Page 29 of My French Love Affair

I weave my way through the crowd, sidestepping men in unbuttoned shirts and women in bikinis so tiny they’re practically conceptual, trying to fight off the imposter syndrome as I reach the bar; leaning on its marble surface and smiling at the bartender.

“One frozen strawberry daiquiri, please.”

Yes, I’m aware that I’m in an elite, high-end, ultra-exclusive Monaco hotspot, andyes, I know I could order something chic and minimalistic.

But you know what? Ilikedaiquiris. They’re sweet, they’re strong, and they do the job.

The bartender nods and gets to work, and I take a moment to steady myself.

Okay, so Imightbe tipsier than I thought.

After a few minutes, a perfectly blended frozen daiquiri in a fancy glass appears before me. I thank the bartender in French as I wrap one of my hands around it, lifting it fromthe bar -

Just as someone slams into me from behind.

I stumble forwards. My grip on the glass slips, and in what feels like slow-motion, the entire contents of my ice-cold,veryred drink spill straight down my front.

I freeze.

A gasp ripples around the bar as I stand there, drenched in a sticky mix of rum, strawberry, and pure horror. My pink bikini is now a darker shade in someveryunfortunate places, and I can just about breathe as my body adjusts to the shock.

Behind me, a deep voice mutters, “oh, merde.”

‘Oh, merde’ is right,pal.

I whirl around, my initial shock fizzling out faster than my dignity and quickly morphing into pure, unfiltered rage as I come face-to-face with the absolute menace responsible for turning me into a walking daiquiri disaster.

It'shim.

The smug, ridiculously attractive, possibly deranged French man from the airport.

His blue eyes flash with recognition just as mine do, and for a brief, fleeting second, I think that he’ll at least have the basic human decency to look embarrassed.

“What. The.Fuck!”

I place my empty glass down on the bar, trying to ignore the fact that my sticky sheer sarong is clinging to me uncomfortably.

I grit my teeth as a cold chill rolls through my body and watch as the corners of his lips twitch, like he’s desperately trying to hold back a laugh.

Oh, Ihatehim.

"Do you find this funny?" I demand.

He exhales, shaking his head.

"No, no -"

But hedefinitelylaughs.

"Oh my god," I seethe. "Youdofind it funny!"

"No," he insists again, his French accent thick as his lips continue to twitch. "It’s just… it is a very dramatic color, no?"

I gape at him.

I am soaked. I am sticky. I am freezing.

And I am absolutely, unequivocally furious.

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