Page 71 of My French Love Affair

And it’s exactly what I need.

* * *

After finishing our drinks, we hit the tables.

Jas takes to poker like she was born for it, barely blinking as she robs men blind with a single tilt of her head. Leah flirts her way through every blackjack dealer in sight, somehow winning more than losing despite clearly not knowing how to play properly. Emma, ever the overachiever, manages to double her money at roulette before very wisely deciding to cash out.

And me?

Well.

It’s not a pretty sight.

“Oh, babe,” Emma sighs as I lose again, watching my stack of chips dwindle before my eyes. “This is painful.”

Leah, who has somehow just won another round, shakes her head in mock sympathy.

“Maybe you should go back to sketching your millions instead of betting them.”

“I’m not sketching anything tonight,” I glare.

Jas raises a teasing brow from where she’s sipping a martini with deadly ease.

“Not even a certain someone?”

I freeze, and Emma gasps dramatically.

“Oh my God,yes. You shouldabsolutelysketch him.”

“Definitely not,” I snap.

Jas tilts her head. “What? Why not?”

“Because -” I start, but the words die in my throat.

Because what? Because he pisses me off? Because he gets under my skin?

Because I’d probably end up drawing him too well?

Nope. Not going there.

I grab my drink and take a very long sip, refusing to dignify them with a response. Emma and Jas exchange a delighted look, but thankfully, they let it drop.

* * *

As the night goes on, we gamble, we drink, and we dance.

Well, at least briefly, when the music in one of the lounges picks up.

And it’sgood.

It feels so lovely not to think about Frederic Moreau. Not about his stupid smirk, not about his annoying ability to get the last word.

Nothing.

It’s just us, just this - a night of laughter and luxury, free of distractions.

When we finally stumble back into the hotel suite, exhausted and onlyslightlytipsy, I collapse into bed feeling lighter than I have in days.

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