My French Love Affair (The European Love Affair #3)

Chapter One

Poppy

T he thing about springtime in London is that it tricks you.

The sun beams down like it’s mid-July, convincing you to ditch your coat and wear that cute sundress you’ve been eyeing since February. But five minutes later, the wind slaps you across the face, reminding you that this is still England, and optimism is for tourists.

Hence why I’m currently standing in Hyde Park, questioning all my life choices.

My dress flutters pathetically in the chilly breeze, and I suppress a shiver as I clutch my iced latte - a poor decision, considering my fingers are practically numb. Across from me, Noah - my boyfriend of nine months - smiles at me in that dreamy, adoring way that should make my heart skip a beat.

"You look like a sunflower in the breeze," he says, reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “My little petal.”

I physically stop breathing for a moment.

Petal?!

I try to smile, I really do, but it comes out as more of a grimace.

"That’s... sweet ."

"Well, you are!” Noah beams like I’ve just proposed to him in front of a live studio audience. “Bright and beautiful and delicate. My precious little flower."

Abort mission! Abort mission!

I take a very large sip of my coffee to avoid saying - well, anything .

This is the problem. Noah is lovely . A genuinely kind, soft-hearted man. He’s the type who sends me good morning texts with excessive emojis and insists on walking on the side of the pavement closest to traffic.

I should be swooning. I should be happy.

But instead, I’m internally cringing so hard I might pull a muscle.

Why am I like this?!

I shake off the thought, trying to focus on literally anything else.

Like the fact that my classes are officially over - at least until September - and I finally have time to pour into my fashion design portfolio.

I’ve already sketched a mini spring/summer collection and posted a few teaser designs on my socials. My following is small, but it's growing fast, and with enough work, I might be in with a chance of landing an internship with a proper fashion house by the time I graduate next summer.

“Poppy?" Noah nudges me with his elbow. "Where’d you go just now? Daydreaming again?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Just thinking about uni stuff. "

"You work too hard,” he sighs, slipping an arm around my shoulders. “You need to relax more. You’re like... like a swan. So graceful on the surface but paddling furiously underneath."

I blink at him.

"Did you come up with that yourself, or did you read it on an inspirational meme?"

His cheeks turn pink. "...Maybe."

Heaven help me.

* * *

We stroll through the park, his arm around my shoulders and my body as stiff as a mannequin.

I used to think this was nice. Comforting , even.

Now I feel like I’ve been trapped in a pastel rom-com montage I didn’t sign up for.

As we pass a couple sitting on a bench, I notice the way the woman laughs so hard she’s clutching her sides, while the man beside her gazes at her like she’s the only person in the world.

My stomach twists.

Why don’t I feel like that with Noah?

He does everything right. He listens to podcasts about fashion to try and understand my world. He sends me flowers just because. He practically jumps at the opportunity to rub my back or my feet anytime I so much as wince in discomfort.

Once, he even surprised me with a romantic boat ride on the Thames. I threw up halfway through due to motion sickness, but still, it’s the thought that counts .

And yet, despite all of that -

I’m just not feeling it.

“Come on," Noah says suddenly, tugging my hand. "Let me take you to that cute café you love. The one with the tiny chairs and the overpriced pastries."

"Artisan & Bean?"

"That's the one,” he nods. “You deserve a treat."

I follow along, guilt gnawing at me.

He’s thoughtful and attentive and everything I should want.

But when he squeezes my hand and winks, whispering “ let me spoil my little petal, ” I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from groaning.

* * *

Artisan & Bean is as pretentious as the name suggests, with tiny tables (aesthetic over comfort) and pastries almost too pretty to eat.

Noah orders a cappuccino and a rosewater macaron, while I opt for an oat milk flat white and an almond croissant. We settle at a corner table, and within seconds, he’s fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket, eyes lighting up with excitement.

"Oh! I forgot to show you this earlier,” he says. “Do you want to see what I made for us?”

I brace myself.

"Is it another hand-written poem about our cosmic connection?"

Unfortunately, I’m only half-joking.

His smile falters. "No - that was just a fun creative experiment."

Right. Fun .

I particularly liked the one where he rhymed Poppy with won’t ever be sloppy.

But no - it's not poetry this time. It’s worse .

It’s a Spotify playlist.

Noah & Poppy: Our Love in Songs.

Oh no.

I scroll through the disaster zone that is the tracklist and inhale sharply.

“Wow,” I say. “Noah, I… This is... a lot.”

“I know, right?” He practically shines with pride. "I spent hours on it."

I fight back a grimace as I continue to scroll.

“Wait, wait - this one is so us,” Noah insists, nudging his phone further toward me like he’s discovered something profound.

I hit play - more out of morbid curiosity than anything else - and soft, sentimental chords float from the tiny speakers.

The lyrics start, all dreamy and dramatic - something about knowing someone was meant for you the moment you imagined them.

I choke on my croissant.

Noah’s hand darts out to pat my back - mechanically, like he’s been programmed to show concern - but his face is lit up with pride.

"See? Isn’t it perfect?" he says. “It’s basically our story. Like, fate, and all that stuff.”

“ Fate ,” I wheeze, trying to blink the tears out of my eyes and ignore the piece of pastry lodged in my throat. “Yeah. Wow.”

Because nothing screams romantic destiny like a syrupy ballad about falling for a concept.

* * *

About an hour or so later, we’re strolling through Covent Garden when Noah stops dead in his tracks.

“Wait,” he says, gripping my hand like a man with a revelation. “Do you hear that?”

I listen for sirens, or maybe the sweet sound of my dignity returning.

Nope. Can’t be that.

"It's music," I frown.

“No, no - you’re not listening ,” he insists, eyes wide with what I can only assume is emotion. “This one’s… different. This one’s ours .”

Oh.

Oh no .

He turns to me, eyes alight.

"Dance with me."

“I - right here?” I squeak. “In the middle of the street?”

“ Yes ,” he breathes. “Come on - let’s do it. Like no one’s watching.”

People are definitely watching. In fact, I swear that a dog across the way has stopped mid-pee just to stare at us.

“I mean, there’s a bin… right there,” I say weakly, gesturing to the overflowing rubbish next to us .

“Exactly,” he whispers. “Love doesn’t wait for the perfect moment. It creates it.”

And just like that, he’s swaying. Arms open and smiling like he’s in a movie.

I step towards him like I’m walking into an ambush.

Before I can protest further, his hands are on my waist, and he’s pulling me into a slow sway right there on the cobblestones. My arms hover awkwardly at my sides before I drape them - reluctantly - around his shoulders, stiff as a mannequin.

I sway - if you can call it that. Mostly, I just rock back and forth like a malfunctioning metronome, while he closes his eyes and hums along to the music like we’re in some slow-motion romcom montage.

I think I die a little.

And as Noah tries to dip me dramatically and declares that I’m his soulmate, I finally know.

This relationship has an expiration date.

And I think I just heard the timer go off.