Page 31 of My French Love Affair

"Because,mon ange," he murmurs, leaning in slightly, "you areveryfunny when you are mad."

I scowl, refusing to acknowledge the fact that my stomach tightens slightly at the way he saysmon ange.

I hate him.

I hate that he has the audacity to be this good-looking whilst tormenting me.

And Iespeciallyhate the fact that some deranged part of me kind of enjoys arguing with him. Just a little.

The bartender slides a fresh daiquiri onto the bar, and I snatch it up, fully ignoring the way Mr. Smug Frenchman watches me over the rim of his own drink.

I take a long sip, willing myself to recover even a shred of dignity.

It does not work.

Because then, with the audacity of a man who has never suffered consequences in his entire life, he tilts his head, smirks that infuriating smirk, and says -

"Are you always this much of a disaster?"

I literallygasp.

"Excuse me?" I splutter, gripping my glass so tightly I might actually shatter it.

He has the nerve to look intrigued, like I’m some kind of fascinating little spectacle that’s wandered into his night uninvited.

"It’s just an observation," he muses, leaning an elbow against the bar, far too relaxed for someone who just turned me into a human cocktail. "First, you manage to spill an entire drink all over yourself -"

I stab a finger in his direction. "You knocked into me."

"That’s not how I remember it."

"Oh? And how do you remember it?"

He tilts his head, like he’s about to deliver something profound.

"I remember you stumbling into me -"

"That is absolutelynot true-"

"And like the true gentleman that I am," he continues, ignoring my protest, "I was simply trying to steady you."

I let out a slow breath, willing myself not to lean over and strangle him.

Before I can argue further, he turns slightly, speaking in rapid French to the group of men standing beside him.

I’d been so blinded by rage - and, fine, maybemildlydistracted by how obnoxiously good-looking he is - that I hadn’t even noticed his friends standing nearby, watching our entire shit show of an interaction.

Whatever he says is apparently hilarious (though I highly doubt it), because one of them bursts out laughing. The man shoots him a knowing look before the whole group picks up their drinks and saunters off towards the main crowd, leaving him alone at the bar with me.

I exhale sharply, watching them disappear.

So. He’s not alone.

Great.Now there are more witnesses to the crime I’m about to commit.

"What?" he asks as he turns back to me, smirking like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself.

I shake my head, exhaling sharply.

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