Page 153 of My French Love Affair

"And yet, here you are," he murmurs, watching me over his glass. "Having dinner with me."

Damn him.

"Yes, well. Even the most irritating people deserve a meal every now and then,” I retort.

Frederic chuckles, tipping his glass slightly towards me in a lazy toast. "I’ll drink to that."

And just like that, the tension shifts. The atmosphere between us is less sharp, less combative.

For the first time, we’re not just challenging each other.

We’reenjoyingeach other.

"So,” I say, straightening my spine and attempting to distract myself from the brilliant blue of his eyes. “How’s everything going for you? With the race preparation, I mean."

"It’s going well," he says. "Busy. Physically exhausting. Mentally draining. But that’s part of the job."

I nod like I understand, even though I definitely donotunderstand what it takes to drive a car at ridiculous speedsfor a living.

"So… what does that actually involve?" I ask, trying not to sound completely ignorant. "You just… drive around a track a few times to warm up?"

He actually laughs at that, the sound low and deeply amused.

"You’re definitely not a fan girl," he muses, shaking his head.

"You don’t say,” I respond, attempting to fight a smile (and failing miserably).

"Training is more than just driving,” he explains. “There’s physical endurance training, reaction drills, simulator sessions, strategy meetings, team debriefs -"

I hold up a hand, my mind already spinning. "Okay, okay, I get it. It’s a lot."

His smirk deepens. "Itisa lot."

I tilt my head slightly, considering him.

"I guess I must be pretty lucky then," I say. "You’ve spared time for me."

Frederic doesn’t miss a beat.

"No," he murmurs, his voice lower now, his gaze holding mine. "I’m the lucky one."

Heat pricks at the back of my neck, and I curse myself for the way my stomach flipsjust a littleat his words.

Becausedamn- he’s good.

* * *

The plates from dinner have long been cleared, the bottle of wine drained between us, and the soft hum of conversation fills the secluded part of the restaurant as Frederic leans back slightly against the booth.

"Something sweet?" he suggests, reaching for the dessert menu. "Or are you too full?"

I exhale, resting a hand lightly on my stomach. "I couldnoteat a whole dessert by myself."

"Then we’ll share," he says easily, and apparently, that settles it.

Before I can argue, he’s already gesturing for a waiter, placing an order in smooth, effortless French. I only catch half the words, but I definitely recognisecrème brûléein the mix.

Of course. Something classic, simple, but still indulgent.

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