Page 127 of My French Love Affair

I’msoscrewed.

“Do not start -”

“Oh, Iwillstart.” She shakes the fabric in emphasis, her eyes practically glowing with mischief. “This is not a ‘thanks for a fun night’ gift, Poppy. This is a man on a mission.”

“I mean… shedidcall him a mechanic,” Jas laughs.

Emma snorts, before gasping again.

“Wait - is that a note?”

Shit.

Emma rifles through the box, and then -

“Aha!”

She lifts a small, black card between her fingers.

I already know what’s on it.

I can’t explain how or why, but I already know.

I glance down anyway, just to be sure.

And of course, there it is - a number.

Correction -hisnumber.

Scrawled in sleek, confident handwriting; Frederic Moreau just gave me his fucking number.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Poppy

Istare at the small, black card like it might burst into flames in my hands.

This wasnotsupposed to happen.

This was supposed to be a one-time thing. A moment of weakness, of bad decisions and temporary insanity.

I was supposed to wake up, wash him away, and move on.

Butthis?

This little black card, this ridiculous designer swimwear, this perfectly selected bouquet of pink roses -

It all says otherwise.

Emma practically vibrates with excitement as she waves the bikini in my face.

“So, what’s the plan? Are we calling him? Texting? Sending him a ‘thank you’ pic in this little number?”

I snatch it from her grip, glaring.

“We are doingnothing.”

Emma gasps, affronted.

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