Page 55 of My French Love Affair

I swallow and shake my head quickly. “No one.”

Emma narrows her eyes, her expression suddenly turning dead serious.

“Poppy.Thatman isnot‘no one.’”

Jas tilts her head, studying him for a moment.

“Wait. Is that -”

“Nope,” I cut in quickly. “It’s not him. I don’t know him. Never seen him before in my life.”

Emma gives me the biggest side-eye in human history.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” she muses. “Because I distinctly remember you saying you had two run-ins with some French guy who looksexactlylike that man standing right over there.”

Oh,fuck.

Alright then. I’ll play along.

“Oh,him?” I say, my voice pitching slightly higher than usual. My eyes quickly flicker over in his general direction before I return my attention back to the girls. “Yeah, he’s just some random guy. I saw him at the bar yesterday and bumped into him outside the bathroom earlier. Nothing major.”

Jas lifts a brow.

“Is that the guy you said spilled a drink on you last night?”

“I mean, technically, he knocked into me, and then I spilled my drink on myself. But, you know…details.”

Emma’s lips curl, like she’s already enjoying where this is going.

“Did he really?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. He’s just some - ” I wave a hand vaguely, scrambling for an explanation. “Mechanic, or something.”

A beat of silence passes between us.

And then Emma’s eyes practically bulge out of her head while Jas pauses mid-sip of her wine.

“I’m sorry,what?”

“What?” I ask, shifting uncomfortably.

Jas and Emma stare at me like I’ve just declared the sky isn’t blue.

“You think… Wait.” Emma pauses, looking genuinely pained as she processes this before she gestures wildly toward the other side of the terrace. “That man over there. The one with the ridiculously perfect floppy brown hair, absurd bone structure, and an obnoxiously smug but sexy aura,” she says. “You think he’s amechanic?”

“I mean… yeah?” I frown. “He did say that he races cars, but I figured that’s just something guys in Monaco say to sound impressive. So, I guessed that he’s probably a mechanic. Or at least someone that workswithcars, rather thaninthem.”

Emma blinks.

“Just let me get this straight,” she says, her tone so serious that I immediately know I’m doomed. “He told you he races cars, but you assumed that translated to him being a mechanic?”

I hesitate.

“…Yes?”

Finally, Emma lets out a high-pitched laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth like she’s trying not to lose it completely.

“Oh,Poppy.”

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