Chapter Thirty-Seven
Poppy
A fter the absolute chaos of yesterday, the ridiculous discovery of Frederic’s gift this morning, and Emma’s relentless (and I mean relentless) attempts to convince me to text him, it feels good to have a normal afternoon for once.
Leah stays out with Jacques. Apparently, he’s making up for his yacht-party negligence by taking her on yet another shopping spree, followed by a lavish dinner.
Emma mutters about how unfair it is that we aren’t all being showered in designer gifts, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from reminding her about the literal couture swimwear sitting in our hotel suite.
So, instead, Jas, Emma, and I spend the day wandering, taking Monaco at a leisurely pace. We stop for iced coffees and people-watch from a shaded terrace, and I even manage to film some more content for my socials.
And Monaco?
Monaco is full of beautiful men.
Tall, dark-haired men in perfectly tailored linen shirts, lounging in outdoor cafés. Men with sharp cheekbones and expensive watches stepping out of gleaming sports cars, exuding wealth and effortless charm.
Even the men who don’t seem to be trying to look good still manage to pull it off, as if it’s a prerequisite for simply existing here.
But no matter how many absurdly attractive men I see today, not a single one of them stands out the way he does.
None of them have Frederic’s smirk or his insufferable, cocky charm.
None of them radiate the same effortless, arrogant confidence - the kind that makes me want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
None of them look like they’re capable of pushing me past my breaking point with just a few well-placed words.
And none of them thrill me with just a glance, the way that he does.
I come to the mortifying conclusion that this can only mean one thing: I’m so fucked.
And I hate it.
* * *
The restaurant we choose for dinner is perfect. It’s quiet enough to relax and actually hear each other, but lively enough that we can still soak in the atmosphere.
The wine is delicious, the food is unreal, and just when I’m finally starting to relax, a server appears at our table, setting a fresh drink in front of me.
I frown. “I didn’t order this.”
“It’s from the gentleman over there,” the server smiles.
I follow his nod across the room, and sure enough, a very handsome man is seated at a nearby table, surrounded by a few friends. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and clean-cut, with tanned skin, sharp features and dark stubble along his jaw.
He lifts his glass toward me in a silent toast, his lips curling into an easy, confident smile.
Emma visibly perks up. Jas raises a brow.
And I…
I smile politely, nodding in acknowledgment as I reach for the drink, but even as I accept it, I know.
He’s not for me.
Emma gasps like I’ve just committed a mortal sin.
“You’re not going to go over there?”
I take a sip of my drink. “No.”
“Poppy.” She gawks at me. “Are you insane ?!”
“I mean, he is gorgeous,” Jas smirks.
“And so are his friends,” Emma adds, blatantly glancing at the group. “Like, seriously gorgeous.”
I exhale through my nose, already tired of this conversation.
“I meant what I said when I got here. I’ve just gotten out of something with Noah - I’m not looking for anything.”
Jas hums, still watching the man before turning back to me with a lazy grin.
“Well, you’ve got to give him some credit. It takes balls to send you a drink.”
I frown, offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, don’t be mad,” Emma laughs. “How many times do we have to tell you that your resting bitch face is strong enough to scare off even the toughest man? ”
“And how many times do I have to tell you not to be so ridiculous?”
“She’s right,” Jas nods. “I bet he thought this could be his last night on earth.”
“You must realise you give off ‘ approach me and suffer the consequences ’ vibes,” Emma adds.
“Honestly? Kind of a power move,” Jas finishes.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but bite back a small smirk. I’m mostly just relieved that my hard-faced reputation remains.
“So? You’re really not interested?” Jas lifts a brow.
I shake my head. “Not even a little bit.”
Emma gives me an exaggerated look of disbelief.
“Oh, so you’re not interested at all - unless his name is Frederic .”
I choke on my drink at the sound of his name, and Jas bursts out laughing while Emma grins far too smugly.
“Grow up,” I mutter, setting my glass down and barely resisting the urge to throw it at her.
Out of pure curiosity - definitely not interest - I let my gaze flicker back toward the man across the room.
He’s still watching me.
But when I don’t hold his gaze - when I let my attention drift away, clearly signaling that I’m not interested - he takes the hint.
And just like that, he turns back to his friends.
No persistence. No arrogance. No chase .
Just quiet acceptance .
At least this one isn’t pushing it , I think absently, draining the rest of my drink.
If only all men could take a hint that easily.
* * *
By the time we make it back to the suite, the exhaustion of the day has fully settled in.
