Page 148 of My French Love Affair

I’ve been to nice places before. Fancy dinners. High-end events.

But this is another level.

And yet… no one looks at me like I don’t belong. No one gives me a second glance. No whisper of disapproval, no raised brows.

I smooth my hands down the fabric of my dress as a suited maître d’ approaches me with a practiced smile. He takes my name and quickly references his system before nodding.

“Mademoiselle, please follow me.”

His tone is low and professional, and he doesn’t so much as blink at me - like I’m exactly the kind of person who should be dining here. It’s unsettling, but also oddly reassuring.

Especially if I am going to try and branch out into something more than dresses that I make for myself.

I exhale slowly and nod, following him as he guides me through the restaurant.

We move past tables adorned with flickering candlelight and rare vintages of wine. Every detail feels curated, every guest appearing as though they’ve stepped out of a lifestyle magazine; but then he takes me past all of that.

Towards the back, where it’s quieter.

Where the noise of the restaurant dulls into a mere hum.

Where the lighting is even softer, warmer, more intimate.

Where the booths are curved and secluded, the dark leather giving an illusion of absolute privacy.

And that’s when I see him.

Effortlessly leaning back against the plush leather of a private booth, a glass of something dark and rich in his hand, his long, thick fingers wrapped lazily around the stem.

He looks -

Unbelievable.

His shirt is white and long-sleeved, a crisp contrast against his sun kissed skin. The sleeves are rolled up just enough to give me a glimpse of his forearms - strong and defined, hisveins subtly visible beneath the golden light.

His dark hair is styled back, not in a way that’s overly intentional, but still just so effortless - in that way only men like him can pull off. His jawline is freshly shaven, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and his lips are slightly parted as he watches me approach.

And then his eyes - those brilliant blue eyes - meet mine.

They darken, and I swallow thickly.

He stands and moves towards the entrance to the booth, the movement smooth and controlled, his gaze never leaving mine.

The sound of my heels is muffled against the thick carpet, and when I get close enough, his lips twitch into a slow, knowing smirk before he leans in, pressing a kiss to one cheek and then the other.

His breath is warm against my skin, his scent - clean, expensive cologne - completely unfair.

“You look…” he pauses, stepping back just slightly, his gaze dragging over me, lingering for just a second too long. “Incredible.”

I swallow.

Okay. This is very charming.

A littletoocharming.

And judging by the barely-there smirk on his lips, he knowsexactlywhat he’s doing.

I manage a slow exhale, forcing myself to smirk.

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