Page 53 of My French Love Affair

And that’s the thing.

She doesn’t want me.Not in the way other women do.

And that is so fucking addictive.

I drag my tongue over my bottom lip, shaking my head slightly, telling myself to let it go. To turn back, rejoin the party, drink something -a non-alcoholic something, because I have a goddamn race coming up- and forget all about her.

But my mind refuses to obey.

I can still hear her voice, clipped and English and filled with just enough venom to make my lips twitch.

If you’re trying to get my number, you can get fucked.

I huff out another short laugh, rubbing my jaw.

God, she’s funny.

Why is that so dangerous?

I should not be thinking about her this much. I should be thinking about the race. About strategy. About my training.

Not about her.

Not about how she barely looked at me until I irritated her enough to hold her attention.

Not about how she’s probably flounced back to her friends, rolling her eyes and recounting our entire conversation in exasperated detail.

Not about how beautiful she is when she’s pissed off.

I let out a slow breath and straighten up, rolling my shoulders back.

Enough. I have bigger things to focus on.

She’s a distraction. A beautiful one, no doubt, but still a distraction.

I tell myself that, over and over, as I turn and make my way back to the party.

And yet I can’t help but wonder when I’ll see her again.

Chapter Seventeen

Poppy

The evening has settled.

The air is warm, the music is low and just the right level of ambient, and the garden terrace - lit by soft, twinkling lights - feels like something out of a movie.

I’m sitting at a sleek, marble-topped table with Jas, an obscenely expensive glass of wine in one hand and a plate of hors d’oeuvres in front of us. We have small, delicate bites of things I can’t entirely identify, but they taste so good that I don’t question any of them.

Leah has unsurprisingly vanished into the depths of Jacques’ luxury estate again, and Emma is currently in the very attractive clutches of what I swear just might be a seven-foot-tall Swiss lawyer. He looks like he walked straight out of a Hugo Boss campaign and appeared here, though honestly, I’m not surprised - most of the people are stunning.

“Okay,” Jas says, sipping her wine and giving a slow, approving nod. “This is nice. Just about the perfect amount of ridiculous.”

I hum in agreement.

“I hate to admit it, but… Yeah. Itisa good party.”

A waiter glides past, depositing a fresh plate of canapés in front of us. Jas doesn’t even hesitate, just reaches for one immediately.

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