Page 4 of My French Love Affair

I sway - if you can call it that. Mostly, I just rock back and forth like a malfunctioning metronome, while he closes his eyes and hums along to the music like we’re in some slow-motion romcom montage.

I think I die a little.

And as Noah tries to dip me dramatically and declares that I’m his soulmate, Ifinallyknow.

This relationship has an expiration date.

And I think I just heard the timer go off.

Chapter Two

Poppy

I’m standing in front of my mirror, debating whether or not to stab myself in the eye with an eyeliner pencil.

It's been four days since I last saw Noah, and against all odds, I’ve started to feel…hopeful.

Maybe I’ve been overreacting. Maybe I’ve been too harsh.

Time apart has that effect. Distance seems to soften the cringe and make me forget the full-body shudders and the playlist of doom.

Because the truth is, Noah is wonderful. He’s kind, thoughtful and attentive. He remembers how I like my coffee, never complains when I drag him into fabric stores, and he listens -genuinelylistens - when I talk about my sketches and designs.

I know that there are somany girls who wouldkillfor a guy like him.

So why can’t I just feel what I’m supposed to feel?

I shake off the doubt and focus on getting ready. Wide-leg black trousers, a simple white tank top, and my hair in a half-up, half-down ponytail. My usual.

I swipe on some bold pink lipstick, because if I’m going tohave an existential crisis about my love life, I’ll at least look good doing it.

Just as I turn away from the mirror, my phone buzzes.

Can’t wait to see you tonight, my little petal.

I hope you’re ready for the best date of your life!

I wince.

There it is. The same feeling I always get when I read his texts - the small, creeping discomfort that coils in my stomach.

I force myself to smile, toss my phone into my bag, and grab my coat.

It’s fine. I just need to get through tonight.

And maybe, just maybe, it’ll remind me of all the reasons why thisshouldwork.

* * *

The restaurant Noah has chosen is a cozy Italian place in South Kensington, one that I actually suggested months ago. Back then, he dismissed it as too basic. Apparently, some podcaster he listens to has now declared it the perfect date spot, and alas, here we are.

He’s already at a table near the window when I arrive, waving with both hands like I might miss him otherwise.

“Poppy!” he calls, loud enough for half the restaurant to glance up. “Over here!”

I squeeze out a smile, my cheeks warming, and make my way over.

The moment I sit down, he takes both of my hands in his.

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