Page 93 of My French Love Affair

I’ll make sure it’s waiting in her room by the morning.

Before I can keep going, Jacques strides towards me, his expression set in something borderline serious. I resist the urge to sigh.

“Not now,” I say, not even bothering to look up from my phone as I continue to move through the yacht.

Jacques stiffens slightly, though he steps into line next to me.

“It’s important,” he presses.

I wave him off. “Later.”

His mouth flattens, but he knows better than to push me.

I see him hesitate, but then he nods once and steps away, disappearing back into the yacht.

I continue scanning through Poppy’s feed, smirking as I land on a photo of her in a stunning black dress outside what looks like a gallery in Paris.

She really does know how to dress.

I’m not paying true attention to my surroundings as I instinctively make my way back towards my group of friends, and before I know it, I’ve returned to them without drifting away from Poppy’s socials.

Apparently, Bastien had returned before I did - and brought a small group of women along with him.

They’re exactly the type I’d expect. Tall, impeccably styled, and high-maintenance in the way only women in Monaco can be. They sit with my group with easy confidence, theireyes flicking across each of us like they’re deciding who to entertain.

I barely look up as I return to my seat.

Honestly, I can’t be bothered.

Bastien, of course, is eating it up; smirking as he leans back in his chair and lets the women flock closer.

One of them - a brunette with piercing green eyes - settles beside me, her nails tracing idly along the rim of her wine glass.

“You’re quiet,” she comments, her voice smooth. “Not in the mood to celebrate?”

I glance at her briefly, offering only the barest amount of attention.

“Not particularly.”

“That’s a shame,” she pouts, tilting her head. “I was hoping for some entertainment.”

I make a noncommittal noise, eyes still locked on my phone, scrolling absently through Poppy’s feed.

The brunette shifts closer, clearly taking my lack of engagement as a challenge.

“You must be focused,” she says, trying to sneak a not-so subtle glance at my screen. “Something important?”

I barely flick my gaze to her.

“Nothing that concerns you.”

She blinks, clearly taken aback, and finally,finally, leaves me the fuck alone.

I return my full attention back to my phone, scrolling down to a photo of Poppy at some summer event, her blonde hair sunlit, her dress cinched at the waist, laughing at somethingoff-camera.

And then -

A sudden prickle at the back of my neck.

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