Chapter Forty-Two
Poppy
F rederic leans back against the booth, his gaze flickering toward the bag that sits between us on the table.
He gestures towards it, the corners of his lips curling in amusement.
"Go on," he murmurs. "It’s for you."
I stare at the Cartier bag like it’s something dangerous. Like opening it will somehow solidify whatever this is between us.
Like it will put me even more at his mercy.
I shake my head slightly, my fingers brushing against the ribbon handles as I glance back at him.
"You really didn’t need to do this."
"Of course I did,” he says, one brow lifting as he tilts his head. “It would be criminal to invite a woman as beautiful as you to dinner and arrive empty-handed."
My breath catches, and I fight the warmth creeping up my neck.
"You didn’t exactly come empty-handed," I argue, dragging my gaze away from his and trying my best to find my footing in this ridiculous, glitzy, surreal evening. "You did send four massive bouquets of roses to my room."
He exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. "English gentlemen must be doing something terribly wrong if this isn’t the kind of treatment you expect."
I freeze for a fraction of a second, his words sinking in.
I don’t know what to say.
Because he’s right.
I’ve never expected this kind of treatment - not from Noah, not from anyone. Noah had come from a reasonably wealthy background, sure, but the most extravagant thing he’d ever bought me was flowers on Valentine’s Day.
And even those had been from a supermarket.
This ?
Chanel swimwear, luxury bouquets, dinner arranged, a personal driver, a Cartier gift waiting for me on the table…
This is something else entirely.
My fingers tighten slightly on the Cartier bag before I finally inhale and carefully pull the ribbon loose.
Frederic watches me intently, his expression unreadable, his blue eyes sharp and focused as I lift the lid of the box inside.
A soft gasp catches in my throat, and I resist the urge to both slam the lid shut and hide my face from view.
A delicate, golden bracelet - simple, elegant and understated yet impossibly expensive-looking - rests against the velvet lining.
I run my fingers over it lightly, my stomach twisting with something unfamiliar.
It’s beautiful .
"You didn’t have to…"
Frederic leans forward slightly, his voice smooth, leaving no room for argument.
"Here - allow me."
I swallow, my pulse jumping as he reaches for it.
For a second, I hesitate, eyeing him carefully from across the booth.
And then - slowly - I stretch my arm out toward him.
His fingers brush against my skin as he takes my wrist, his touch firm yet careful. His thumb lingers against my pulse, and I know he feels it racing.
The bracelet is cool against my skin as he fastens it around my wrist, his fingers grazing me as he locks it into place.
It’s nothing, really. Just a simple touch.
But it feels electric .
His eyes flick up to mine as he adjusts the clasp, and I suddenly forget how to breathe.
There’s something in the way he looks at me. Something dark and knowing. Something that says he enjoys this - that he enjoys making me squirm.
When he finally releases me, I don’t move immediately.
I should.
I should pull my hand back. I should put some space between us.
I should say something.
But I can’t.
I sit there for a moment, my wrist still in the space where his fingers just were, my entire body feeling like it’s caught in some kind of spell.
His spell.
And that’s dangerous.
I snap out of it and glance down at my wrist, pulling it back towards me and turning it slightly so that the golden bracelet catches in the soft candlelight.
"Thank you," I murmur, my fingers brushing over it lightly. "I mean it. You really didn’t have to."
Frederic leans back in his seat, watching me with a small smirk, his arm draped lazily over the back of the booth.
"I wanted to."
Before I can respond, a waiter appears at the entryway to our booth, dressed immaculately in a pressed white shirt and black waistcoat.
"Bonsoir, Monsieur Moreau. Mademoiselle," he greets us smoothly as he steps inside, placing two large glasses of wine down on the table. “Are you ready to order?”
I glance at the menu on the table, realising I haven’t had the chance to read it yet.
Frederic seems to notice, his lips twitching slightly in amusement as he looks over at me.
"Would you like me to order for you?"
I blink. Order for me?
I’ve never let anyone do that before. The idea should irk me, should irritate the control freak in me; but the way he says it - so casually confident - makes me hesitate.
And against all logic - against everything I should probably say - I nod .
"Alright," I say, surprised at myself. "Go ahead."
The waiter waits patiently as Frederic smoothly places our order.
He orders tartare de b?uf to start, followed by magret de canard - something about seared duck breast, I think. I try to listen, but I’m too distracted by the way his voice curls effortlessly around the French words, too caught up in the fact that I just willingly handed over control to this man and somehow , I don’t hate it.
The waiter nods, collecting the menus, before stepping back and disappearing as quietly as he arrived.
I exhale, leaning back into the plush booth as I shake my head slightly.
"This whole thing feels surreal," I admit, more to myself than to him. "Fancy restaurant, expensive gifts, you ordering for me like this is some kind of classic romance novel -"
He lifts a brow, his smirk widening. "Are you admitting I’m romantic, mon ange ?"
I scoff. "Not in the slightest."
His chuckle is quiet, indulgent. "I would think that sending flowers and jewelry is quite romantic."
I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue. Instead, I tilt my head slightly, studying him.
"So, is this what you do?” I ask. “Lure unsuspecting women into fancy restaurants with expensive gifts and smooth words?"
Frederic exhales a quiet laugh, swirling his wine glass between his fingers. "If that were the case, you’d hardly be unsuspecting, Poppy . "
I narrow my eyes, pressing my lips together to keep from smiling. "That’s not an answer."
He takes a slow sip of wine, his light eyes twinkling with amusement over the rim of his glass.
"You’re assuming I take women out to dinner often."
I raise a brow. "Don’t you?"
He sets his glass down with deliberate ease, his smirk widening. "Would it bother you if I did?"
