Page 6 of My French Love Affair

He doesn’t hear me. Or maybe he just chooses not to.

Instead, hegrins.

"Which, speaking of serenades…"

Oh no.

"I have a little surprise for you," he says, winking.

No nono-

"Noah." I swallow. "What did youdo?"

Panic prickles up my spine, but instead of answering, he throws one arm dramatically into the air like he’s hailing a cab.

“Maestro!” he calls, actuallyclicking his fingerslike this is a Vegas lounge act; and for some strange reason, a man with a guitar materialises beside our table.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" he announces, his voice deep and dramatic as he calls the attention of the restaurant towards him. "Tonight, we have a special serenade, dedicated from Noah to his lovely girlfriend, Poppy. This one’s just for you,little petal."

The guitarist starts strumming, and I swear that my soul tries to flee my body.

And then -

Oh god.

Noah starts singing along.

Loudly. Off-key.

And with dramatic hand gestures.

I swear that theentirerestaurant turns to watch just as he clutches his chest like he’s auditioning for some tragic West End musical, eyes locked on me like this is the climax of ourgreat love story.

My vision blurs. My ears ring.

And the tablecloth is starting to look like a viable hiding place.

Somewhere between the second verse and what Iprayis the final chorus, he attempts a falsetto, and I have to force myself notto slide under the table.

Instead, I experience an out-of-body event.

I watch in horror as he winks at a child two tables over. The child looks haunted. I briefly consider faking a seizure.

Finally -mercifully- the song stumbles to an end, and Noah beams, breathless and flushed like he’s just performed at a sold-out arena.

He opens his arms, clearly expecting me to dive over the table and swoon into them.

Instead, I take a long sip of my milkshake and pray for spontaneous combustion.

The most I can do is force a smile, but I know I’m notthatgood of an actress. He surely must be able to sense how painful this is for me from my body language alone.

"Wow. That was…unexpected."

"See?” he grins. “I know you say you're not romantic, but deep down, I think you love this stuff."

I look at him, my expression completely deadpan.

Because I deeply, passionatelydo not, and I dread to think what might have given him that impression.

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