Page 151 of My French Love Affair

But it feelselectric.

His eyes flick up to mine as he adjusts the clasp, and I suddenly forget how to breathe.

There’s something in the way he looks at me. Something dark and knowing. Something that says he enjoys this - that he enjoys making me squirm.

When he finally releases me, I don’t move immediately.

I should.

I should pull my hand back. I should put some space between us.

I should say something.

But I can’t.

I sit there for a moment, my wrist still in the space wherehis fingers just were, my entire body feeling like it’s caught in some kind of spell.

Hisspell.

And that’s dangerous.

I snap out of it and glance down at my wrist, pulling it back towards me and turning it slightly so that the golden bracelet catches in the soft candlelight.

"Thank you," I murmur, my fingers brushing over it lightly. "I mean it. You really didn’t have to."

Frederic leans back in his seat, watching me with a small smirk, his arm draped lazily over the back of the booth.

"I wanted to."

Before I can respond, a waiter appears at the entryway to our booth, dressed immaculately in a pressed white shirt and black waistcoat.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Moreau. Mademoiselle," he greets us smoothly as he steps inside, placing two large glasses of wine down on the table. “Are you ready to order?”

I glance at the menu on the table, realising I haven’t had the chance to read it yet.

Frederic seems to notice, his lips twitching slightly in amusement as he looks over at me.

"Would you like me to order for you?"

I blink.Order for me?

I’ve never let anyone do that before. The idea should irk me, should irritate the control freak in me; but the way he says it - so casually confident - makes me hesitate.

And against all logic - against everything I should probably say - I nod.

"Alright," I say, surprised at myself. "Go ahead."

The waiter waits patiently as Frederic smoothly places our order.

He orderstartare de bœufto start, followed bymagret de canard- something about seared duck breast, I think. I try to listen, but I’m too distracted by the way his voice curls effortlessly around the French words, too caught up in the fact that I just willingly handed over control to this man andsomehow, I don’t hate it.

The waiter nods, collecting the menus, before stepping back and disappearing as quietly as he arrived.

I exhale, leaning back into the plush booth as I shake my head slightly.

"This whole thing feels surreal," I admit, more to myself than to him. "Fancy restaurant, expensive gifts, you ordering for me like this is some kind of classic romance novel -"

He lifts a brow, his smirk widening. "Are you admitting I’m romantic,mon ange?"

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