Chapter Forty-Four
Poppy
O nce I’ve recovered - and removed myself from his knee - Frederic calls for a waiter and signals for the bill with a casual flick of his wrist, already pulling out his phone to text his driver.
I watch as he effortlessly commands the moment, barely phased by the fact that he just made me come in the middle of a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Meanwhile, I’m still trying to remember how to breathe.
The waiter returns promptly, bill in hand, but Frederic doesn’t even glance at it before slipping his card onto the tray.
He doesn’t check it.
I don’t really know why I expected anything else.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as he hands the signed slip back with a nod of thanks, then reaches for the shopping bag - the Cartier shopping bag - before standing and turning back towards me.
That’s when I notice it.
His jacket .
Black. Tailored to absolute perfection.
And currently draped over his forearm as he extends it toward me.
“It’s warm out,” I murmur, eyeing the offering as I move to stand. “I don’t think I’ll need it.”
He lifts a brow. “I beg to differ.”
Heat creeps up my neck - and not from the temperature.
I don’t quite know why I hesitate.
Maybe because I don’t actually need the jacket. Maybe because I know that accepting it means something else entirely -
Something softer. Something almost intimate .
But it’s clear that the only winner here is him, and so I swallow, reaching for the material before I can talk myself out of it.
He watches closely as I slip my arms through the sleeves. The scent of his cologne wraps around me instantly, and my entire body betrays me by relaxing into it.
Smug satisfaction flickers over his face as he slides a hand to my lower back and guides me out of the booth and towards the exit. He nods at a few of the waiters as we pass, the inside of the restaurant much quieter now, and he holds the door open for me as we leave.
But it’s when we step outside - when the night air actually does feel cooler than I anticipated - that he does something I don’t expect.
He reaches for my hand.
Not my waist. Not my wrist. Not my arm in a possessive, claiming gesture .
My hand .
And then he intertwines our fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I freeze, caught off guard by the simple action.
It’s ridiculous, I know. After all, this man has just made my come inside the fucking restaurant, and I’ve already slept with him on the yacht.
But this - him holding my hand and leading me through the quiet streets of Monaco - feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done.
Not wanting to give myself away, I relax into his touch and follow his lead as he walks us towards the curb. I spot his sleek black car already idling, and we come to a stop, waiting for the driver, Luc, to step out.
I glance up, taking in the sky. The stars are scattered across the night in tiny shimmering specks, and I can’t help but admire them.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur absently, tilting my head up toward the inky expanse.
He makes a small sound of agreement, but when I turn my head to look at him, he’s not looking at the stars.
He’s looking at me .
A flicker of something foreign flickers in my chest, soft and uninvited.
I swallow thickly, ignoring it.
The car door opens, breaking the moment, and Frederic hesitates - just for a second.
"I don’t want to assume…”
I arch a brow, knowing exactly what he’s asking .
“I want to,” I say simply, my voice softer than I expect as his lips curve into a slow, satisfied grin. "Wherever home is for you tonight," I clarify.
His grin widens, a dark glint of victory flashing in his ocean-blue eyes.
“Home,” he murmurs as he steps closer, his fingers brushing along my wrist and nudging gently at my new bracelet. He takes my hand again, pulling me with him towards the open car door. “For now, it’s a hotel my team booked out for the week.”
He tugs me toward the sleek leather seats, guiding me inside without a second thought, and just like that, I’m going home with Frederic Moreau.
Heaven help me.
* * *
The car pulls away from the curb, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space between us.
The city glides past, bright lights flickering against the glass as we weave through the streets of Monaco. The air inside the car is calm, comfortable, and charged all at once - that strange in-between where neither of us has spoken yet, but the tension is very much there.
I steal a glance at Frederic, who’s lazily reclined, his long legs sprawled slightly as he watches me with that infuriatingly unreadable expression.
The kind that makes me nervous.
The kind that makes me want to fill the silence with something. Anything .
“So,” I say, shifting slightly. “Do you always whisk unsuspecting women away to your fancy hotel at the end of a date?”
The words spill out of my mouth without thought, and I swear I could smack myself in the head for it.
Why the fuck did I just say that?!
“Would it make you feel special if I said no?” he smirks.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, so you do this all the time?”
His lips twitch, as though he’s amused by my line of questioning.
