Page 90 of My French Love Affair

“There is no‘us’,” I tell him.

“Is that so?” he says. “Or is that just what you say to help you sleep at night?”

I want to slap him.

I want to kiss him.

I want to kick him off this yacht and watch him swim all the way back to shore.

Instead, I take one last sip of my sparkling water, place the empty glass deliberately on the bar, and stand up from thebarstool.

“I should really try and find my friends now,” I say as I adjust the hem of my dress, pulling the material right down my thigh to ensure I’m decently covered. “Enjoy the rest of the party,Frederic,” I say, emphasising his name with every ounce of stubbornness in my soul.

Lord help me - I need another drink -pronto.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Frederic

Poppy.

Her name is like a challenge; like something I shouldn’t have, but already do.

I exhale slowly, leaning against the bar, fingers drumming against the polished wood as my gaze flickers after her.

She moves like she’s escaping. Like she can run from me.

She can’t.

I smirk to myself, rolling the last sip of my drink over my tongue as I process everything about her that has snared me in this ridiculous way.

She’s beautiful - obviously. But that’s not what’s got me so hooked.

It’s thefirein her. Thefight.

The way she talks back like I don’t command every room I enter. The way she meets me head-on, without hesitation.

The way she looks at me like I’m just a man, not a fucking name, not a paycheck, not a status symbol.

Women don’t do that.

They lean in. They flirt. Theytry.

Poppy?

Poppy leans back. Poppy frowns. Poppyinsults me.

And,fuck…it’sintoxicating.

I should leave it at that. Let her think she’s won this round, let her believe she’s got the upper hand.

But instead, I push away from the bar and make my way towards the yacht’s operations desk, where Alain, the yacht’s chief steward, is stationed with a small group of staff.

Alain has been working for my family for years, overseeing the logistics of this place: staffing, guest lists, security. If someone is on board, Alain knows about it.

He sees me approaching and straightens immediately, adjusting the cuffs of his white uniform jacket.

“Monsieur Moreau,” he greets with a respectful nod. “Is everything to your liking?”

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