Page 50 of My French Love Affair

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

"I drive."

I stare at him, deadpan.

"You drive?" I repeat, dragging the words out and wondering whether they’re supposed to mean something.

"Yes,” he nods, and when he seems to realise that I’m waiting for the punchline, he continues. “Irace.”

I snort.Loudly.

"Oh, come off it," I scoff. "You’re - what, you’re telling me that yourace carsfor a living?"

He has the audacity to lift a brow, almost as ifI’mthe one who’s acting strangely here.

"Yes,” he nods.

I let out a disbelieving laugh.

"Okay.”

Because sure, why not. He’s a race car driver, and I’m the Princess of Monaco.

My French Stalker looks far too entertained by my reactionfor my liking. It’s almost like he thinks I’m joking.

"You don’t believe me?" he asks.

This man cannot be for real. Every fuck boy in Monaco probably says that when they’re trying to impress someone - especially around the Grand Prix.

"No, I don’t. What do youreallydo?"

"I already told you," he shrugs, still far too relaxed for my liking.

I pause, assessing him.

His shirt is crisp and expensive, his watch looks like it costs more than my rent, and he has the cocky self-assurance of a man who’s never had to fight for attention in his entire life.

I refuse to fall for it.

"If I had to guess?" I say slowly, eyeing him critically.

He lifts his brows, waiting.

"I’d say…Mechanic."

There’s a beat of silence and stillness.

But then his expression twists into a combination of surprise and amusement.

"Amechanic?" he repeats.

I nod, confident in my assessment.

"Yep,” I say, popping thep.“I think that you probably do work with cars, but instead of just admitting you fix them, or whatever, you say that you race them to sound more impressive."

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. I can’t quite figure him out - it’s almost as though he can’t quite believe his luck.

"You think I lie about my job to impress women?" he asks.

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