Page 83 of My French Love Affair

All since I mether: the most beautiful, infuriating, intoxicating distraction.

Though there is one other thing that’s playing on my mind:

That I have a feeling that this game between us is only just getting started.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Poppy

The music pulses, the warm night air thick with the scent of salt and expensive perfume, and my limbs are pleasantly loose from dancing.

I’m not drunk - not even tipsy, really, since I’ve been nursing the same glass for a while - but I definitely need a break, so I make my way to the bar, sliding onto a sleek, high stool and ordering some sparkling water.

I stretch my neck, rolling my shoulders back and letting out a slow exhale as I wait for my drink.

It’s been a good night.

Peaceful and mostly Frederic-free.

Well.

Until it isn’t.

Just as my drink is placed on the bar, a familiar presence settles into the stool beside mine.

I stiffen immediately, glaring straight ahead and willing myself not to react.

But I swear, I canfeelhim there. The warmth of his body, the casual sprawl of his obnoxiously long legs, the smoothweight of his stare pressing against my side.

I ignore him. Or at least, I try to.

From the corner of my vision, I see him lift his glass, tipping it back effortlessly, his throat bobbing slightly as he swallows down his drink.

And then -

“You seem surprised to see me,” he muses, setting his glass down with a quietclink.

I let out a slow breath through my nose, reaching for my sparkling water before I turn to face him.

Big mistake.

He looks obnoxiously good, with his dark shirt slightly looser than before, the top buttons undone just enough to now be distracting. His hair is tousled from the heat, and his cheeks are slightly sunkissed.

“I’m not surprised. I’m just disappointed.”

He laughs at that - anactuallaugh, deep and warm and frustratingly nice, before he tilts his head, pushing his sunglasses down just slightly so that I can see his eyes.

Bright blue, unreadable, and still filled with that same infuriating glint.

I hate it.

(I hate how I don’t hate it enough.)

“So,” he says smoothly. “Have you recovered from your…revelation?”

I blink, momentarily thrown off.

“My what?”

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