Page 33 of Eat Slay Love

Why did it feel like he had a secret tucked between every breath, every gaze, every careful word?

Before I could ask, he set his glass down and lifted his eyes to mine. "What is your first name, Ms. Harris?"

"Rae." I watched him. "What’s yours?"

He paused, then exhaled, as if considering his answer. Then, smoothly, he lowered his voice like it was a huge secret, "Fabien."

I tested it in my head—Fah-BYEN.

It fit him.

But then he lifted a single finger. "Please, do not tell anyone here that is my name."

I blinked. "Why not?"

"It is a secret."

I frowned. "A secret?”

“Yes. As far as this restaurant knows. . .my name is Hugo Lyon."

“But. . .it’s not?”

“It’s not.”

What the fuck?

I set the glass down. "So. . .what’s yourreallast name?"

"LaCrocq."

The pronunciation rolled off his tongue with a lazy, velvety richness—Lah-KROH.

My pulse jumped.

That sounded veryold-moneyFrench.

But. . .why does he have a fake name?

And suddenly, something in my gut twisted.

I had no idea who I was actually sitting with.

My heart thumped as I leaned back just slightly, the realization washing over me like ice water.

Was this man crazy?

Or worse. . .

Was he married?

Because it was all too good to be true.

A devastatingly gorgeous Frenchman, alone on Valentine’s Day in the most exclusive restaurant in New York, choosing to spend his time withme?

My inner alarms started buzzing.

And Fabien must have sensed it because he smiled—a slow, knowing, devastatingly amused smile.

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