Page 49 of My French Love Affair

And there he is.

The bane of my existence, the walking nightmare in perfectly tailored clothes, the man who will not stop appearing at the exact moment I least want to see him.

The French menace.

Only this time, he’s alone.

No entourage. No fancy group of linen-clad, Rolex-wearing men laughing at something he just said.

Just him. And me.

No witnesses.

His grip on my arms is light - steadying, but not overbearing. His sleeves are still rolled up and continuing to reveal just enough forearm to annoy me, and his scent - some frustratingly expensive cologne - is way too close.

To complete the look, he’s smirking, of course.

Because he knows.

He knows exactly how much I don’t want him to be here. He knows how much his presence rattles me.

And I swear, it’s like he lives for it.

"Ah," he says, his voice smooth and infuriatingly relaxed. "We meet again,mon ange."

I roll my eyes so hard I practically see the back of my skull.

"Seriously?” I sigh. “Is there a good reason you’re lurking in the hallway, or is stalking me just a full-time hobby for you now?"

He lifts a brow, mock-offended.

"That’s funny. I was just about to say the same thing about you."

"Oh,please,” I say, fighting back a laugh. “Why wouldIbe stalkingyou?"

He tilts his head, pretending to consider it.

"I mean," he muses. "It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?"

This time, Idolet out a laugh, completely incredulous.

"Right," I say, folding my arms. "And you think you're someone worth stalking?"

His lips twitch, like he finds me far too entertaining.

"Just part of the job," he replies.

What on earth is this guy talking about?

"What ‘job’?" I frown.

"My job."

He says it like that should clear everything up.

It doesn't.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

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