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)
Jas glances at me, lips twitching, before turning back to him.
"Oh? And you think you fit the bill?"
His grin widens. "I can prove it."
And then, just like that, he sweeps her away - twirling her so effortlessly that she actually giggles.
I smile to myself. Good for her.
"You're impossible, you know that?" Emma appears again, momentarily free from Finn, giving me a pointed look.
I arch a brow. "What now?"
"This! All of this!” She gestures around dramatically. “There are literal Greek gods walking around this place, and you look like you’d rather be anywhere else."
"I don’t look like that.”
"You do," she insists. "You're intimidating enough as it is because of how stupidly beautiful you are. If you radiate that kind of fuck off and leave me alone energy, then no one is going to approach you."
I blink at her.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Emma groans, exasperated. "You don’t want to dance with anyone?"
"Not even remotely."
"Why not?!"
"I don’t know," I admit. "I just… It’s exhausting. I’d rather be here, with you guys, enjoying my night without some stranger trying to spin me around and whisper in my ear like we’re in some bad rom-com."
"You do realise that’s half the fun, right?" Em sighs.
"Not for me."
She gives me a long look, like she’s debating her next move. Then, finally -
"Fine. But when you meet someone who completely derails your life, don’t say I didn’t warn you."
I snort. "I think I'll take my chances."
She shakes her head, clearly over trying to convince me, before Finn appears again, stealing her attention completely.
And just like that, I'm alone in the middle of the dance floor, still swaying slightly, still apparently radiating do not approach me energy.
And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But then, before I even have the chance to process what’s happening, a firm, steady grip finds my waist, pulling me into motion so effortlessly that it takes a full second for my brain to catch up.
It’s deliberate. Calculated.
And the second I register the way the movement feels too smooth, too practiced, I already know.
I don’t turn into him.
I don’t accidentally stumble into his arms.
He moves me into him.
I finally snap my head up, and a now-familiar pair of blue eyes are right there to greet me.
Frederic.
Those bright eyes of his are practically alight and filled with pure, devilish amusement. His grip on my waist is firm but effortless, and his body far too close to mine for my liking.
“You again,” I breathe, trying not to show how much I’ve been completely thrown by his presence, along with the girls’ earlier revelation about his identity.
He smirks. “You sound surprised, mon ange.”
I scowl up at him, instantly snapping out of whatever spell I was momentarily trapped in.
“I am surprised. I was enjoying my night.”
He chuckles. “And now?”
“It’s actively worsening by the second.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” he says, his grip tightening ever so slightly on my waist as he tilts his head. “I suppose we should make it better.”
Then - because, apparently, the universe has decided my suffering is essential entertainment at this point - he starts to move.
And though my mind is screaming at me to do anything but, I move with him.
The problem is, Frederic doesn’t just dance. No - that would be too simple.
He moves like a professional, leading with confidence and control, the kind that instantly makes it impossible to keep up without following his lead.
It’s infuriating.
His grip never falters - light on my waist but a little too firm against my hand - and if the smug little twitch of his lips is anything to go by, then I’d say he’s definitely enjoying himself.
Meanwhile, I am fighting for my life.
Not because I can’t dance (I can, thank you very much), but because I refuse to acknowledge just how easy it is to fall into step with him.
“How,” I manage, breathlessly, “are you good at this, too?”
“I move fast for a living,” he says.
“Oh, please.”
He grins, then spins me without warning. The movement is so effortlessly smooth that I barely process it until I’m back in his arms again.
Annoying. Infuriating.
“Are you always this resistant?” he muses.
I scowl. “To you? Yes.”
His grip shifts just slightly, almost like he’s testing something.
“You’re still here, though.”
“Not by choice,” I snap.
“Oh?” He leans in ever so slightly, voice dipping low. “Because if you really wanted to leave, mon ange, I think you would have by now.”
I absolutely do not let my body react to that.
Instead, I tip my head, narrowing my eyes.
“You really love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”
He chuckles, eyes glinting. “I suppose I do enjoy a good conversation.”
“This isn’t a conversation.”
“Then what is it?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
The answer seems obvious in my mind.
It’s all just a big game. A challenge, a battle of wits - and I know he knows it, too.