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)
“Oh, that’s rich,” I snort. “Coming from the man who actively goes out of his way to annoy me at every possible opportunity.”
“It’s because you make it so entertaining,” he says, leaning in a little closer like he’s letting me in on a secret. “You’re fun to annoy, mon ange.”
I exhale deeply, willing myself not to fall into whatever trap he’s setting.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say flatly.
“You should.”
I shift again, suddenly too aware of how close we are, how the early afternoon breeze barely cools the heat prickling over my skin as the yacht gently bobs up and down.
His lips twitch like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and I scowl, determined to turn the tables.
“You know,” I say, dragging my gaze deliberately down his frame, taking in the way-too-perfect fit of his shirt, the way it clings just enough to suggest he absolutely knows how good he looks in it.
The short sleeves mean that his thick, tanned forearms and half of his broad biceps are exposed, and of course - of course - there’s something unfairly attractive about the way he wears effortless confidence like it’s been tailor-made for him.
“Mmhm…?” he prompts, watching me with that damn smirk again.
Shit.
I force my eyes back to his, hoping that my face isn’t flushed on account of being caught fully distracted and ogling him.
“You dress suspiciously well for a man who probably spends most of his time in a fireproof jumpsuit.”
“Well,” he chuckles, stretching again, his obscenely toned forearms flexing in the process (which I absolutely do not look at for longer than a second). “I do have some free time outside of work. And when I do, I like to make sure I look…”
He pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Presentable.”
“Right,” I say, raising a brow. “That’s the word I would’ve chosen.”
“And you?” he says. “Do you always look this put together, or am I just lucky?”
I blink.
Because - well, what the hell?
That seemed dangerously close to actual flirtation.
I shift in my seat, fighting the warmth creeping up my spine as I wait for the punchline.
It never comes, though.
“You make it sound like I’m dressed up for you,” I retort after a long beat.
“I wouldn’t dream of assuming.”
His gaze drops ever so briefly to the long stretch of my legs, to the way my dress cinches at my waist, before flicking back up far too quickly for me to call him out on it.
But I saw it, and he knows I did.
I swallow, hating the fact that the tension between us is so thick I could probably carve my name into it.
Frederic leans in again, and I catch a hint of his cologne - something clean, expensive and infuriatingly attractive.
“Tell me something,” he murmurs.
I arch a brow, keeping my face impassive despite the warzone happening in my brain.
“Go on.”
“How long do you think you can keep pretending you don’t enjoy this?”
I blink, and my stomach tightens.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“This.” He gestures lazily between our bodies. “Us.”
“There is no ‘us’,” I tell him.
“Is that so?” he says. “Or is that just what you say to help you sleep at night?”
I want to slap him.
I want to kiss him.
I want to kick him off this yacht and watch him swim all the way back to shore.
Instead, I take one last sip of my sparkling water, place the empty glass deliberately on the bar, and stand up from the barstool.
“I should really try and find my friends now,” I say as I adjust the hem of my dress, pulling the material right down my thigh to ensure I’m decently covered. “Enjoy the rest of the party, Frederic,” I say, emphasising his name with every ounce of stubbornness in my soul.
Lord help me - I need another drink - pronto.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Frederic
Poppy.
Her name is like a challenge; like something I shouldn’t have, but already do.
I exhale slowly, leaning against the bar, fingers drumming against the polished wood as my gaze flickers after her.
She moves like she’s escaping. Like she can run from me.
She can’t.
I smirk to myself, rolling the last sip of my drink over my tongue as I process everything about her that has snared me in this ridiculous way.
She’s beautiful - obviously. But that’s not what’s got me so hooked.
It’s the fire in her. The fight.
The way she talks back like I don’t command every room I enter. The way she meets me head-on, without hesitation.
The way she looks at me like I’m just a man, not a fucking name, not a paycheck, not a status symbol.
Women don’t do that.
They lean in. They flirt. They try.
Poppy?
Poppy leans back. Poppy frowns. Poppy insults me.
And, fuck… it’s intoxicating.
I should leave it at that. Let her think she’s won this round, let her believe she’s got the upper hand.
But instead, I push away from the bar and make my way towards the yacht’s operations desk, where Alain, the yacht’s chief steward, is stationed with a small group of staff.