Page 38 of My French Love Affair

I scowl. “Absolutelynot.”

“You sure?” Jas lifts a brow, smirking. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet since you got back from the bar.”

“I’ve not been quiet. If anything, I’ve been literallytraumatisedby a public beverage attack.”

“Or maybe, justmaybe… you’re secretly obsessing over how hot your little French enemy is,” Emma says.

“You are ridiculous.”

“That doesn’t sound like a denial,” Jas comments.

I huff as I turn to look out of the window, pointedly ignoring them.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Pops,” Emma muses as she stretches out on the seat. “This is just history repeating itself. The English and the French have been enemies to lovers since the beginning of time.”

“Yeah, I think the Hundred Years’ War was just one long, slow-burn romance,” Jas snorts.

I grit my teeth. "Right. And I assume the guillotine was just a really aggressive confession of love?"

“Oh, babe. Don’t be like that,” Emma smiles. “We’re just saying that it wouldn’t be the first time an English girl fell for a Frenchman.”

I huff. “Well,thisEnglish girl isn’t falling foranyone.”

Jas squeezes my shoulders. “Sure, babe. Whatever helps you sleep tonight.”

I glare harder out the window, refusing to dignify thisfoolery with a response.

* * *

The moment we step into the suite, I make a beeline towards the bathroom.

“I need a shower,” I announce, already peeling my bikini top away from my skin.

Emma flops onto the bed. “You go ahead - scrub all that sexual tension off, babe.”

I slam the bathroom door shut behind me and hurriedly strip myself of my clothes.

Hot water cascades over me as I step under the spray of the shower, washing away the stickiness of melted ice and strawberry syrup.

I hate him.

I hate how quickly he got under my skin -twice.

I hate that he tried to steal my taxi at the airport like some kind of charming international criminal, only to reappear at the beach club and drown me in a daiquiri.

I hate how he just stood there, smirking at me like I was his own personal entertainment for the evening.

I hate the way his voice dipped just enough to make my stomach flip and the way that he called memon angein that stupidly smooth French accent.

And - more than anything - I hate that his face won’t get out of my head.

It’s the cockiness. Thearrogance.The smirk, the jawline, the perfectly tousled dark hair.

The way his shirt had been unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of golden skin…

I groan, pressing my hands over my face.

I don’t even know his name, but at this rate, I’m going to need exorcism-level intervention to get him off my mind.

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