Page 142 of My French Love Affair

"You’re all being so dramatic -"

"Dramatic?!" Emma gapes at me, waving frantically at the flowers. "Poppy. This isfour bouquets of roses. This is ahandwritten invitationto aprivate dinner. This is literal Grand Romantic Gesture™."

"It’s not that deep -"

“Notthat deep?!”

I swear Emma is about to combust.

"You’re really going to try and stand there, look me in the eye, and tell methisis NOT that deep?!"

I rub my temples. "Can we just -"

"Are you going?" Jas interrupts.

I hesitate.

Emma practically shakes me by the shoulders.

"Youhaveto go,” she says, clapping her hands together. "Oh my god, if you don’t go,I’llgo in your place."

I snatch the card back. "Fine."

Three identical shrieks echo through the suite.

Ignoring them, I pull out my phone, my heart hammering as I type out a message.

You certainly know how to make yourself known.

And then, just so there’s no doubt;

I’ll see you at 8.

As soon as I press send, a rush of nervous energy floods through me.

This is happening. I’m going to dinner with Frederic Moreau.

I haveno ideawhat I’m getting myself into.

* * *

"I have nothing to wear."

"Bullshit," Jas says immediately, flipping through my suitcase. "You literally design clothes for a living."

"Exactly!" I gesture wildly to the pile of rejected dresses on my bed. "Which is why I’m overthinking this!"

"So stop messing around with this stuff and just wear something you made yourself," she says, as if it’s the simplest solution in the world.

"Is that not a bit…obnoxious?”

"No. It’s veryFrench, actually,” Emma snorts.

Leah nods in agreement, perched on the edge of my bed, meticulously sorting through her ever-growing collection of designer handbags.

"She’s right. Men love a woman who can market herself."

"I am notmarketing myself-"

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