Page 88 of My French Love Affair

He lowers his glass slightly, amusement dancing across his handsome features. "No?"

"No."

He leans in just enough to send my heart into an outright panic, voice dropping to something far too smooth.

"Then why are you still sitting here?"

I stiffen.

The asshole has a point, and I desperately want to have an answer that isn’tI hate how much I fancy you and it’s ruining my life.

So, I roll my eyes instead, pointedly ignoring the way he’s watching me as I reach towards the nearest bowl of olives just to busy myself.

But then, without breaking eye contact, I very deliberately pluck one from the dish, pop it into my mouth, and chew slowly - like I have all the time in the world.

Frederic's smirk deepens, his amusement undeterred.

I keep my gaze on him and watch as he shifts back slightly, stretching in his seat, but his eyes - bright, sharp and entirely too focused - don’t waver from me.

Or, more specifically, from my mouth.

The way his gaze lingers - tracking the slow movement of my lips - sends an unexpected warmth curling through my stomach.

And as with everything else associated with this man,I hate it.

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, and drop the olive pit onto a napkin, forcing myself to act unbothered.

Frederic chuckles, shifting again - just enough to make it infuriatingly obvious that he’s comfortable, that he’s winning whatever this new game is.

I quickly shove another olive into my mouth just to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret.

Frederic watches me with pure, unfiltered amusement, like I’m the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all day, and I chew, trying with all my might to ignore the way his obnoxiously blue eyes continue to flicker to my mouth.

I swear, it’s almost like he’s waiting to see if I’ll crack first.

Spoiler alert: I won’t.

The fabric of my silk dress brushes against my skin as I shift slightly in my seat, the cinched waist and low neckline suddenly feeling far too revealing under his intense scrutiny.

My blonde hair, styled into loose, tousled waves, feels too perfectly placed for a man who’s looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out, and so I brush it back off my face as I takeanother sip of champagne, hiding behind the glass before forcing myself to match his energy.

“You’re one to talk about staring, you know,” I say, tilting my head. “You look like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”

Frederic smirks, shifting slightly so that his ridiculously broad shoulders stretch against the crisp material of his open-collared shirt.

“Maybe you bring out the worst in me,” he muses, voice dripping with something I don’t trust.

“Oh,that’srich,” I snort. “Coming from the man who actively goes out of his way to annoy me at every possible opportunity.”

“It’s because you make it so entertaining,” he says, leaning in a little closer like he’s letting me in on a secret. “You’refunto annoy,mon ange.”

I exhale deeply, willing myself not to fall into whatever trap he’s setting.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say flatly.

“You should.”

I shift again, suddenly too aware of how close we are, how the early afternoon breeze barely cools the heat prickling over my skin as the yacht gently bobs up and down.

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