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)
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, gathering every ounce of patience I have left. Then, slowly - almost painfully, even - I open them.
And there he is.
The bane of my existence, the walking nightmare in perfectly tailored clothes, the man who will not stop appearing at the exact moment I least want to see him.
The French menace.
Only this time, he’s alone.
No entourage. No fancy group of linen-clad, Rolex-wearing men laughing at something he just said.
Just him. And me.
No witnesses.
His grip on my arms is light - steadying, but not overbearing. His sleeves are still rolled up and continuing to reveal just enough forearm to annoy me, and his scent - some frustratingly expensive cologne - is way too close.
To complete the look, he’s smirking, of course.
Because he knows.
He knows exactly how much I don’t want him to be here. He knows how much his presence rattles me.
And I swear, it’s like he lives for it.
"Ah," he says, his voice smooth and infuriatingly relaxed. "We meet again, mon ange."
I roll my eyes so hard I practically see the back of my skull.
"Seriously?” I sigh. “Is there a good reason you’re lurking in the hallway, or is stalking me just a full-time hobby for you now?"
He lifts a brow, mock-offended.
"That’s funny. I was just about to say the same thing about you."
"Oh, please,” I say, fighting back a laugh. “Why would I be stalking you?"
He tilts his head, pretending to consider it.
"I mean," he muses. "It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?"
This time, I do let out a laugh, completely incredulous.
"Right," I say, folding my arms. "And you think you're someone worth stalking?"
His lips twitch, like he finds me far too entertaining.
"Just part of the job," he replies.
What on earth is this guy talking about?
"What ‘job’?" I frown.
"My job."
He says it like that should clear everything up.
It doesn't.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.
"I drive."
I stare at him, deadpan.
"You drive?" I repeat, dragging the words out and wondering whether they’re supposed to mean something.
"Yes,” he nods, and when he seems to realise that I’m waiting for the punchline, he continues. “I race.”
I snort. Loudly.
"Oh, come off it," I scoff. "You’re - what, you’re telling me that you race cars for a living?"
He has the audacity to lift a brow, almost as if I’m the one who’s acting strangely here.
"Yes,” he nods.
I let out a disbelieving laugh.
"Okay.”
Because sure, why not. He’s a race car driver, and I’m the Princess of Monaco.
My French Stalker looks far too entertained by my reaction for my liking. It’s almost like he thinks I’m joking.
"You don’t believe me?" he asks.
This man cannot be for real. Every fuck boy in Monaco probably says that when they’re trying to impress someone - especially around the Grand Prix.
"No, I don’t. What do you really do?"
"I already told you," he shrugs, still far too relaxed for my liking.
I pause, assessing him.
His shirt is crisp and expensive, his watch looks like it costs more than my rent, and he has the cocky self-assurance of a man who’s never had to fight for attention in his entire life.
I refuse to fall for it.
"If I had to guess?" I say slowly, eyeing him critically.
He lifts his brows, waiting.
"I’d say… Mechanic."
There’s a beat of silence and stillness.
But then his expression twists into a combination of surprise and amusement.
"A mechanic?" he repeats.
I nod, confident in my assessment.
"Yep,” I say, popping the p. “I think that you probably do work with cars, but instead of just admitting you fix them, or whatever, you say that you race them to sound more impressive."
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. I can’t quite figure him out - it’s almost as though he can’t quite believe his luck.
"You think I lie about my job to impress women?" he asks.
"I think you get a real kick out of the fact that I don’t believe you," I answer.
"Now that is true,” he nods.
I exhale sharply, irritated by the fact that he won’t just admit to being a liar.
"You're absolutely insufferable.”
"And yet," he murmurs, his voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. "Here you are. Still entertaining me."
I narrow my eyes. "Yeah. Because you cornered me outside a bathroom."
"Details."
"Is this going somewhere, or are you just wasting my time for fun?"
His light eyes practically twinkle at that.
"Ah, yes. I still owe you, don’t I?"
I lift my chin, refusing to let him turn this into a game. "Yes. You do."
"And how do I repay you, mon ange?" he asks, his voice silky smooth.
"If you’re trying to get my number, you can get fucked,” I scoff, crossing my arms tighter.
"I was going to offer to buy you a new bikini, actually,” he says. “But if you’re offering…”
Oh, I almost scream in frustration. This man really is something else.