"I wouldn’t say all the time," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. "But then again, I don’t usually meet women who accuse me of stalking and grand theft auto within minutes of knowing them."
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
I drop my hand and glare at him, but the effect is completely ruined by the way he’s looking at me - like he’s having the time of his life just messing with me.
“Besides, you’re the one who practically invited yourself into my car that day. Maybe you were the one stalking me.”
I scoff. “Oh, please .”
But before I can roll my eyes and let it go, he smirks and tilts his head slightly, watching me with something dangerously close to amusement.
“What?” I narrow my eyes.
His smirk deepens.
“Well, I mean, now that I think about it… First, it was my car… then my family home… then my yacht… ” He pauses, pretending to think for a long beat. “Seems like quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”
My stomach drops.
“ …What ?”
Frederic lets out a quiet chuckle, running a hand through his effortlessly tousled hair.
“I’m just saying, if anyone was stalking someone, mon ange , it seems like it was you .”
I shake my head, laughing dryly.
“No. No, that was Jacques’ home, it was his party, it -”
Frederic laughs. Actually laughs .
“Oh, mon amour ,” he says, delighted, his eyes glinting in the dim glow of the taxi. “You thought that was Jacques’ home?”
I blink at him, my brain struggling to catch up.
“…It wasn’t?”
He lets out another low chuckle. “How exactly do you think Jacques would afford a place like that? Monaco isn’t exactly known for its… affordability .”
I stare at him as the images of that night flash through my mind.
The house. The sprawling estate. The gold accents. The wealth oozing from every corner.
But Jacques had said…
Not wanting to give away just how confused I am, I shake my head and exhale sharply.
“Fine - maybe that was yours. But the yacht -”
Frederic lifts a brow. “Also mine.”
“No, it wasn’t. It belongs to a connection of Jacques’. ”
He grins, looking thoroughly entertained.
“Yeah. Me .”
My head spins, and I slump back in my seat, stunned.
Holy. Fucking. Shit .
Jacques has been lying this whole time. To us.
To Leah .
He’s been passing off Frederic’s wealth as his own, acting like he had the kind of status to host parties in Monaco, when in reality, he was just another guest.
I want to scream. I want to text Leah immediately and demand she get the hell away from him.
But I can’t, because Frederic is sitting right beside me, his sharp blue eyes flickering over my face, studying me carefully. Assessing . Reading me like I’m a puzzle he’s on the verge of solving.
And I can’t afford to give anything away.
Not when Jacques has been parading around like Monaco’s very own Gatsby, feeding Leah half-truths and outright lies. Not when Frederic and Jacques are clearly friends - or at the very least, connected enough that Jacques felt confident to weave him into his illusion.
I don’t know how deep this goes. I don’t know how much Frederic actually knows, or if he even cares.
But what I do know?
I don’t want to get myself tangled up in something much, much bigger than me - especially not right now, when I’m sitting in a car with a man who just sent me four bouquets of roses and a Cartier bracelet.
So, for now, I just exhale slowly, forcing a casual, amused expression, pretending like this is nothing more than an entertaining revelation rather than a bombshell that’s just shaken my entire view of Jacques to its core.
Later . I’ll deal with whatever the hell this means later.
“Well, that’s… quite the plot twist,” I say. “I wouldn’t have been accusing you of stalking me if I knew that we were in your places. Although I suppose it makes sense, now. Why you were always there.”
He shrugs, amused, still watching me with that infuriatingly smug expression. I fold my arms, trying to look unimpressed.
“You could’ve told me earlier, you know.”
“And miss the look on your face just now?” He grins. “Not a chance.”
I huff, turning away from him, staring out of the window.
This man is so infuriating.
And yet…
The warmth of his hand suddenly pressing against my thigh has my breath catching in my throat.
Oh.
His touch is casual, lazy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb idly strokes my skin, back and forth, soft and slow, and I feel like I’m thrumming with electricity all over again.
I swallow hard, refusing to look at him.
Because if I do - if I let myself get caught up in those blue eyes, in the heat of his knowing gaze - I’ll be in real trouble.
Instead, I keep my gaze on the window, forcing my breathing to stay steady, while his fingers continue their slow, torturous movements against my skin.
Well, one thing is for certain - this night just got a whole lot more interesting.