Page 32 of My French Love Affair

"I’m leaving,” I tell him. “Before I develop an actual criminal record."

I turn, fully prepared to march away, but he can’t just let me have the last word.

"Running away so soon,mon ange?" he drawls, tilting his head.

I freeze mid-step, my fingers tightening around my glass.

Oh, hell no.

I turn back around so fast that I nearly knock into him again, slightly dizzy from the rapid movement.

"Wow," I scoff, throwing my hands up. "You’re actually the worst."

"No. I’m just very good at handling dramatic situations."

"Dramatic?" I echo, voice rising. "You poured an entire cocktail down me!"

He waves a hand dismissively, as though I’ve just accused him of something as minor as stealing a parking space.

"A little daiquiri never hurt anyone."

I gesture at myself - my once-faultlessly chic outfit now a sticky, strawberry-scented catastrophe.

"A little daiquiri?” I say. “I look like a crime scene!"

His lips twitch.

"A very fashionable crime scene, at least."

I swear on all that is good and holy -

I inhale sharply, willing myself not to shove my entire drink into his obnoxiously symmetrical face.

Really, it would only be fair. That way, we’d be even.

"I’m sorry," I deadpan, "are youtryingto piss me off?"

"No." He takes another slow sip of his drink, completely unbothered by my righteous fury. "I truly amveryremorseful."

I glare at his stupidly handsome face, his sarcastic tone only winding me up impossibly more.

"You’re still laughing."

"I am not," he insists, though his bright blue eyes are practically sparkling with amusement.

"Alright, then. You’reholding backlaughter."

He looks like he’s barely keeping it together, shaking his head again.

"That is not the same thing."

"Oh, it absolutely is."

His smirk deepens. "Maybe," he muses, leaning a little closer. "But… I think you like it."

I blink.

"Likewhat?"

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