.
“I believe,” he says in perfect English, laced with an unmistakably French accent, “you are hijacking my ride.”
I pause, my brows furrowing.
I glance at the car - at the unoccupied seats, the lack of his name scrawled across the side, and the entire absence of any indication that there’s some sort of formal reservation system before looking back at him.
" Your ride?" I echo, skeptical.
“Well, it was mine. But who am I to disrupt the travel plans of a beautiful English girl?”
I narrow my eyes.
Oh, I know exactly how this goes.
This is the exact setup of every horror film involving a young, naive tourist who gets lured in by an obscenely handsome local before mysteriously disappearing forever.
Next thing you know, they find my passport floating in the Mediterranean and my friends are forced to go on some dramatic, emotionally devastating rescue mission.
Not today, Satan .
He tilts his head, studying me and my lack of response.
“English, non ?” he asks. “American? Australian?”
“ None-of-your-business -ian,” I say flatly.
He laughs, apparently entertained by my refusal to engage.
I cross my arms, standing my ground. Gorgeous or not, I am not about to fall victim to my own stupidity.
"Listen," I say, tone firm. "I don’t know you. And I don’t owe you anything. Go fight the masses and find your own car.”
For a split second, he looks genuinely taken aback - like people don’t usually tell him no. And then, that ridiculous smirk comes back stronger than ever.
“Ah,” he says, eyes twinkling with amusement. “So hostile .”
“Oh, I’m so sorry for not blindly trusting a strange man who just appeared out of nowhere and thinks I should graciously give up my one escape route for him.”
Ugh . Men.
His lips twitch. “I was going to suggest we share it, actually.”
I blink, momentarily stunned.
Then, I bark out a laugh.
“ No ,” I say, shaking my head firmly. “Absolutely not.”
His brows lift, like he genuinely can’t comprehend my refusal. “Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I actually want to make it to my friends alive ?”
He exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “Dramatic.”
He’s beginning to irritate me now, and my expression turns more into a glare .
“Practical,” I correct.
“ Ouch ,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest and feigning deep offense.
“You’ll survive.”
The driver turns towards me and begins speaking in rapid French, likely asking for the address of my hotel and effectively stopping this strange man from trying to argue any further.
Finally - someone sane in this situation.
Before I can respond, the infuriating would-be abductor rudely interrupts, launching into smooth, rapid-fire French so ridiculously fast that it makes me question whether I ever actually studied the language at all.
I mean, technically, I did. Five years of it, in fact. Enough to order a croissant, ask for directions, and understand the occasional flirty comment from a waiter.
But this is a whole different league.
I barely catch a word, my brain short-circuiting as he strings together sentences like some kind of French-speaking machine gun, leaving me blinking like an idiot.
The driver listens, nodding along, and then gestures for me to get in the vehicle, stepping out to load my suitcase into the boot after all.
I narrow my eyes at the smug Frenchman.
“What did you just say to him?”
He leans against the open passenger door, smirk firmly intact.
“Nothing bad, I promise.”
I don’t trust him at all .
“This is exactly how women end up on missing persons posters,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
“Ah. You’ve seen Taken ,” he comments.
“Yes. Multiple times.”
He nods solemnly. “Then you are well-prepared.”
I glare at him, deeply unamused.
The stranger chuckles, stepping back from the car and putting some distance between us.
“Take my car, ma belle .” He gestures towards it with a lazy flick of his wrist. “I’ve already been waiting half the morning anyway. I can wait a little longer until he returns.”
It’s impossible not to roll my eyes at his ridiculousness.
“You know, your English is good, but you really need to work on your pronouns. It’s not your car - it’s mine .”
He laughs again , clearly enjoying this way too much.
I don’t bother responding. Instead, I climb into the backseat, close the door on the handsome but infuriating stranger, give the driver the hotel address and pull out my phone to immediately start texting the group chat.
Me: Made it!
Airport was a nightmare - people were literally one step away from full-blown cage fighting over taxis. Finally in a car though - location is on x
Emma reacts immediately with a love heart, while Jas sends a string of laughing emojis.
Leah: Welcome to Monaco, babe .
The sun is shining, and the streets are paved with beautiful men. Hope you’re ready .
I refuse to look up as the taxi pulls away.
Mostly because I just know that if I do, he’ll still be there - and no doubt he’ll still have that stupid, infuriating smirk on his face.
And I am not about to give him the satisfaction of one last glance.
Instead, I turn towards the opposite window, watching as the blue skies of Nice open up before me.
I exhale slowly, trying to shake the lingering awareness of the fact that men as handsome as he was don’t just appear in my space every day.
Or maybe Leah’s onto something. Maybe this is just what they all look like around here.
Maybe Monaco is some kind of alternate reality where gorgeous, aggravating men roam the streets like pigeons in Trafalgar Square.
A ridiculous thought, but not an entirely unwelcome one.
Forget London, though. I’m here, and I’m more than ready to enjoy the sun - and the single life.