Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
And fuck, I don’t want him to.
I pull back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.
His thumb skims over my cheek, and then, without hesitation, he leans in and kisses me - slow and deep, his lips moving against mine in a way that makes me want to forget about my flight, forget about everything but this.
Emma clears her throat, loudly.
“Hate to break up the romance, but if we don’t go now, we’ll actually miss our flight.”
Reluctantly, I pull away, inhaling sharply. I glance at Frederic one last time, his expression unreadable, but there’s something soft behind his eyes - something almost vulnerable.
"I’ll message you when I land," I tell him.
He nods, his fingers brushing against mine. "Safe flight, mon ange."
And with that, I turn, my heart heavy, and follow the girls toward security.
As we move through the airport, Monaco disappearing behind us, I reach up, unclasp the necklace, and fasten it around my neck.
I press my fingers lightly over the golden F, exhaling deeply.
Because somehow, despite leaving Monaco - despite leaving him -
He still feels closer than ever.
* * *
London feels different.
The air is cooler, the skyline familiar, the streets bustling in the way they always are. But something about it all feels… off. Like I’ve left a part of myself behind somewhere between the towering buildings of Monaco, the sparkling harbor, the electric roar of the racetrack.
Somewhere between him.
It’s been two days since I landed. Two days since I hugged my parents, since I unpacked my bags, since I curled up in my own bed for the first time in weeks.
Two days since I last saw him.
I’ve spoken to him, of course. He called the moment I got home, his voice smooth and teasing as he asked if I was wearing his necklace.
(I haven’t taken it off.)
We’ve been texting constantly - flirty, playful messages mixed with deeper conversations. He’s told me he misses me. That Monaco feels quiet without me. That he’s counting down the days until he can see me again.
And I -
Well.
I miss him too. More than I should.
More than I know what to do with.
I sigh, running my fingers over the golden F resting against my collarbone as I stare out my bedroom window, the city skyline glowing against the dusk.
Then, my phone buzzes.
My stomach flutters instinctively as I grab it, already knowing who it is before I even check.
Frederic.
Open your front door.
I blink, my heart skipping.
Wait. What?
Frowning, I shove my phone into my pocket and hurry downstairs, my pulse hammering as I unlock the door and pull it open.
And then -
I freeze.
Because there he is.
Frederic Moreau, standing on my doorstep, dressed in a simple white t-shirt and jeans, hands tucked into his pockets, a slow, knowing smirk playing at his lips.
My breath catches.
“You -” My voice is hoarse, my brain struggling to process what’s happening. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
"I told you London isn’t far.”
I blink. “I -”
“And I was right, of course. Took me less than two hours.” He steps closer, tilting his head. “Was that too long for you, mon ange?”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
Because - what?!
He came here. To me.
Just like that.
I stare at him, my chest tight, my fingers gripping the doorframe like I need something to hold onto.
“I told you,” he murmurs, reaching out, his fingers brushing against my waist. “This isn’t over. Not even close.”
I exhale sharply, my pulse roaring, my heart stumbling over itself as I finally, finally give in.
To him. To this.
To whatever the hell this is.
With a breathless laugh, I throw my arms around him, burying my face into his shoulder as he catches me with ease, his arms tightening around me like he has no plans of ever letting go.
And maybe -
Maybe he won’t.
Maybe this isn’t just a summer fling, or a whirlwind romance, or a stolen moment lost to time.
Maybe this is the start of something real.
Something impossible.
Something like forever.
Epilogue
Poppy
One Year Later
Fifteen months ago, I stepped off a plane in Nice and battled my way through the ruckus to find a taxi, utterly clueless about what my future would hold.
Now, I’m standing in the grand hall of my university, dressed in a cap and gown, my name about to be called to collect my first-class honours degree in Fashion Design and Business Management.
I take a steadying breath, smoothing down the fabric of the dress I’ve designed for today. It’s a classic and elegant ivory piece, subtly embroidered with flowers.
And one that belongs to my brand.
A brand that didn’t even exist a year ago. A brand that launched just before Christmas and, within weeks, changed everything.
Since then, my life has been manic.
My website crashed twice when my Spanish Grand Prix dress sold out within minutes of launching. My collections consistently sell out within hours. We’ve expanded into two offices - one in London, one in Paris - and we’re already planning further expansion.