Page 95 of My French Love Affair

Like they were all crafted from the same blueprint, variations of a theme.

I can’t quite put my finger on why, but the more I look, the more uncanny it seems.

Not that it matters. The point is, they’re all effortlessly gorgeous, all seemingly perfect, and all gravitating towardshim.

One of them - statuesque, brunette, with razor-sharp cheekbones and legs that don’t quit - leans in with a lilting laugh, tilting her head just so and flipping her hair back over one shoulder. Her manicured hand lands lightly on his forearm, her fingers brushing against his skin in a way that’s entirely too familiar.

I narrow my eyes, unable to hide the disgust on my features.

How utterly ridiculous.

Not that I can blame her, really. He’s not exactly discouraging it. He might not have been hanging off them, but I’ve not seen him shutting them down, either.

Instead, he just… well,sits there,looking perfectly at ease and letting them fawn over him like it’s all part of the job.

Like it’s expected. Like it happens all the time.

In reality, it probably does.

And that thought irritates me more than it should.

The girls chatter around me, and I clench my jaw as I glare down into my champagne flute, willing myself to focus on something -anything- else.

But it’s impossible.

For someone who claims to be a very busy, veryseriousF1 driver, he seems to have alotof free time to play the role of Monaco’s resident playboy.

Just as I tell myself I’m absolutelynotgoing to look again, I make the mistake of glancing up -

And that’s when it happens.

His sharp blue eyes lift, flicking directly to mine as if he felt me watching him.

Followed by that damn smirk.

I bristle immediately, my body tensing on instinct.

I hate him. I hate himso much.

I don’t even bother to take another sip of my champagne before setting the glass down a little harder than necessary.

“I need the bathroom,” I announce, standing up abruptly.

Jas, Leah, and Emma don’t even glance up from their conversation.

“Go for it,” Jas says distractedly.

Perfect.

I just need five minutes. Five minutes to reset, cool down, and not let that smirk live rent-free in my head.

But as I walk towards the inside of the yacht, I swear I can feel those bright blue eyes burning into the back of me.

* * *

As I weave my way through the yacht - past clusters of people so polished and put together that they might as well belong to some elite Monaco social club - I can’t shake the feeling creeping up my spine.

It’s a tingle, first. A prickle.

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