Page 57 of My French Love Affair

The pair of them laugh even harder.

The only thing keeping me from throwing myself off this terrace is the tiny sliver of hope that he hasn’t noticed our collective breakdown over here.

That maybe - just maybe - I can escape this situation with the tiniest shred of dignity intact.

(Ha. Next joke.)

I peek through my fingers, just in case.

He’s still there, of course. Still standing directly across the terrace. Still looking completely at ease. Still chatting with his group of equally well-dressed, equally smug friends.

But he’s also glancing up in my direction between his conversations.

Even from a distance, I can tell there’s a knowing glint in his blue eyes, a flicker of pure amusement that makes my blood heat with fresh mortification. My stomach twists.

Oh, he knows.

Hedefinitelyknows.

I knew he was full of himself before, butnow?

Now, he looks like a man who has just confirmed something he suspected all along, and my god do I hate it.

I hate that I can practically feel his amusement from here.

I hate that he’s just standing there, enjoying every second of my public humiliation.

And most of all, I hate that he looks so bloody good doing it.

I let out a long, guttural groan and slam my forehead onto the table.

Emma snorts. “Oh, babe. He’s watching us, isn’t he?”

I muffle my response against the tabletop.

“I hate him.”

“No, you don’t,” Jas laughs.

I lift my head just enough to glare at her. “Yes. Ido.”

“Nope.You’re officially not allowed to hate him,” Emma says.

“Why not?”

“Because,” she gestures pointedly across the terrace, “he let you fully believe he was a mechanic.”

Jas lifts a knowing brow. “He could have very easily proved to you who he is, but if he didn’t -”

“- then it’s almost like he wanted to see how far you’d take it,” Emma finishes.

They’re so right that it almost hurts.

He had let me go on and on about it - had egged me on, even.

And now he’s just standing over there, looking like he’s having the time of his life while I fight the overwhelming urge to climb under the table, bury myself into the ground and never emerge again.

“Please stop talking,” I practically beg them.

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