Page 127 of My French Love Affair
I’msoscrewed.
“Do not start -”
“Oh, Iwillstart.” She shakes the fabric in emphasis, her eyes practically glowing with mischief. “This is not a ‘thanks for a fun night’ gift, Poppy. This is a man on a mission.”
“I mean… shedidcall him a mechanic,” Jas laughs.
Emma snorts, before gasping again.
“Wait - is that a note?”
Shit.
Emma rifles through the box, and then -
“Aha!”
She lifts a small, black card between her fingers.
I already know what’s on it.
I can’t explain how or why, but I already know.
I glance down anyway, just to be sure.
And of course, there it is - a number.
Correction -hisnumber.
Scrawled in sleek, confident handwriting; Frederic Moreau just gave me his fucking number.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Poppy
Istare at the small, black card like it might burst into flames in my hands.
This wasnotsupposed to happen.
This was supposed to be a one-time thing. A moment of weakness, of bad decisions and temporary insanity.
I was supposed to wake up, wash him away, and move on.
Butthis?
This little black card, this ridiculous designer swimwear, this perfectly selected bouquet of pink roses -
It all says otherwise.
Emma practically vibrates with excitement as she waves the bikini in my face.
“So, what’s the plan? Are we calling him? Texting? Sending him a ‘thank you’ pic in this little number?”
I snatch it from her grip, glaring.
“We are doingnothing.”
Emma gasps, affronted.
