Chapter Forty-Nine
Poppy
T he second my phone rings, I know who it is.
I hesitate for a beat before answering - because, honestly, I’m still processing everything. The article, the sudden surge of followers, the fact that I spent last night screaming his name against a penthouse window.
But I answer anyway.
“Hello?”
“You told me you were a fashion design student, mon ange ,” Frederic’s voice purrs through the speaker, all smooth and teasing. “ Not an influencer.”
I stop mid-step, my heart doing something stupid in my chest.
His voice should not have this effect on me.
I roll my eyes, adjusting my bag over my shoulder as I continue strolling through Monaco’s winding streets, my headphones tucked into my ears.
“I’m not an influencer,” I correct, my tone dry. “And it’s fashion design with business management, for your information. ”
“How very serious.”
“I am serious,” I say, ignoring the way his teasing tone makes my stomach tighten. “My social media is for my designs, that’s all. It’s par for the course these days.”
“Of course,” he muses. “And you just happened to gain thousands of followers overnight for your designs?”
I sigh, glancing up at the bright Monaco sky.
“No. Apparently, I happened to be seen with you.”
Frederic chuckles, the sound deep and entirely too pleased with itself. I scowl at the image of his smug face.
“It’s not funny.”
“Oh, but it is,” he counters smoothly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so flustered.”
I groan. “I’m not flustered.”
“You are flustered,” he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Though I suppose it’s understandable. I imagine this is your first scandal, no?”
I roll my eyes again, though this time, I’m smiling.
“It’s hardly a scandal. It’s just one stupid article.”
“With a very clear picture of us holding hands,” he reminds me.
I exhale, shaking my head. “Great. Now I’ll forever be known as that girl .”
“And what girl is that?” he prompts.
“The random one caught in a fling with Frederic Moreau .”
There’s a pause, and then his voice drops, smooth as silk and dark as sin .
“A fling , hmm?”
I falter mid-step, my breath catching, because shit .
I said that out loud.
“I mean -” I scramble to recover, but he hums in amusement, cutting me off.
“Don’t worry, mon ange . I’ll try not to be too offended.”
I shake my head, focusing on the cobbled street beneath my feet as I turn a corner.
“So, what’s been on your busy schedule today?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. “It sounded hectic this morning.”
“All of it,” Frederic sighs dramatically. “Unfortunately, this will be the usual for the rest of the week.”
I make a small, sympathetic noise, waiting for him to continue.
“I wish you were here,” he adds casually, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to say.
Shit .
That’s dangerous territory.
I could say me too . I could let the words fall out naturally, let them mean something, let myself accept the fact that I do wish I were there.
But that would be admitting something .
So instead, I force out something lighthearted, something safe.
“Well,” I say, my tone teasing. “If you really wanted me there, you would have sent five bouquets instead of four.”
His chuckle is dark and warm. “Noted. Next time, I’ll be sure to be more convincing.”
Next time.
Something about the way that he says it makes my pulse hammer.
His voice lingers in my ear, a velvet thread tying me to him despite the fact that I’m strolling through Monaco’s winding streets.
“What are you doing, anyway?” he asks, his tone easy and curious.
“Just getting some air,” I say, glancing at the bright sky. “I kind of needed to escape my suite for a bit.”
Frederic murmurs in approval. “You sound relaxed.”
“Disappointed?” I smirk.
“Not at all,” he muses. “Although I did enjoy making you not relaxed last night.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
Of course he’d bring that up.
“Do you ever stop talking?” I quip, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.
“I've told you before: not when I’m enjoying myself.”
I roll my eyes, though I can’t fight the smile curling at my lips.
Frederic Moreau is a menace .
“So, tell me,” he continues. “Now that you’re Monaco’s latest internet obsession, what’s the plan? Are you going to bask in your newfound fame?”
I snort. “I’m going to pretend it isn’t happening. I’m going to bury my head in the sand and keep posting my usual content. ”
“Avoiding the drama?”
“Obviously.”
“You do realise that ignoring it will only make people more curious,” he points out.
“Then let them be curious.”
He laughs; a deep, genuine sound. I don’t know what it is about his laugh - maybe it’s the way it sounds so effortless , or maybe it’s the fact that I know it’s because of me - but it makes my stomach twist in delight.
“So,” I say, steering the conversation away from anything remotely dangerous. “What’s left on the busy Frederic Moreau agenda?”
“More meetings, more training, more interviews.”
“Sounds riveting .”
“You have no idea,” he deadpans.
I chuckle. “I take it you’re looking forward to the race, then?”
A pause. “More than you know.”
I can hear the shift in his tone - the subtle way it deepens, the way it sends a slow shiver down my spine.
Because I have a feeling that he’s not just talking about the race.
Before I can respond, he sighs. “Unfortunately, I should go. My riveting media obligations await.”
I smirk. “Try not to say anything too cocky in your interviews.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Right, of course,” I say dryly. “I forgot: Frederic Moreau, king of arrogance. ”
He chuckles. “I prefer champion of arrogance, actually.”
I shake my head, biting back a laugh. “Go do your interviews, you insufferable man.”
His voice drops, smooth and slow. “I’ll see you soon, mon ange .”
The line goes dead.
And just like that, I realise I’ve spent the last half hour walking through Monaco grinning like an idiot.
I exhale sharply, tucking my phone into my bag as I make my way back towards the hotel.
Because shit .
This is getting dangerous.
* * *
The hotel suite is blissfully quiet when I return, golden light streaming through the open balcony doors as the sun sets. The girls must still be out, giving me a rare moment to myself.
Kicking off my sandals, I make a beeline for the bathroom, ready to wash away the heat. My body still hums from the memory of last night - of him ; his hands, his mouth, the way he owned every inch of me.
I shake my head, biting back a smile as I reach for the zip at the back of my dress.
Get a grip, Poppy.
Just as I’m about to strip, my phone pings from the nightstand.
I don’t even have to check - I already know who it is.
I reach for it, expecting some smug remark, another teasing message, something that will no doubt make me roll my eyes and fight the urge to grin like an idiot -
But when I glance at the screen, my stomach drops.
Noah.
I blink.
For a second, I don’t move.
It takes me a moment to even process his name on my screen, to let it sink in that he’s actually messaged me.
It’s been weeks .
My heart pounds as I open the message.
Hey. I know you’re in Monaco - I saw it on the news. AAnd I know I probably shouldn’t be messaging, but I just… I needed to talk to you.
I stare at the words.
Then, another message pops up.
I miss you, Poppy.
I inhale sharply, my fingers tightening around the phone.
Of course, the moment I start moving on - the moment I start letting myself enjoy something, some one - he decides to pop back up.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my dress still half-unzipped, my mind spinning.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?