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)
Jas, on the other hand, is less subtle.
“So… that’s a yes, then.”
Leah sighs, setting down her drink. “It’s nothing. He’s just - ugh, men.”
Emma cackles. “Sweetheart, that’s not news.”
Leah rolls her eyes, picking at the edge of her napkin. “He’s just not as… attentive as he was before. I don’t know. Maybe I’m overthinking it.”
Or maybe he’s running out of ways to keep up the lie.
I keep that thought to myself, tucking it away for later. Now’s not the time.
Instead, I close my sketchbook, stretching my arms overhead.
“If he keeps acting weird, just remember - we have VIP access to the Grand Prix this weekend. So, worst case scenario? You’ll have a great view while looking hot.”
“Now that is a valid point,” Leah snorts.
The mood lightens, Emma lifting her glass. “To VIP tickets and not dating weird, emotionally unavailable men.”
Jas lifts hers. “Cheers to that.”
I clink my glass against theirs, smiling -
But the moment is short-lived.
Because just as I take a sip of my drink, my phone vibrates.
I glance down, and my stomach flips.
It’s him - of course it’s him. Finally.
What are you up to, mon ange?
I bite my lip to prevent my smile from spreading wide, my fingers tightening around my glass.
Ignoring him, huh?
Yeah - that lasted all of five minutes.
Still, what am I supposed to say to that?
Oh, you know, just sketching, ignoring gossip articles about us, pretending I don’t care that you’ve completely taken up residence in my mind rent-free and acting as though I haven’t been desperately waiting to hear from you while relentlessly checking my phone.
Yeah. No.
I take a slow sip of my drink, debating my response when Emma suddenly gasps loud enough to turn heads.
“Oh my god.”
I jolt, my phone slipping slightly in my grip.
“What?”
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she squeals and violently slaps Jas’ arm, pointing over toward a screen mounted above the bar.
There, in high definition -
Is Frederic fucking Moreau.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
Emma shushes me, leaning forward as if she’s about to uncover state secrets.
“Be quiet. I’m listening.”
Jas snorts. “You don’t speak French.”
“Oh, give over,” Emma waves her off. “You don’t have to understand what they’re saying when they look like that.”
I roll my eyes as she tilts her head, blatantly admiring him.
It’s clearly a press interview - he’s dressed in his team gear, a microphone in front of him as he effortlessly answers the interviewer’s questions. His brows are slightly furrowed, lips slightly parted as he speaks, and even I - who should be immune to him by now - have to admit he looks obnoxiously good.
It’s not fair. It’s actually rude.
I force myself to look away, exhaling sharply as I pick up my phone and type out a response to his message.
Trying to escape you.
I snap a quick picture of the television screen and send it, smirking triumphantly to myself.
One thing’s for certain - he wouldn’t have been expecting that.
Almost instantly, my phone vibrates, and I peer down at his response.
Not doing a very good job, are you?
I roll my eyes, shaking my head, but I don’t get a chance to reply, because another message appears.
Your legs look lovely, by the way.
Though I have to ask - why aren’t you wearing the swimsuit I bought you?
I pause, glancing down at my legs, stretched out on the sun lounger. I hadn’t even staged them particularly well on the photo since I had been trying to snap it so quickly in order to get a clear shot of his zoomed-in face.
Still, I bite back a smirk, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard.
I have my own designs to promote, remember?
It’s hardly a lie - I do still have content to film.
Monaco is a dream setting for my brand, and I’d be stupid not to take full advantage of it while I’m here. The elegant architecture, the pristine beaches, the endless displays of wealth and sophistication - it all fits seamlessly into the aesthetic I’ve been carefully curating for months.
Since old money luxury is the exact vibe I’m going for, there’s no better place to promote it than here, where every street corner, every hotel lobby, every sun-drenched terrace looks like it belongs in a high-fashion editorial.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about social media, it’s that people buy into the fantasy.
He responds to my message, and I feel my chest physically tighten as I read his words.
A shame. You’d look beautiful in it.
Content might be my main argument, but deep down, I can admit to myself that’s not entirely the reason I didn’t wear his gift today.
And… maybe I can admit it to him, too. After all, I don’t want him to get the wrong impression, or think that I don’t like the set he bought for me.
Besides, I don’t want to ruin it with my fake tan.
There’s a long pause before his response comes through.