Page 3 of My French Love Affair

“Wow,” I say. “Noah, I… This is... a lot.”

“I know, right?” He practically shines with pride. "I spenthourson it."

I fight back a grimace as I continue to scroll.

“Wait, wait - this one issous,” Noah insists, nudging his phone further toward me like he’s discovered something profound.

I hit play - more out of morbid curiosity than anything else - and soft, sentimental chords float from the tiny speakers.

The lyrics start, all dreamy and dramatic - something about knowing someone was meant for you the moment youimaginedthem.

I choke on my croissant.

Noah’s hand darts out to pat my back - mechanically, like he’s been programmed to show concern - but his face is lit up with pride.

"See? Isn’t it perfect?" he says. “It’s basically our story. Like,fate,and all that stuff.”

“Fate,” I wheeze, trying to blink the tears out of my eyes and ignore the piece of pastry lodged in my throat. “Yeah. Wow.”

Because nothing screamsromantic destinylike a syrupy ballad about falling for a concept.

* * *

About an hour or so later, we’re strolling through Covent Garden when Noah stops dead in his tracks.

“Wait,” he says, gripping my hand like a man with a revelation. “Do you hear that?”

I listen for sirens, or maybe the sweet sound of my dignity returning.

Nope. Can’t be that.

"It's music," I frown.

“No, no - you’re notlistening,” he insists, eyes wide with what I can only assume is emotion. “This one’s… different. This one’sours.”

Oh.

Ohno.

He turns to me, eyes alight.

"Dance with me."

“I - right here?” I squeak. “In the middle of the street?”

“Yes,” he breathes. “Come on - let’s do it. Like no one’s watching.”

People are definitely watching. In fact, I swear that a dog across the way has stopped mid-pee just to stare at us.

“I mean, there’s a bin… right there,” I say weakly, gesturing to the overflowing rubbish next to us.

“Exactly,” he whispers. “Love doesn’t wait for the perfect moment. Itcreatesit.”

And just like that, he’s swaying. Arms open and smiling like he’s in a movie.

I step towards him like I’m walking into an ambush.

Before I can protest further, his hands are on my waist, and he’s pulling me into a slow sway right there on the cobblestones. My arms hover awkwardly at my sides before I drape them -reluctantly- around his shoulders, stiff as a mannequin.

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