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’d say it’s been a pleasure,” he muses.
Jacques grins, ever the fucking idiot.
The men move to leave us be, and I wait until they’re out of sight before turning to Jacques, my patience fraying rapidly.
“What the fuck have you been playing at?” I demand, my voice sharp, slicing through the space between us.
“Relax,” he says lazily. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”
I step closer, my jaw tightening.
“Dramatic?” I repeat, my voice lower, lethal. “I just had to bail your ass out. Again.”
“It wasn’t that serious,” he scoffs.
“Not that serious?” I echo, exhaling sharply. “They're on my fucking yacht, Jacques. This is shit I don't need."
"Right, but -"
"Tell me," I interrupt swiftly. "Does the girl who’s been draped all over you the past few days know that you’re a broke fucking cocaine addict?”
Jacques’ smirk falters.
But I don’t stop.
I’m beyond pissed with him.
It’s one thing when he’s spending relentlessly on my credit card to treat himself and fuck knows who else. It’s one thing when he’s organising these ridiculous parties and events at my family’s villa and on my family’s yacht.
It’s another thing entirely when he’s bringing trouble with him.
I step in closer, my voice dropping to something that is pure, unfiltered warning.
“Because if she doesn’t,” I murmur, tilting my head slightly, “maybe I should be the one to tell her.”
His jaw clenches.
For a second, just a second, something flickers across his expression - something resembling real fucking fear.
Good.
Then, just as quickly, he exhales, shaking his head with an easy grin.
“You wouldn’t.”
I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch long enough to make him think about it.
Then, finally, I smirk. I don’t say another word as I turn and walk away.
Let him stew in it. Let him wonder.
I storm back up to the main deck, irritation burning hot in my veins.
I need a drink - a real one. Not that I can, though.
Not now. Not ten days before Monaco.
Not with my career, my sponsors, my future hanging in the balance.
I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders as I return to where my group of friends are all still sat, lounging around without a care in the world. Bastien looks up as I approach, his smirk already in place.
“Well?” he drawls. “Trouble in paradise?”
I ignore him.
Étienne watches me carefully, eyes flickering with mild concern.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say shortly.
Renaud arches a brow. “That was fast.”
“It was handled.”
Jacques might be a fucking idiot, but he’s my fucking idiot, and like it or not, I always handle it.
Even when I shouldn’t.
I exhale slowly, forcing my frustration down.
I should be focusing on the race. I should be pushing Jacques and his bullshit out of my head.
But as I glance up, my eyes scanning the crowd, they land on her.
Poppy.
She’s returned to the deck, and she’s currently seated over with her friends. Her blonde hair is catching in the breeze, the silk of her dress shifting over her skin.
She’s not looking at me, but my breath slows all the same.
The rest of the noise - the music, the people, the conversation - fades into nothing.
It’s just her.
And me.
And a pull so fucking strong, I think it might rip me apart.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Poppy
The evening air is cool against my skin, but it does nothing to steady the heat still simmering beneath it.
I step onto the deck, my heartbeat still not quite right, my body still way too aware of what just happened.
I stopped in the bathroom before coming up - splashed cold water on my face, fixed my hair, did my best to wipe away any trace of him.
Not that it matters. Not when I can still feel him.
The way his hands owned me.
The way his voice curled around my name like he had every right to say it like that.
The way my body gave in before my brain could even catch up.
Emma notices me first, her brows furrowing as she sways slightly, looking far too pleased to see me.
“Oh, here she is,” she sing-songs, pointing a very wobbly finger in my direction. “Poppy, where the hell have you been?”
“Yeah, you disappeared for ages,” Jas says as she cocks her head, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What were you doing?”
I open my mouth to respond, but Emma is already gasping dramatically.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, eyes widening as she clutches my arm. “Did you fall overboard?”
I blink at her, unimpressed.
“Yes, Emma,” I deadpan. “I fell into the Mediterranean, took a quick swim, dried off, and made my way back just in time for you to interrogate me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Em. If she’d fallen overboard, she’d still be dripping,” Jas snorts.
“That’s true,” Emma nods seriously, as if this logic makes perfect sense. “You are very dry.”
I resist the urge to smack my forehead.
“Thanks for the observation.”
Jas tilts her head again, her gaze flicking over me like she’s trying to read between the lines.
“So, if you weren’t falling off the boat, what exactly were you doing?”