Page 7 of My French Love Affair

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When the bill arrives, Noah makes a grand show of paying, stretching back in his chair like he’s just done somethingincredibly impressive.

"So." He slides his wallet back into his pocket. "I was thinking we could talk about when I’m going to meet your parents."

My stomach drops.

"Oh. Uh. I don’t know," I say quickly. "They’re really busy. Like, alot. Plus, they'll be in Florida for a while."

"Come on, Poppy,” he laughs. “It’s been nine months. I think it’s time we made this official."

"Official?” I frown. “We’re already official."

"No, I meanproperlyofficial.Familyofficial." His smile softens. "Your mum sounds so fun. And your dad - he’s probably protective, right? I can’t wait to charm him."

My father is a retired barrister who once made a builder cry because the skirting boards weren’t aligned properly. Twenty-three year old Noah isnotgoing to charm him.

"We’re… not quite there yet," I say carefully, choosing each word like I’m defusing a bomb.

His smile falters. "Not there yet?"

"I - yeah. I feel like things are moving… kind of fast."

"Fast?” His expression clouds. “We’ve been together for almost a year."

"Yeah, but -"

He laughs suddenly, the sound sharp, and a little too loud.

"You’re so funny, Poppy,” he grins. “Always so flighty."

I freeze.

“Flighty?” I repeat, my frown burrowing deeper.

Noah doesn’t seem to notice the shift in my tone, or my expression. He just chuckles, shaking his head and lookingat me like I’m an adorable, amusing little thing that he’s indulging.

"Yeah. Like a little bird. Scared to settle down,” he says. “But don’t worry,petal. I’ll ground you."

Something in me snaps.

I sit up straighter, blinking at him, my breath catching in my throat.

Ground me?

Like I’m some lost, clueless thing that needskeeping?

Like I’m aimlessly fluttering around, waiting for him to give me a purpose?

"I'm not a bird, Noah," I say sharply, my voice cutting through the warm hum of the restaurant. "And I don’t needgrounding."

His smile falters. "Poppy -"

I don’t know exactly what does it.

Maybe it’s the way he speaks about me like I’m something to be managed; opinionated but somehow gentle with it,disguisingit.

Maybe it’s the playlist, the dancing in the street, thelittle petalcomments.

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