Page 42 of My French Love Affair

And when she stumbled, I had only meant to steady her. A simple act of instinct - one hand bracing her waist, the other coming up to stop her from falling forward.

I hadn’t meant for her drink to spill down the front of her entire outfit, hadn’t meant for her to be suddenly standing in front of me, sticky and furious and practically vibrating with irritation.

I’d been mortified.

At least initially.

But then she’d looked at me, her sharp brown eyes narrowing as she squared her shoulders.

And then she’d spoken, and any potential guilt had disappeared.

Because even tipsy, she’d been razor-sharp.

Her English accent had rolled out in clipped, indignant syllables, the kind that made it impossible to ignore her, impossible not to find her amusing.

There had been no flirting, no batting eyelashes or coy, hushed tones. Just pure exasperation as she berated me for ruining her night.

I had thoroughly enjoyed it.

People don’t speak to me like that. Not anymore. Not since I became Frederic Moreau, the Formula One driver. The winner. The name on every list, the face in every sponsorship deal.

People either fawn over me or tread carefully, speaking in measured tones, watching their words.

But not her.

She didn’t give a flying fuck about the money, the status, the reputation.

She didn’t give a fuck aboutme.

And what does that say about me? That Ilikedthat about her?

The defiance. The sharp wit. The fact that she doesn’t want me. It’s hot asfuck.It’s infuriating and consuming, it’s confusing and maddening, it’s -she’s-

No.

I shake the thought off before it can settle.

I don’t overthink things. And I sure as hell don’t chase.

“She’s coming tonight, by the way,” Jacques smirks, his voice snapping me back into reality as he rambles on about the brunette. “You should meet her friends.Veryentertaining company.”

Ha.

He can say that again.

Still, I exhale, shaking my head. “I’m not interested.”

But even as I say it - even as I tell myself that I don’t give a fuck who Jacques has been fucking or who he’s invited to my house - I find myself wondering.

Wondering if she’ll be here.

Wondering what she’ll look like in the dim glow of candlelight, a glass of champagne in hand, lips curling into one of those amused little smirks as she talks to her friends.

Wondering what she’ll do when her dark eyes lift and meet with mine from across the room, catching me looking at her.

Wondering if she’ll confront me. If she’ll frown in irritation.

If she’ll argue with me again.

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