Page 134 of My French Love Affair

I choke on my drink at the sound of his name, and Jas bursts out laughing while Emma grins far too smugly.

“Grow up,” I mutter, setting my glass down and barely resisting the urge to throw it at her.

Out of pure curiosity -definitelynot interest - I let my gaze flicker back toward the man across the room.

He’s still watching me.

But when I don’t hold his gaze - when I let my attention drift away, clearly signaling that I’m not interested - he takes the hint.

And just like that, he turns back to his friends.

No persistence. No arrogance. Nochase.

Just quiet acceptance.

At least this one isn’t pushing it, I think absently, draining the rest of my drink.

If only all men could take a hint that easily.

* * *

By the time we make it back to the suite, the exhaustion of the day has fully settled in.

Jas immediately announces she’s taking a long shower - something about needing to shaveeverywhere- while Emma, still recovering from her chaotic night before, groans dramatically, declares herself officially deceased, and buries herself under the covers without another word.

Within minutes, her soft snores fill the room.

And just like that, I’m alone.

The suite is dark, the only glow coming from the city lights spilling in through the windows where the curtains remain undrawn. The muffled sounds of nightlife hum below, and I let out a slow breath as I push myself off the bed, drawn to the balcony.

Stepping outside, the warm night air greets me, thick with the scent of the sea. I lower myself into one of the sleek outdoor chairs, stretching my legs out as I take in the view.

Monaco sprawls before me. The city is alive and electric, and from up here, it looks almost like a painting - something too polished, too pristine to be real.

But my mind isn't on Monaco.

It’s onhim.

Frederic Moreau.

Quick-witted, cocky and entirely too charming for his own good.

Smug, arrogant and handsome beyond reason.

Every moment with him plays on an endless loop in my mind, each one more vivid than the last.

His sharp, teasing remarks - each one crafted to push my buttons, to pull a reaction from me.

The way his blue eyes gleam with mischief, like he’s savouring every second of our back-and-forth, thriving off the challenge.

The way he watches me like he already knows what I’m going to do before I do it. Like he’s always three steps ahead, just waiting for me to catch up.

The way he smirks when I fight back when I meet his fire with my own.

The way he leans in, deliberate and slow, testing my patience, daring me to break first.

Fuck, he’s infuriating.

---