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)
His smirk deepens.
“You’re thinking very hard, mon ange.”
I grit my teeth. “If you call me that one more time -”
“Then tell me your name.”
I blink.
He looks at me like he’s just laid the best trap of the night, and I drop my hand away from his, stepping back slightly to create some space between us.
“Not a chance.”
His expression flickers with amusement. “No?”
“No.”
He exhales, then lets his hands fall from my waist. The movement is so deliberate, so infuriatingly controlled, and even though I’m the one that moved away first, it feels like he’s the one that’s actually choosing to let me go.
It’s his turn to step back now, ever so slightly, and I watch as he tilts his head.
“I’ll find out,” he says simply - confidently, even.
I clench my jaw, refusing to let his certainty bother me.
But he says it like he’s already won. Like it’s just a matter of time before I give in.
Maybe that’s what pisses me off the most - the way he acts as if this is some game he’s already playing a few moves ahead of me.
“It’s a shame,” he muses lightly, just loud enough for me to hear. “I would have preferred to have heard it from you, but I suppose I’ll have to ask someone else.”
“Ask who, exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, though the sight of his smirk deepening tells me that he absolutely does. “Maybe one of your friends?”
He tilts his head toward where Emma and Jas are still dancing, completely oblivious.
“They seem… delightful.”
My jaw clenches tightly as I grit my teeth.
Fuck, this man is irritating.
“You wouldn’t.”
He lifts a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”
And goddamn it, I can see it now.
Emma, absolutely thrilled by the situation, spilling my full government name, address and date of birth before I even have the chance to stop her.
Jas would be a little more reserved, I think; though I still have a feeling that she would definitely hand him my first name - mostly to watch me suffer.
“You’re a nightmare,” I grit out.
His expression doesn’t waver. “So I’ve been told.”
I bite my lip, debating it. I know that if I walk away now, he’s going to find out anyway. He’s made that much clear.
So, I begrudgingly let out a sigh, tipping my chin up slightly.
“It’s Poppy.”
His brows lift, like he wasn’t actually expecting me to give in.
I cross my arms. “That’s all you’re getting.”
“Poppy,” he repeats, looking thoughtful as if he’s turning the name over in his head.
And hearing it in his annoyingly sexy French accent makes me irrationally irritated all over again.
Then, after a beat, he nods.
“Pavot,” he muses, the French word rolling off his tongue effortlessly.
I frown. “What?”
His lips twitch. “Coquelicot, then. That’s what we call them in the fields.”
“The fields?” I echo, momentarily thrown.
“The poppy fields,” he says, his voice smooth, lazy. “In the French countryside. They stretch for miles, all red and wild and untamed.”
He tilts his head slightly, watching me.
“A fitting name, don’t you think?”
I stare at him, annoyingly unsure whether or not that was meant to be an insult.
“You sound like you’re trying to be poetic,” I say as I narrow my eyes.
“Maybe I am.”
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“That’s unfortunate for you.”
His brows lift slightly, amused. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” I smirk. “Turns out I’m not into tortured poets.”
The second the words leave my mouth, something flickers across his face, and for the first time tonight, he looks genuinely intrigued.
I don’t wait for him to recover, though. Instead, I turn on my heel and march away, without another word.
But not before I hear him chuckle behind me -
And I swear that I feel his gaze lingering on me long after I’ve disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter Nineteen
Frederic
Poppy.
Her name lingers in my head. It refuses to leave, refuses to be anything less than a whisper in my mind, teasing and infuriating me all at once.
It’s been hours since she walked away, her chin lifted high in that stubborn, defiant way of hers, the last words she threw at me still ringing in my ears.
"Turns out I’m not into tortured poets."
I should be irritated. Should be brushing her off.
Instead, I’m amused.
She’s a damn menace. Sharp-tongued and sharp-eyed, constantly looking at me like I’m something she’s already figured out. Like she thinks she’s immune.
She’s not.
The car glides through the streets of Monaco, the city still alive with the hum of nightlife, the glow of streetlights flickering across the windows as I lean back into the leather seat.
I should be thinking about my training tomorrow. I should be focused.
Instead, I can still feel the warmth of her waist beneath my hands, the way her body fit against mine, the way she moved with me even when she fought it.
Because that’s the thing - she didn’t want to enjoy it.
She wanted to scowl, to roll her eyes, to tell me off in that clipped English accent that makes everything sound a little more severe than it really is.