Page 218 of My French Love Affair

And then, there’sher.

She hasn’t recognised my presence yet, and she’s still sitting with her back against the couch and laughing at something that one of the girls has said. She’s sitting comfortably - relaxed, and looking very much like she belongs.

Like she didn’t just test me.

I move without thinking, striding over without hesitation. Her eyes lift, and she sees me.

For a split second, I catch it - the way her eyes widen, giving her away.

But then her lips curve into a soft, sweet smile; and when she greets me, her voice is sickeningly polite.

I don’t return the smile.

Jacques, on the other hand, is fuckingdelighted.

"The man of the hour!" He grins, lifting his glass in an exaggerated toast. "Congratulations,mon frère. Beautiful performance out there today!"

Around the table, the others murmur their agreement.

Attention shifts. All eyes on me.

I know that Jacques expects me to sit by him. Hell, he probably thinks that I’m hereforhim.

It’s what he wants - what he’s always wanted.

For years, Jacques was more than just an old family friend. He was my trainer, my mentor - the man responsible for honing my discipline, sharpening my focus and pushing me to my absolute limits.

And yet, he was never satisfied with his own place in this world.

That’s the thing about Jacques. He never wanted to be the man behind the driver.

He wanted to be the man himself.

And he’s spent his whole life trying to make that happen.

But I don’t give a fuck about what he wants, nor do I give a fuck about what anyone else expects of me.

So, I don’t sit near him.

Instead, I sit myself down right next to her.

The girls shuffle slightly on the couch. I can tell that they’re surprised by my presence and my choice of seat, so they move up, making room for me.

Not that I care. It’s hardly as if I’d be sitting anywhere else.

"Well?" Jacques prods as he leans forwards, looking over the girl who’s still very much draped over his lap. "Are you just going to sit there looking moody, or will you accept our praise?"

I exhale sharply, pasting on a smirk.

"You know me, Jacques. I’m always happy to accept praise," I say smoothly, but my eyes remain on her.

She doesn’t look at me. Instead, she stirs her drink casually, her eyes glued to it - like I’m not even there.

Fuckinginfuriating.

The group continues chatting, engaging in polite, easy conversation that they pull me into. They congratulate me, and I nod in thanks.

I say the right things, smirk at the right moments, but it’s like being back with the sponsors all over again.

---