Page 86 of My French Love Affair

Because honestly, that option soundssomuch better than sitting with Frederic.

But like the traitor she is, Emma ignores my waiting gaze and opts to take advantage of her grip on my shoulders by keeping me pressed firmly to the seat that I very much don’t want to be in.

The Frenchman watches the entire interaction with undisguised amusement, one dark brow lifted in a way that makes me itch to throw my drink at him.

The thought actually takes me by surprise - enough that all of the tension in my body immediately loosens. It provides Emma with a new advantage, and she’s able to shove me down with a lot less resistance.

Honestly, I don’t know where this comes from.

I’ve never been a violent or overly aggressive person before. Not that Iknowof, anyway.

And yet, there’s something abouthim- oreverythingabout him, really; his infuriating smirk, his obnoxiously perfect face, the way he’s always got a smartass response locked and ready…

It all makes me feel like I could genuinely commit a crime.

The worst part is that he knows it, too. He’s practicallythrivingoff it.

I don’t even know why he pisses me off so much. It’s not like I know him. Notreally.

And yet, somehow, he’s still managed to unlock this unexplored part of me - a part that wants to strangle himandshove my tongue down his throat in equal measure.

I hate it. I hatehim.

And most of all, I hate that he looks like he’s having the time of his life just watching me suffer.

"Perfect!" Emma beams as I relax back into my seat. "Stay right there, Poppy. We’ll come and find you later."

She begins to skip away like she hasn’t just ruined my life, and I gape after her.

"Are you serious?!" I call out. “Emma!”

It’s no use.

She’s already gone, disappearing into the crowd of people who are not currently being held hostage by a French menace.

Frederic shifts slightly, turning just enough to fully face me. He has one arm draped lazily over the bar, and I give into myfate as my gaze slides over towards him.

"Well," he muses, adjusting his sunglasses. "This is cosy."

I clench my jaw, begging god, the universe,anythingfor the patience that I need to get through this encounter without snapping.

"Don't talk to me," I mutter, taking an aggressive sip of champagne.

He hums thoughtfully.

"I could do that."

I exhale, relieved.

"But it doesn’t sound like much fun."

"Come to think of it, do you everstoptalking?" I ask.

"Not when I'm entertained.”

"Great," I mutter dryly. "Nice to know I'm a walking amusement park."

"Yeah. Something like that."

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