Page 41 of Eat Slay Love

"There was nothing humble about that."

"As I said before, the French can be out of practice with being humble." His smirk was devastating.

My heart was drumming in my chest, this pull between us growing tighter.

I took a slow sip of my wine, and it coated my tongue like silk, impossibly smooth, rich with an almost sinful depth. Heat curled low in my belly as the flavors expanded

Fabien sipped his wine too. His throat moved as he swallowed, and I had no business finding that as erotic as I did.

Once he set the glass down, he quirked his brows. "So no boyfriend or lover for me to compete with?"

"No. I'm completely single. What about you? Are you dating?"

Fabien exhaled. "Until now. . .I had not been able to find someone to evensparkmy interest."

I scoffed. "I find that hard to believe."

"Why?"

"You're in the city of love. Surely, there are elegant women all over the place."

He leaned forward, just slightly, just enough that his presence seemed to wrap around me. "Elegant women are plentiful inanycity across the world. In fact, I've yet to ever see a woman that isn't stunning insomeway. Every woman on this Earth is beautiful.”

He raised one finger. “But a woman that makes me freeze. One who just. . .causes my heart to pulse fast. Makes my head spin and my mind want to know more and more about. . .well. . .”

He exhaled again. "That happenedtonight, and it’s been a good ten years since that has occurred."

Those words hit deep within me. "And. . .ten years ago?"

His expression shifted, the teasing light in his eyes dimmed slightly. "That was when I met my ex-wife. Obviously, we're now divorced. The marriage lasted for four years.”

He paused, glancing up at me, searching my face for something—maybe judgment, maybe curiosity.

I stayed silent, giving him space.

His jaw flexed before he let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “I was wrong back then,” he admitted, tapping his fingers lightly against the base of his glass. “I thought love was supposed to be about perfection, yet effortless too. Like it wouldn’t take so much work.”

He shook his head. “But love isn’t effortless. People aren’t effortless. And I. . .I didn’t know how to be patient. How tolisten. How to meet someone where they were instead of whereIwanted them to be.”

His voice dipped, and when his eyes lifted to mine again, they were softer than before, open in a way that made my chest tighten.

“But she was wrong too,” he said, almost hesitant, like it pained him to admit it. “She also demanded a version of me that didn’t exist. A man who never second-guessed, never faltered, never needed time to figure himself out. And I let her believe that was who I was, thinking maybe I couldbecomethat man if I tried hard enough. But in the end, we were just. . .two people loving ghosts of each other instead of who wereallywere.”

He picked his glass up, took a long sip, and then set it back down with a quiet thud. “That’s why I don’t rush things now because love—real love—deserves honesty and time. And I won’t make the mistake of giving someone a mirage of me ever again. They must know me and all my imperfections.”

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I finally let it out, something deep and aching twisting in my stomach.

Because damn.

That was a confession.

Arealone.

No bravado.

No arrogance.

Just a man admitting that he had been wrong, that he had learned, and that he refused to repeat those mistakes again.

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