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)
And then his eyes - those brilliant blue eyes - meet mine.
They darken, and I swallow thickly.
He stands and moves towards the entrance to the booth, the movement smooth and controlled, his gaze never leaving mine.
The sound of my heels is muffled against the thick carpet, and when I get close enough, his lips twitch into a slow, knowing smirk before he leans in, pressing a kiss to one cheek and then the other.
His breath is warm against my skin, his scent - clean, expensive cologne - completely unfair.
“You look…” he pauses, stepping back just slightly, his gaze dragging over me, lingering for just a second too long. “Incredible.”
I swallow.
Okay. This is very charming.
A little too charming.
And judging by the barely-there smirk on his lips, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I manage a slow exhale, forcing myself to smirk.
“And you look very…” my eyes roam over him now that he’s standing. “French.”
He laughs, a deep, smooth sound that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“Would you rather I be less French?” he muses, his voice dipping slightly.
I blink, surprised at the strange, unfamiliar feeling fluttering low in my abdomen.
Abort. Abort!
I hum softly as he stands back, gesturing towards the booth.
I’m very much prepared to sit down and reclaim my sanity as Frederic gives a drink order to the waiter, and I step into the booth, placing Leah’s handbag down on the plush seat.
It’s then that I see it.
On the table, placed exactly where I’m about to sit.
A shopping bag.
Not just any shopping bag, either.
Cartier.
My breath catches, and I stare.
Frederic steps into the booth, and I blink up at him, my jaw relaxed.
He says nothing. He just stands there, waiting.
Watching.
I inhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay level as I step forward and lower myself onto the chair.
Then, and only then, does he move.
He rounds the table, taking his seat directly across from me. His movements are languid and almost effortless, and as I shuffle my way somewhat awkwardly across the booth, closer and closer towards the shopping bag, I can’t help but envy his seemingly natural grace, his control.
When I finally reach the spot I was aiming for and lift my gaze to meet his, he’s already watching me.
Maddening. Unreadable.
And that’s when it hits me.
Frederic Moreau doesn’t just play games.
He plays to win.
Chapter Forty-Two
Poppy
Frederic leans back against the booth, his gaze flickering toward the bag that sits between us on the table.
He gestures towards it, the corners of his lips curling in amusement.
"Go on," he murmurs. "It’s for you."
I stare at the Cartier bag like it’s something dangerous. Like opening it will somehow solidify whatever this is between us.
Like it will put me even more at his mercy.
I shake my head slightly, my fingers brushing against the ribbon handles as I glance back at him.
"You really didn’t need to do this."
"Of course I did,” he says, one brow lifting as he tilts his head. “It would be criminal to invite a woman as beautiful as you to dinner and arrive empty-handed."
My breath catches, and I fight the warmth creeping up my neck.
"You didn’t exactly come empty-handed," I argue, dragging my gaze away from his and trying my best to find my footing in this ridiculous, glitzy, surreal evening. "You did send four massive bouquets of roses to my room."
He exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. "English gentlemen must be doing something terribly wrong if this isn’t the kind of treatment you expect."
I freeze for a fraction of a second, his words sinking in.
I don’t know what to say.
Because he’s right.
I’ve never expected this kind of treatment - not from Noah, not from anyone. Noah had come from a reasonably wealthy background, sure, but the most extravagant thing he’d ever bought me was flowers on Valentine’s Day.
And even those had been from a supermarket.
This?
Chanel swimwear, luxury bouquets, dinner arranged, a personal driver, a Cartier gift waiting for me on the table…
This is something else entirely.
My fingers tighten slightly on the Cartier bag before I finally inhale and carefully pull the ribbon loose.
Frederic watches me intently, his expression unreadable, his blue eyes sharp and focused as I lift the lid of the box inside.
A soft gasp catches in my throat, and I resist the urge to both slam the lid shut and hide my face from view.
A delicate, golden bracelet - simple, elegant and understated yet impossibly expensive-looking - rests against the velvet lining.
I run my fingers over it lightly, my stomach twisting with something unfamiliar.
It’s beautiful.
"You didn’t have to…"
Frederic leans forward slightly, his voice smooth, leaving no room for argument.
"Here - allow me."
I swallow, my pulse jumping as he reaches for it.
For a second, I hesitate, eyeing him carefully from across the booth.
And then - slowly - I stretch my arm out toward him.
His fingers brush against my skin as he takes my wrist, his touch firm yet careful. His thumb lingers against my pulse, and I know he feels it racing.