Page 61 of My French Love Affair

He chuckles. “And now?”

“It’s actively worsening by the second.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” he says, his grip tightening ever so slightly on my waist as he tilts his head. “I suppose we should make it better.”

Then - because, apparently, the universe has decided my suffering is essential entertainment at this point - he starts to move.

And though my mind is screaming at me to do anythingbut, I move with him.

The problem is, Frederic doesn’t justdance. No - that would be too simple.

He moves like a professional, leading with confidence and control, the kind that instantly makes it impossible to keep up without following his lead.

It’sinfuriating.

His grip never falters - light on my waist but a little too firm against my hand - and if the smug little twitch of his lips is anything to go by, then I’d say he’sdefinitelyenjoying himself.

Meanwhile, I am fighting for my life.

Not because I can’t dance (Ican, thank you very much), but because I refuse to acknowledge just how easy it is to fall into step with him.

“How,” I manage, breathlessly, “are you good at this, too?”

“I move fast for a living,” he says.

“Oh,please.”

He grins, then spins me without warning. The movement is so effortlessly smooth that I barely process it until I’m back in his arms again.

Annoying. Infuriating.

“Are you always this resistant?” he muses.

I scowl. “To you? Yes.”

His grip shifts just slightly, almost like he’s testing something.

“You’re still here, though.”

“Not by choice,” I snap.

“Oh?” He leans in ever so slightly, voice dipping low. “Because if you really wanted to leave,mon ange, I think you would have by now.”

I absolutely donotlet my body react to that.

Instead, I tip my head, narrowing my eyes.

“You really love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”

He chuckles, eyes glinting. “I suppose I do enjoy a good conversation.”

“This isn’t a conversation.”

“Then what is it?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

The answer seems obvious in my mind.

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