Page 44 of My French Love Affair

The Frenchidiot.

The one who tried to steal my car at the airport and who ruined my outfit yesterday.

And, of course, he looks exactly the same.

No - worse than that.

He looksbetter.

His crisp, open-collared shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, exposing just enough of his forearms to make me irrationally angry. He looks casual yet put together in a way that feels fundamentally unfair - almost like he just exists in a constant state of effortless charm, while the rest of us have to actuallytry.

He’s mid-conversation, his body language relaxed, his head tilting slightly at something one of his friends says -

And then, because he genuinely is the worst human being to ever exist, he chooses that exact moment to lift his gaze and lock eyes with me.

His movements are slow. Calculated, even.

And then.Then.

There it is. The smirk.

That same stupid, cocky,I-know-you’ve-been-thinking-about-mesmirk.

Heat crawls up my neck as mortification prickles at my skin. It feels very much like I’ve just been caught doing somethingI shouldn’t - except I haven’t done anything.

Heis the problem here, not me.

I don’t understand why he looks so bloody smug with himself, either. He seems to act likeI’mthe one who walked intohisnight - like I’m the intruder in his perfectly curated existence.

As if he wasn’t the one who ruined my entire night less than twenty-four hours ago.

As if those things aren’t bad enough - and because he apparently thrives on being the most infuriating man alive - I watch in horror as he lifts his glass.

And fucking toasts to me.

Ugh.

I don’t even know his name, and yet Iloathehim.

And if I thought my skin was on fire before, then I’m practically combusting now. Because it’s not just a casual, absentminded gesture. It’s deliberate. Measured.

The kind of slow, knowing toast that saysI see you, I know you see me, and I knowexactlyhow much this is pissing you off.

The instinctive knowledge that he is very much enjoying every second of this irritates me beyond measure. It’s like this entire thing between us - whatever the hell it is - is something amusing to him.

It’s like he thinks he’s already won.

And the worst part?

He’s right.

Because Iampissed off. Iamirritated.

Iamwound up so tight that I could probably snap a champagne flute in half with my bare hands.

A reaction seems to be exactly what he wants. It’s like he wants me flustered, annoyed and riled up - just like he had me last night. Like I’m some kind of private joke that only he understands.

And I’ll be damned if I give him the satisfaction.

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