Page 67 of My French Love Affair

Leah dodges the pillow effortlessly, grinning as she slides into a chair by the table, which is now covered in a hotel-worthy breakfast spread - croissants, fresh fruit, juices, and, thankgod, coffee.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as I sit up, blinking blearily. “Shouldn’t you be living it up with your future husband?”

“Jacques has meetings this morning,” Leah says. “And - well. A little birdie texted me last night that I missed somethingveryimportant.”

Emma - who is somehow already dressed and drinking coffee like she didn’t just dance the night away in the arms of a Swiss model - grins over her cup.

“Oh, believe me - you did.”

Leah beams. “Tell meeverything.”

Em scoots onto the bed next to me, grinning far too much for my liking.

“Would you like to do the honours, Poppy?” she teases.

I scowl at her. “No.”

Jas grins as she sits up, stretching her arms above her head.

“Oh, allow me, then.”

I watch and listen in horror as Jas and Emma tag-team the storytelling, dramatically reenacting last night’s entire sequence of events - starting from the bathroom collision, to the dance-floor ambush, to my absolutely iconic (their words,not mine) declaration that I wasn’t into tortured poets.

Leah is riveted, gasping in all the right places and grinning like she’s watching a live-action rom-com unfold before her eyes.

When theyfinallyfinish, she places her hand over her heart and exhales dramatically.

“This,” she says, clearly delighted, “is cinema.”

Emma nods. “I know.”

“It’snotcinema,” I groan, pressing my hands against my face. “I’m not interested in him. Not in the slightest.”

Leah smirks. “Mmmhmm.”

“Don’t you start, too,” I glare at her.

Jas, now sipping a cappuccino like this is a casual Monday morning discussion, hums.

“I think it’s time we do some research.”

Emma grins, already reaching to unplug her phone from the charging socket.

“Oh, you’resoright.”

“No.” I point at her. “Absolutelynot.”

But it’s too late.

Leah grabs her phone, Jas leans forward, and within seconds, the three of them are deep into Google’s treasure trove of information on Frederic Moreau.

I sip my coffee, watching in silent horror as they scroll through page after page.

“Ooooh,” Emma says, delighted, “he’s twenty-six. I didn’t realise that.”

“Older man,” Jas muses. “Respectable.”

“Six foot one - that’s tall for an F1 driver,” Leah grins.

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