Page 5 of My French Love Affair

"Wow," he says, eyes wide. "You look really lovely. Like... like a goddess dipped in moonlight."

"Oh - thanks,” I say.

I force myself to hold the moment, to enjoy the compliment, and then I clock the pin on his lapel.

A little silver badge that readsLove Wins.

Interesting choice, but - I mean, okay.Sure.

"So, what are we ordering? Pasta? Pizza?” he asks as he releases my hands and sits back, grinning. “You do love your carbs, don’t you?"

The statement isn’t mean-spirited, exactly, but something about the way he says it - like it’s an adorable quirk, like I’m a greedy little kid stuffing my face with spaghetti - makes my jaw twitch.

"Uh...yeah," I respond after a slightly awkward beat, forcing a small laugh. "I guess I do."

The waiter arrives - a guy around our age with dark curls and a dimpled smile. His eyes flick to me as he takes our orders, and I sit up a little straighter.

Noah notices.

“I’ll have the chicken salad,” he says, voice suddenly louder. “Got to stay lean, you know? Formula One drivers aren’t the only ones who need to stay sharp - especially when they’ve got a girl like this on their arm.”

He gestures towards me with a wink, and I give him a sideways look.

Noah doesn’t evendrive. Like, not even a provisional license.

The closest he’s been to Formula One is probably a dodgy racing game on his phone.

But my best friends are currently in Monaco, waiting to watch the Grand Prix.

He knows that I had been invited, though he’d made it pretty clear he didn’t approve of the idea. The champagne, the dresses, the unapologetic fun -

So is this supposed to be a little dig, or something?

I shake the thought away and opt for the carbonara. I figurewhy the hell notto something sweet, too.

But the moment the waiter leaves, Noah raises an eyebrow at me and eyes me like I’ve committed some dietary betrayal.

"Amilkshake?" he asks.

"What?" I frown. "I like milkshakes."

"I can’t remember the last time I had a milkshake. I must have been, like,ten.You’re such a kid sometimes,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Plus, pastaanda milkshake? You're going to crash from all that sugar later."

My grip tightens around the menu, but I don’t say anything.

Because Noah is a nice guy.Really.

He’s just a little…

Opinionated.

* * *

By the time the food arrives, I’ve sat through an entire monologue about Noah’s latest business idea:personalised poems for couples.

"And we could have different packages," he says, gesturing with his fork. "For example, the Platinum Package could include a handwritten poem delivered by singing telegram. Imagine it: a guy showing up to his girlfriend's work to serenade her with a personalised sonnet. Romantic, right?"

I stab at my pasta. "Or a fast track to a restraining order," I mutter.

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