Page 132 of My French Love Affair

“The last time you looked like this, you nearly flipped the car in Saudi because you were too busy trying to chase down Harrison.”

I shoot him a look.

“That was different.”

“Was it?” Matthieu snorts.

I ignore him, clicking my phone screen off.

She’ll contact me. Eventually.

Shewill.

And if she doesn’t…

Well. There’s no escaping me. Not now.

I know what I want.

And it’sher.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Poppy

After the absolute chaos of yesterday, the ridiculous discovery of Frederic’s gift this morning, and Emma’s relentless (and I mean relentless) attempts to convince me to text him, it feels good to have a normal afternoon for once.

Leah stays out with Jacques. Apparently, he’s making up for his yacht-party negligence by taking her on yet another shopping spree, followed by a lavish dinner.

Emma mutters about how unfair it is that we aren’t all being showered in designer gifts, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from reminding her about the literal couture swimwear sitting in our hotel suite.

So, instead, Jas, Emma, and I spend the day wandering, taking Monaco at a leisurely pace. We stop for iced coffees and people-watch from a shaded terrace, and I even manage to film some more content for my socials.

And Monaco?

Monaco isfullof beautiful men.

Tall, dark-haired men in perfectly tailored linen shirts, lounging in outdoor cafés. Men with sharp cheekbones andexpensive watches stepping out of gleaming sports cars, exuding wealth and effortless charm.

Even the men who don’t seem to be trying to look good still manage to pull it off, as if it’s a prerequisite for simply existing here.

But no matter how many absurdly attractive men I see today, not a single one of them stands out the wayhedoes.

None of them have Frederic’s smirk or his insufferable, cocky charm.

None of them radiate the same effortless, arrogant confidence - the kind that makes me want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.

None of them look like they’re capable of pushing me past my breaking point with just a few well-placed words.

And none of them thrill me with just a glance, the way that he does.

I come to the mortifying conclusion that this can only mean one thing: I’m so fucked.

And Ihateit.

* * *

The restaurant we choose for dinner is perfect. It’s quiet enough to relax and actually hear each other, but lively enough that we can still soak in the atmosphere.

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