I roll my eyes, but before I can deflect, he leans in slightly, resting his forearm against the table.
"Let me guess," he muses, his voice dripping with amusement. "You’ve already made up your mind about me."
I arch a brow. "I think I have a pretty good idea, yes."
He hums thoughtfully. "Go on, then."
I drum my fingers against the table as I look over at him.
"You’re used to getting exactly what you want,” I say. “You’re arrogant, insufferably smug, and you have a habit of pushing people just to see if they’ll push back."
His lips twitch upwards. "Go on."
"You’re incredibly competitive,” I say, thinking of his career. “You can’t resist a challenge. And you definitely think you’re charming enough to talk your way out of anything."
Frederic chuckles, shaking his head. "Not bad."
"Not bad?" I echo. "So I’m right?"
He tilts his head, considering me for a moment.
"You’re not wrong ," he allows, his voice teasing.
I lean back, crossing my arms with satisfaction. "I knew it. "
"But," he adds smoothly, "you forgot something important."
I feign surprise. "Oh?"
His gaze dips briefly to my lips before flicking back up to meet mine.
"You left out the part where I’m incredibly good-looking."
I burst out laughing, unable to help it. "Oh my god - you are insufferable."
He grins. "You didn’t deny it, though."
I shake my head, reaching for my wine glass. "You really need to be humbled."
"And yet, here you are," he murmurs, watching me over his glass. "Having dinner with me."
Damn him.
"Yes, well. Even the most irritating people deserve a meal every now and then,” I retort.
Frederic chuckles, tipping his glass slightly towards me in a lazy toast. "I’ll drink to that."
And just like that, the tension shifts. The atmosphere between us is less sharp, less combative.
For the first time, we’re not just challenging each other.
We’re enjoying each other.
"So,” I say, straightening my spine and attempting to distract myself from the brilliant blue of his eyes. “How’s everything going for you? With the race preparation, I mean."
"It’s going well," he says. "Busy. Physically exhausting. Mentally draining. But that’s part of the job."
I nod like I understand, even though I definitely do not understand what it takes to drive a car at ridiculous speeds for a living.
"So… what does that actually involve?" I ask, trying not to sound completely ignorant. "You just… drive around a track a few times to warm up?"
He actually laughs at that, the sound low and deeply amused.
"You’re definitely not a fan girl," he muses, shaking his head.
"You don’t say,” I respond, attempting to fight a smile ( and failing miserably ).
"Training is more than just driving,” he explains. “There’s physical endurance training, reaction drills, simulator sessions, strategy meetings, team debriefs -"
I hold up a hand, my mind already spinning. "Okay, okay, I get it. It’s a lot."
His smirk deepens. "It is a lot."
I tilt my head slightly, considering him.
"I guess I must be pretty lucky then," I say. "You’ve spared time for me."
Frederic doesn’t miss a beat.
"No," he murmurs, his voice lower now, his gaze holding mine. "I’m the lucky one."
Heat pricks at the back of my neck, and I curse myself for the way my stomach flips just a little at his words.
Because damn - he’s good.
* * *
The plates from dinner have long been cleared, the bottle of wine drained between us, and the soft hum of conversation fills the secluded part of the restaurant as Frederic leans back slightly against the booth .
"Something sweet?" he suggests, reaching for the dessert menu. "Or are you too full?"
I exhale, resting a hand lightly on my stomach. "I could not eat a whole dessert by myself."
"Then we’ll share," he says easily, and apparently, that settles it.
Before I can argue, he’s already gesturing for a waiter, placing an order in smooth, effortless French. I only catch half the words, but I definitely recognise crème br?lée in the mix.
Of course. Something classic, simple, but still indulgent.
"Decisive," I murmur as the waiter walks away.
Frederic smirks. "It’s one of my many talents."
We don’t have to wait too long before the dessert arrives, all golden and caramelised, the sugar cracked perfectly on top.
But when the waiter places it down in front of us, there’s only one spoon.
Frederic eyes it, then lifts a brow.
"Posh restaurants," I mutter, shaking my head with amusement. "Always trying to force people into uncomfortable levels of intimacy."
Frederic laughs , the deep sound rolling through his chest. "You say that like you’re suffering."
He picks up the spoon, scooping a perfect bite from the dish, and before I can reach for it, he holds it out toward me.
I hesitate.
This kind of thing - being fed a bite of dessert by a man across the table - should be so cringeworthy, the kind of thing I’d usually find unbearably cheesy .
And yet…
I haven’t stopped smiling all evening.
I haven’t stopped enjoying myself.
With Frederic, it’s different .
So, before I can second-guess myself, I lean forwards and part my lips, letting him feed me the bite of dessert.
The instant it touches my tongue, I moan .
"Oh my god ," I murmur, closing my eyes briefly as the rich, creamy texture melts in my mouth.
When I open my eyes again, Frederic is watching me.
And fuck .
His gaze is dark , his blue eyes locked onto my mouth like he wants to devour me right here, right now.
The air thickens between us, and a slow smirk tugs at his lips.
"Good?" he asks.
“Mmhm,” I nod as I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “You should try it."
His eyes stay on me as he brings the spoon to his own lips, taking a bite, and I watch as his expression shifts into something indulgent.
"Delicious," he admits, before scooping another portion and holding it out to me again.
This time, I don’t hesitate.
But as I lean forward, I don’t drop my gaze.
I keep my eyes on his as I move forwards, parting my lips just so.
Frederic doesn’t so much as blink. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he didn’t breathe.
I take the bite, letting my lips brush against the spoon ever so slightly before I pull away.
And then, slowly - deliberately - I swipe my tongue over my lower lip.
Frederic drops the spoon onto the table with a quiet clink , his voice low and commanding when he speaks.
"Come here.”