Page 80 of My French Love Affair

And I hate that I can feel it.

It’s like there’s a pull in the air between us, winding tight, waiting for someone to cut it.

Then, because he is physically incapable of letting me have the last word, he sets his glass down and leans forwards just slightly.

"If me invading your personal space is what you like,mon ange," he starts, his voice dipping just enough to send my stomach into outright rebellion, "then I can certainly arrange more of it."

I freeze for half a second, pulse betraying me entirely, before I recover, lifting my chin.

"You’re mistaken," I say smoothly, flicking my hair over my shoulder like I’m completely unaffected by his nonsense. "What Ilikeis peace and quiet, whichyouseem entirely incapable of providing."

One of his friends snickers, and from behind me, Emma mutters, "oh, she’s really fighting for her life right now."

Frederic tilts his head, considering me with an expression that feels entirely too knowing.

Like he’s already planning his next move.

Then, without a word, he leans back against the lounger, settling into a casual sprawl, his grip loose around his glass.

For a moment, I think I’ve won. For a moment, it seems like he’s letting this one go.

But then his smirk deepens, slow and deliberate, like he knows something I don’t.

Something that sends a prickle of unease skittering down my spine.

Damn it.

Behind me, Emma clears her throat, subtly nudging me.

“Right,” she says, dragging out the word. “Shall we?”

“Weshall,” Jas hums.

I exhale, ignoring the urge to glance back at him one last time as I turn on my heel, following my friends as we move further down the deck.

But as I walk away, a nagging feeling curls in my stomach.

A certainty that he’s not done with me yet. That this isn’t over.

And that there’s no way in hell he’s going to let me have the upper hand for long.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Frederic

Who the fuck does this woman think she is?

I watch her walk away, that ridiculous little sway in her hips only adding fuel to the fire burning in my chest. She’s got no idea where she is - onmyfamily’s yacht, drinkingmychampagne, speaking tomelike I’m nothing.

LikeI’mbeneathher.

Like I’m some inconvenience in her otherwise perfect little world.

The gall of it. The sheer audacity of her, standing in front of my friends, in my space, and telling me -me- that she finds my presence exhausting. That I keep appearing at the moments sheleastwants to see me.

That should have pissed me off. And it does.

But what’s most infuriating?

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