Jas immediately announces she’s taking a long shower - something about needing to shave everywhere - while Emma, still recovering from her chaotic night before, groans dramatically, declares herself officially deceased, and buries herself under the covers without another word.
Within minutes, her soft snores fill the room.
And just like that, I’m alone.
The suite is dark, the only glow coming from the city lights spilling in through the windows where the curtains remain undrawn. The muffled sounds of nightlife hum below, and I let out a slow breath as I push myself off the bed, drawn to the balcony.
Stepping outside, the warm night air greets me, thick with the scent of the sea. I lower myself into one of the sleek outdoor chairs, stretching my legs out as I take in the view.
Monaco sprawls before me. The city is alive and electric, and from up here, it looks almost like a painting - something too polished, too pristine to be real.
But my mind isn't on Monaco.
It’s on him .
Frederic Moreau.
Quick-witted, cocky and entirely too charming for his own good .
Smug, arrogant and handsome beyond reason.
Every moment with him plays on an endless loop in my mind, each one more vivid than the last.
His sharp, teasing remarks - each one crafted to push my buttons, to pull a reaction from me.
The way his blue eyes gleam with mischief, like he’s savouring every second of our back-and-forth, thriving off the challenge.
The way he watches me like he already knows what I’m going to do before I do it. Like he’s always three steps ahead, just waiting for me to catch up.
The way he smirks when I fight back when I meet his fire with my own.
The way he leans in, deliberate and slow, testing my patience, daring me to break first.
Fuck , he’s infuriating.
And then there was our game of cat and mouse. I can’t help but think of the way my pulse had raced as I weaved through the yacht, adrenaline thrumming through my veins as I refused to admit even to myself that I’d wanted him to follow.
That I’d wanted him to catch me.
And when he finally did - when he grabbed me and pulled me into the room, when he pressed me up against that door and took what we both knew was inevitable, what we both knew was his - my body had sung with the thrill of it.
Even now, even after everything, my body still betrays me.
I swear that I can still feel the phantom press of his hands on my skin, the heat of his breath against my throat. I can still hear it loud and clear - the way he murmured my name like he was staking a claim.
Like he already knew I would let him.
I exhale sharply, my fingers tightening around the arms of the chair.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I swore I was done with men. That this summer was about me . About focusing on my career, my future, my designs.
And yet, here I am, folding for the first man I met in Monaco.
Not just any man, either. A man who is the exact opposite of everything I should want.
He’s reckless. Unpredictable. The human embodiment of trouble.
But he’s also magnetic, pulling me in whether I like it or not.
And I’m certainly not one for poetry, but it is strange how we keep colliding over and over again.
With a sigh, I push myself up from the chair and step back inside, the cool air of the suite a stark contrast to the balmy night outside. I slide the balcony door shut and twist the lock, double-checking it before pulling the curtains closed, shutting out the glittering expanse of Monaco beyond.
Something about the night feels too open, too exposed.
I cross the room, padding barefoot across the plush carpet. I check the main door to the suite, pressing down on the handle just to make sure it is in fact locked.
Jas is still in the shower - water running, muffled sounds of whatever song she’s singing floating faintly through the door. Emma is dead to the world, sprawled face down in bed, barely moving, her slow, even breaths the only sign of life.
And I should get into bed. I need to sleep .
I do the first part, at least.
Slipping beneath the sheets, I roll onto my side and close my eyes, willing my mind to go quiet, willing my body to relax.
But sleep doesn’t come.
My head is full of him .
Of the way his hands felt on me. Of the way his voice curled around my name. Of the way I let him touch me, take me, claim me in a way I swore I wouldn’t let any man do again.
With a frustrated exhale, I sit up and reach for the nightstand.
The black card is still there, right where I left it.
I pick it up, turning it between my fingers, brushing my thumb over the embossed digits.
It’s ridiculous, really. That something so small could carry so much weight.
That a single string of numbers could be the difference between walking away and walking straight back into the fire.
I should have thrown it away and forced myself to forget it ever existed. That he ever existed.
Instead, I reach for my phone.
With one last wavering breath, I type in the digits, hesitating for a fraction of a second before entering his name as a contact.
Frederic.
And, with my heart pounding, I type out a message.
Thank you for the swimwear.
I hover over the send button, my finger trembling slightly. After all, once I send it, there’s no taking it back.
Before doubt can creep in - before I can talk myself out of it - I press send .
And the instant the message delivers, I know that there’s no undoing this.
Whatever happens next, I’ve just set it in motion.