Page 89 of My French Love Affair

His lips twitch like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and I scowl, determined to turn the tables.

“You know,” I say, dragging my gaze deliberately down his frame, taking in the way-too-perfect fit of his shirt, the way it clings just enough to suggest he absolutely knows how good he looks in it.

The short sleeves mean that his thick, tanned forearms andhalf of his broad biceps are exposed, and of course - ofcourse- there’s something unfairly attractive about the way he wears effortless confidence like it’s been tailor-made for him.

“Mmhm…?” he prompts, watching me with that damn smirk again.

Shit.

I force my eyes back to his, hoping that my face isn’t flushed on account of being caught fully distracted and ogling him.

“You dress suspiciously well for a man who probably spends most of his time in a fireproof jumpsuit.”

“Well,” he chuckles, stretching again, his obscenely toned forearms flexing in the process (which I absolutely do not look at for longer than a second). “Idohave some free time outside of work. And when I do, I like to make sure I look…”

He pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully.

“Presentable.”

“Right,” I say, raising a brow. “That’s the word I would’ve chosen.”

“And you?” he says. “Do you always look this put together, or am I just lucky?”

I blink.

Because - well, what thehell?

That seemed dangerously close to actualflirtation.

I shift in my seat, fighting the warmth creeping up my spine as I wait for the punchline.

It never comes, though.

“You make it sound like I’m dressed upforyou,” I retort after a long beat.

“I wouldn’tdreamof assuming.”

His gaze drops ever so briefly to the long stretch of my legs, to the way my dress cinches at my waist, before flicking back up far too quickly for me to call him out on it.

But I saw it, and he knows I did.

I swallow, hating the fact that the tension between us is so thick I could probably carve my name into it.

Frederic leans in again, and I catch a hint of his cologne - something clean, expensive and infuriatingly attractive.

“Tell me something,” he murmurs.

I arch a brow, keeping my face impassive despite the warzone happening in my brain.

“Go on.”

“How long do you think you can keep pretending you don’t enjoy this?”

I blink, and my stomach tightens.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.

“This.” He gestures lazily between our bodies. “Us.”

---