Page 58 of My French Love Affair

Their laughter continues, and I inhale sharply, forcing myself to sit up and smooth my dress down.

Maybe I can somehow collect the dignity I lost in the past five minutes.

Fine - so he’s not a mechanic. So he’s an actual Formula One driver. So I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours publicly challenging a man who drives at a ridiculously high number of miles per hour for a living.

Sowhat?

It doesn’t change anything.

He’s still smug. He’s still obnoxious. And he’s still an absolutedick.

I straighten my shoulders, taking a slow, measured sip of my wine before setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. I refuse to give that asshole the satisfaction of knowing thatthis revelation has thrown me.

I glance at Emma and Jas, tilting my chin up defiantly.

“I don’t care if he drives for a living.”

Jas raises her brows, clearly amused. “No?”

“No.” I fold my arms, standing - well,sitting- firm. “He’s still an insufferable asshole.”

Emma grins, barely holding back laughter. “But he’s an insufferable asshole who also drives for Mercedes.”

“That doesn’t make him any less of a stalker,” I say, waving one of my hands dismissively.

Jas snorts. “A stalker?”

“I thought he was an abductor,” Emma drawls.

Oh, for the love of -

“Yes, alright? I may have accused him of trying to kidnap me at the airport. And of stalking me.Andof being a mechanic who lies to impress women.”

Jas is openly grinning now. “Wow. You’ve really been busy.”

“You’re lucky he hasn’t taken out a restraining order,” Emma giggles into her wine.

I throw my hands up.

“How was I supposed to know he was aprofessional athlete?”

"The bone structure, babe," Emma deadpans. "It was right there, all along."

"Oh,sure. Because good-looking men have never had normal jobs before."

“Right. Because the guy dripping in designer clothes and arrogance definitely gaveplumberenergy,” Jas hums.

“I already told you, I was thinking moremechanic.”

Emma nudges me playfully. “Hey - you should at least ask him to get you tickets for the race.”

“I’d rather watch paint dry.”

“Mmhm. I’m sure.”

“I mean it,” I tell her. “I don’t care.”

“If that’s the truth, then why do you keep looking at him?”

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