Page 162 of My French Love Affair

Chapter Forty-Four

Poppy

Once I’ve recovered - and removed myself from his knee - Frederic calls for a waiter and signals for the bill with a casual flick of his wrist, already pulling out his phone to text his driver.

I watch as he effortlessly commands the moment, barely phased by the fact that he just made me come in the middle of a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Meanwhile, I’m still trying to remember how to breathe.

The waiter returns promptly, bill in hand, but Frederic doesn’t even glance at it before slipping his card onto the tray.

He doesn’t check it.

I don’t really know why I expected anything else.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes as he hands the signed slip back with a nod of thanks, then reaches for the shopping bag - theCartiershopping bag - before standing and turning back towards me.

That’s when I notice it.

His jacket.

Black. Tailored to absolute perfection.

And currently draped over his forearm as he extends it toward me.

“It’s warm out,” I murmur, eyeing the offering as I move to stand. “I don’t think I’ll need it.”

He lifts a brow. “I beg to differ.”

Heat creeps up my neck - and not from the temperature.

I don’t quite knowwhyI hesitate.

Maybe because I don’t actually need the jacket. Maybe because I know that accepting it means something else entirely -

Something softer. Something almostintimate.

But it’s clear that the only winner here is him, and so I swallow, reaching for the material before I can talk myself out of it.

He watches closely as I slip my arms through the sleeves. The scent of his cologne wraps around me instantly, and my entire body betrays me by relaxing into it.

Smug satisfaction flickers over his face as he slides a hand to my lower back and guides me out of the booth and towards the exit. He nods at a few of the waiters as we pass, the inside of the restaurant much quieter now, and he holds the door open for me as we leave.

But it’s when we step outside - when the night air actually does feel cooler than I anticipated - that he does something I don’t expect.

He reaches for my hand.

Not my waist. Not my wrist. Not my arm in a possessive, claiming gesture.

Myhand.

And then he intertwines our fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I freeze, caught off guard by the simple action.

It’s ridiculous, I know. After all, this man has just made my come inside the fucking restaurant, and I’ve already slept with him on the yacht.

Butthis- him holding my hand and leading me through the quiet streets of Monaco - feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done.

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