Page 177 of My French Love Affair

Standing in the doorway, looking devastatingly good in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that hang sinfully low on his hips.

His hair is messy, jaw still very freshly shaven, and I can’t form a response before he’s already moving towards me.

I don’t know how I missed the large tray that he was carrying - clearly, my brain is just not with it this morning - and I watch as he places it carefully down on the bedside table closest to me before leaning down, his lips brushing mine in a soft, slow morning kiss.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

“Good morning,mon ange,” Frederic murmurs against my lips, his voice still husky with sleep.

I blink up at him, still processing - stillrecoveringfrom the last twelve hours of my life.

“Sleep well?”

A knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, like he already knows the answer.

I scoff, dragging the sheets a little higher as I sit up against the headboard.

“Oh, sure. After you finally let me sleep.”

Frederic chuckles, the sound low and satisfied as he reaches for the tray he set down moments before.

“Can’t imagine what might’ve kept you up.”

I roll my eyes, but the effect is entirely ruined when he lifts the tray onto the bed and settles in next to me, his body warm and solid against mine.

And then, he removes the lid.

Oh.

This isn’t just room service. This is a full-blown banquet.

Freshly brewed coffee, two types of juice - orange and apple, because apparently, he’s a thoughtful overachiever - a plate of golden, flaky croissants and pain au chocolat, a bowl of fresh fruit, yogurt with honey, cereal, and a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs with toast on the side.

I blink.

And then I blink again.

“…Did you invite half the hotel to join us?” I ask, arching a brow.

Frederic simply grins, reaching for a croissant and tearing a piece off.

“I didn’t know what you’d want,” he responds smoothly, popping it into his mouth.

“So, your solution was to order everything on the menu?”

His lips twitch, like he’s debating whether or not to say something cocky.

“You know me, Poppy,” he says eventually, smirking as he lifts a steaming cup of coffee and hands it to me. “I don’t do things by halves.”

I huff out a laugh, taking the cup from him.

“No, you definitely don’t.”

I take a careful sip, and oh,god.

Even the coffee is perfect.

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