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)
Chapter Eleven
Poppy
Just like that, my night is over.
Leah is still nowhere to be found, having disappeared with her multi-millionaire hours ago. Emma sends a quick text in our group chat to check in with her. We all share locations, but it still feels like common courtesy to know what your friend is up to when she runs off with a man twice her age.
Leah’s response comes almost instantly.
I’m fine! Having a GREAT time.
The three of us collectively wince at the winking emoji she puts on the end of her message.
“Great,” Jas mutters, shoving her phone back into her bag. “That’s a mental image I did not need.”
Emma sighs. “I already know she’s going to come back tomorrow saying she’s in love.”
“We should charge her for emotional labour,” Jas comments dryly.
“Can we go back to our room before I think about any of this too much?” I groan.
Emma nods, finishing off her drink.
“Sounds like a plan. Hotel, shower, and a full reset. Let’s go.”
* * *
We make our way out of the beach club, the cool night air a welcome relief after hours of sun, sweat and overpriced cocktails.
My sheer sarong clings uncomfortably to my still-sticky skin, and the faint scent of strawberry daiquiri lingers like an unwanted memory. I hate the thought of getting into a taxi like this, but there’s equally not a chance I’m walking back to the hotel in these heels.
Jas yawns as we step into a waiting car.
“I swear, if Leah actually marries this man, I’m going to need some kind of compensation. This is too much for my brain to process,” she comments.
Emma snorts. “Leah could spend three hours with a man and decide she wants to take his last name. Remember the banker in Mykonos?”
“The vegan DJ in Tulum?” Jas adds.
“The firefighter-turned-crypto-bro in Ibiza?” I mutter.
There’s a brief silence before we all groan at the memories.
“At this point, she should be paying us for emotional labour,” Jas comments.
I sigh, rubbing my temples.
“My head hurts.”
“Aww, poor Poppy,” Emma coos. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain French stranger occupying too much space in your brain, would it?”
I scowl. “Absolutely not.”
“You sure?” Jas lifts a brow, smirking. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet since you got back from the bar.”
“I’ve not been quiet. If anything, I’ve been literally traumatised by a public beverage attack.”
“Or maybe, just maybe… you’re secretly obsessing over how hot your little French enemy is,” Emma says.
“You are ridiculous.”
“That doesn’t sound like a denial,” Jas comments.
I huff as I turn to look out of the window, pointedly ignoring them.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Pops,” Emma muses as she stretches out on the seat. “This is just history repeating itself. The English and the French have been enemies to lovers since the beginning of time.”
“Yeah, I think the Hundred Years’ War was just one long, slow-burn romance,” Jas snorts.
I grit my teeth. "Right. And I assume the guillotine was just a really aggressive confession of love?"
“Oh, babe. Don’t be like that,” Emma smiles. “We’re just saying that it wouldn’t be the first time an English girl fell for a Frenchman.”
I huff. “Well, this English girl isn’t falling for anyone.”
Jas squeezes my shoulders. “Sure, babe. Whatever helps you sleep tonight.”
I glare harder out the window, refusing to dignify this foolery with a response.
* * *
The moment we step into the suite, I make a beeline towards the bathroom.
“I need a shower,” I announce, already peeling my bikini top away from my skin.
Emma flops onto the bed. “You go ahead - scrub all that sexual tension off, babe.”
I slam the bathroom door shut behind me and hurriedly strip myself of my clothes.
Hot water cascades over me as I step under the spray of the shower, washing away the stickiness of melted ice and strawberry syrup.
I hate him.
I hate how quickly he got under my skin - twice.
I hate that he tried to steal my taxi at the airport like some kind of charming international criminal, only to reappear at the beach club and drown me in a daiquiri.
I hate how he just stood there, smirking at me like I was his own personal entertainment for the evening.
I hate the way his voice dipped just enough to make my stomach flip and the way that he called me mon ange in that stupidly smooth French accent.
And - more than anything - I hate that his face won’t get out of my head.
It’s the cockiness. The arrogance. The smirk, the jawline, the perfectly tousled dark hair.
The way his shirt had been unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of golden skin…
I groan, pressing my hands over my face.
I don’t even know his name, but at this rate, I’m going to need exorcism-level intervention to get him off my mind.
I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the shampoo bottle like it’s a lifeline.