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)
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Chapter Fifty
Poppy
"You do not text him back."
Emma’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and unwavering.
I blink up at her from where I’m curled on the bed, freshly showered and now dressed in my silk pyjamas, my damp hair wrapped up in a towel.
The girls are back, sprawled across the room like they own the place - Emma perched on the edge of the bed while Jas scrolls through her phone, though Leah is still MIA from another night with Jacques.
"I feel rude ignoring him," I say, frowning at my phone.
"Poppy, he ignored you for weeks,” Emma scoffs. “This is the first time since your break up that he’s bothered reaching out! Just because he's seen the article. You do not owe him a response."
Jas nods in agreement, not looking up from her phone.
"She’s right. If you reply, it just drags things out. He’ll think there’s a chance."
I exhale, staring at the messages again. Noah’s words sit there, waiting.
I miss you, Poppy.
It’s tempting. Not because I miss him, because I don’t, but because it’s Noah.
A person who was safe, predictable, who never made me feel like this - like my heart was constantly being tossed between a reckless free fall and a wildfire.
But Emma’s right. Jas is right.
I delete the conversation and toss my phone onto the bed.
"Fine. Cold shoulder it is."
Emma beams. "Good girl."
* * *
The suite is buzzing with activity as we get ready for a day at the beach club.
Emma rummages through her suitcase, tossing bikinis and cover-ups around like a madwoman. Jas carefully applies bronzer in the mirror, and I’m finishing up the final touches on my outfit when the door swings open and Leah strides in.
Empty-handed.
The room pauses.
After a long beat of silence, Emma quirks a brow.
"No shopping bags?” she asks, bending at the waist and pretending to search the room. “Not even a gift bag?"
Leah scowls, dumping her sunglasses onto the table before flopping onto the couch.
"I’m not in the mood."
Jas and I exchange a look as Emma folds her arms.
"Did Jacques do something?"
Leah exhales dramatically, reaching for a throw pillow and hugging it to her chest.
"He’s just being… weird. I don’t like it"
Jas smirks, spinning her lip liner between her fingers.
"Weird how? Like, you’re-not-his-princess-anymore weird, or he’s-actually-being-financially-responsible-for-once weird?"
"Both," Leah glares.
Interesting.
Emma perks up, grabbing her bag.
"Well, if he’s out here being a disappointment, then he’s banned from our thoughts today,” she announces. “Come on, misery arse - it’s beach club time!"
* * *
The sun is high, the ocean sparkles, and it turns out that the beach club is exactly what I need.
Luxurious loungers, soft music, and an endless stream of cold drinks is just what Monaco ordered, and I am more than content to spend the day just lounging around.
We settle into a prime spot, a shaded cabana overlooking the water.
Leah orders a mimosa, Jas applies SPF like her life depends on it, Emma scrolls through her phone, sunglasses perched on her nose -
And me?
I pull out my sketchbook.
It’s easier to distract myself with work. Easier to ignore the flurry of notifications lighting up my phone - comments under my latest post, all variations of:
"Is this Frederic's girlfriend??"
"She was seen leaving his hotel!"
"Omg are they dating??"
I exhale, focusing on my designs, dragging the pencil across the page in soft, deliberate strokes.
Emma, sunbathing beside me, peeks over her sunglasses.
"You’re still ignoring the comments?"
I nod. "The moment I respond, it’ll just get worse."
"True." She sighs dramatically. "But my god, the tea is piping."
I shake my head, smirking as I keep sketching, ignoring the comments.
Ignoring him.
Because the second I let myself think about Frederic Moreau, I know I’ll never stop.
Thankfully, he’s busy.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
He’s got a race to prepare for. A career that involves driving at unimaginable speeds, fine-tuning every possible fraction of a second, dealing with a team, sponsors, strategy meetings -
There’s no way he has time to be thinking about me.
And yet…
I pause mid-sketch, tapping my pencil against the page, my mind betraying me.
Because if he’s so busy, then why did he text me yesterday? Why did he take the time to call?
Why, in the midst of his undoubtedly packed schedule, does he keep finding a way to slip into my life, into my thoughts, into my every damn breath?
I shake my head and force my attention back to my sketchpad.
Snap out of it, Poppy.
After a while of sketching, I look up and note that Leah is tapping aggressively at her phone. It’s obvious that she’s messaging someone; her brows furrowed, her tense expression showcasing her irritation.
The perfect distraction.
“So,” I say casually, “Leah. Is Jacques still being weird?”
She looks up, her expression tight.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters, taking a sip of her mimosa.
Emma raises her eyebrows, exchanging a glance with me.