Page 149 of My French Love Affair

“And you look very…” my eyes roam over him now that he’s standing. “French.”

He laughs, a deep, smooth sound that sends an unwelcomeshiver down my spine.

“Would you rather I be less French?” he muses, his voice dipping slightly.

I blink, surprised at the strange, unfamiliar feeling fluttering low in my abdomen.

Abort.Abort!

I hum softly as he stands back, gesturing towards the booth.

I’m very much prepared to sit down and reclaim my sanity as Frederic gives a drink order to the waiter, and I step into the booth, placing Leah’s handbag down on the plush seat.

It’s then that I see it.

On the table, placedexactlywhere I’m about to sit.

A shopping bag.

Not just any shopping bag, either.

Cartier.

My breath catches, and I stare.

Frederic steps into the booth, and I blink up at him, my jaw relaxed.

He says nothing. He just stands there, waiting.

Watching.

I inhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay level as I step forward and lower myself onto the chair.

Then, and only then, does he move.

He rounds the table, taking his seat directly across from me. His movements are languid and almost effortless, and as I shuffle my way somewhat awkwardly across the booth, closer and closer towards the shopping bag, I can’t help but envy his seemingly natural grace, his control.

When I finally reach the spot I was aiming for and lift my gaze to meet his, he’s already watching me.

Maddening. Unreadable.

And that’s when it hits me.

Frederic Moreau doesn’t just play games.

He plays towin.

Chapter Forty-Two

Poppy

Frederic leans back against the booth, his gaze flickering toward the bag that sits between us on the table.

He gestures towards it, the corners of his lips curling in amusement.

"Go on," he murmurs. "It’s for you."

I stare at the Cartier bag like it’s something dangerous. Like opening it will somehow solidify whatever this is between us.

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