10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Hazel

The elaborate spread Joelle prepared is sumptuous, and she definitely cooks at a professional level. Boeuf bourguignon with a truffle, butternut, and potato purée. She might not be the chef of the household, but she can hold her own in the kitchen. I spend most of the meal gushing " très bien " or "délicieux," because those are the only ways I know how to give compliments in French. Not very elaborate, but it seems to do the trick, because Joelle beams every time a word leaves my mouth .

The three men are carrying an animated conversation, and I don't understand a word of it. Distress must be written all over my face, because Agathe, who's sitting across from me, says, "Don't worry. They're just talking about football."

"Oh, right," I say with an amused smile.

"Well, soccer for you, I guess," she says. "But anyway, it's all the same. Just men talking sports."

"Yeah, that's a global phenomenon," I joke.

"Exactement . You've been in Paris for a long time, yes?" she asks as Joelle brings the dessert to the table, asking for each of our plates to serve us.

"A few months," I say, not wanting to get too specific. "I'm here on a six-month mission for work."

"Oh, what do you do?"

"I'm a historian," I say, swallowing the dry lump in my throat. It'll never feel normal to say that. I really need to do some research. I conducted a few searches online, but I didn't really know where to start. I mean, what's my specialty? What period am I studying? I need more info. I probably should have chosen a job I actually had a clue about. My lack of common sense baffles me sometimes .

"Oh, cool. Then Paris must be a great city for you. What are you working on right now?"

"Oh," I mumble, my cheeks burning. Thankfully, Joelle just placed a plate in front of me before taking her seat again at the end of the table. I pivot to face her. "Merci, Joelle ."

" De rien. Go?te ," she says, probing me to give it a taste. She doesn't need to tell me twice. Joelle made a delicate chocolate profiterole, and it's divine.

"Mm, très délicieux ," I say.

The beaming smile returns to her face. "Thank you. You like French cuisine?" she asks, nodding rapidly as her eyes glow with eagerness.

"Oh, yes," I reply, relieved that the conversation shifted. " Oh oui, très beaucoup. French cuisine is the best."

With a big smile, she looks at Olivier who's on my left, still talking to his brother and father. "Alors , you are coming to the autumn festival next week?" she asks. That gets Olivier's attention.

" Oh, non, Maman. Hazel travaille. Elle ne peut pas venir. "

"You must work?" She observes me with a deep frown. "But it's the weekend. Weekend is for fun, not work. You must come."

I wipe my mouth with my napkin, then turn to Olivier. "What's the autumn festival?"

"It's an event hosted by the girls' school to finance their school trip. The festival is next week, but you don't have to come."

"Yes, come," Joelle encourages with a large grin, clearly not missing a beat of our conversation.

"You really should check it out," Agathe adds with a nod. "It's always a great time. There are vendors selling homemade products and—of course—plenty of food," she says, glancing at Olivier.

"You're cooking?" I tilt my head to look at him.

"Yes. I actually have the week off work so I can prepare for it. It's a big event, but you really don't—"

"Olivier," Joelle cuts in. "She is your lover. She—"

"I'd love to come," I blurt. Olivier's mouth falls open.

I don't know if it's because I'm dying to taste more of his cooking, or because I can't resist a fall festival surrounded by actual fall colors—not exactly the same picture in Florida—or if the word "lover" spilling from Joelle's mouth kickstarted it all. But there, I said it.

"Are you sure?" Olivier murmurs, his eyes trying to decipher what's going on in my brain and searching for hidden meaning behind my eyes.

"Positive," I say with a nod. "It sounds like fun."

He relaxes into his chair. "Okay, then."

"And of course you are coming to Joelle's Halloween party on Friday night," Agathe adds.

I blink back. "Oh . . ."

"Certainly, they are coming," Joelle confirms, her eyes flitting between her son and me. "Olivier never misses my party."

He opens his mouth, probably to decline, but I cut him off. "Oui , we are coming." What's one more event at this point? Plus, Joelle is so nice, it's impossible to turn her down. You don't refuse anything to Molly Weasley. Or Mrs. Patmore.

"Super ," Joelle gushes, clapping her hands together before getting up to clear the table.

Olivier leans into me. "You don't have to say yes to everything my mother asks, you know," he whispers in my ear, sending chills through my body .

"I know," I whisper back. "But you can't miss your mom's big event either. And anyway, it's fine. Everyone likes a party. I don't mind."

"Okay," he says with a dip of his head before getting up to help his mom.

Once we're done clearing the table, we all step back outside to enjoy some fresh air. The girls are playing with their hula hoops, and Phillipe is raking leaves while Agathe, Joelle, and I sit around a rattan table, chatting about our favorite TV shows. Thankfully, Agathe is playing translator.

As Agathe and Joelle share a few words in French, my phone pings, telling me I've got an Instagram notification, so I check it out. It's a picture of Neal and his new girlfriend kissing in front of their newly opened surf shop in Australia. I turn off notifications for his account and shut my screen off, not even bothering to read the caption.

" Excusez moi ," I mumble to Joelle and Agathe before quickly retreating to the restroom. My stomach twists, the picture still fresh in my mind. We broke up months ago, but seeing him so happy, living his dream, reminds me how far apart our lives are. My time will come, I remind myself, repeating it like a mantra. Having gotten lost looking for the restroom, I end up in a corridor with several doors on each side. One is slightly ajar, and deep voices carry into the hallway. It's Olivier and his brother. I'm about to turn around, because I'm pretty sure this isn't the right way, when I hear Matt say my name followed by the word "canon."

Olivier sighs. " Oh, oui. Elle est vraiment canon. " They both chuckle at that, and I don't hear the rest of the sentence.

Fearing they might step out of the room, I retrace my steps to where I came from, and Camille—I think—emerges from one of the doorways, her dress stuck in her underwear. She looks at me for a second, like she's done something wrong.

"Do you need some help?" I ask, but the little girl just runs away.

Well, at least now I know where the bathroom is.

After finishing my business, I open the browser on my phone to look up the word "canon" because I can't stop thinking about it. I lean against the door next to the restroom as I type on my phone.

First, a bunch of printers, cameras, and related equipment come up. Right, it's a Japanese electronics company. Next, I try " canon c'est quoi, " and I mostly come across pictures of actual cannons. That's what came to mind at first, but this doesn't make any sense. Why would he call me a cannon?

Olivier

"Hey," I say when I spot Hazel near the restroom as I'm going back outside, Matt close on my heels. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing," she rushes, hastily turning off her phone's screen. "How are you?"

I frown, not sure what all that fluster was about. "Good."

She looks to the right, and I notice my mom pretending to dust the shelf while sneaking glances at us.

I bring my eyes back to Hazel.

"Your mom is looking," she whispers, her cheeks turning pink.

"She is."

"You should kiss me." When the words leave her mouth, I almost choke on my saliva. I place a hand on the wall to steady myself, which also brings me closer to her. "Are you sure?"

Her eyes remain locked on mine, and she nods. "It'll be weird if you don't. She's expecting it."

"Right."

I stare at Hazel a beat longer, trying to gather the courage. But no matter how long I wait, I'm pretty sure I'll never be ready for what's about to happen. Because her lips look more delicious than any meal I've ever tasted.

Swallowing hard, I lean toward her, and she tilts her head back. Her eyes flutter closed, but I can't follow suit. I need to see every part of this. I capture her chin in my hand and place a soft kiss on her lips. I let my mouth linger for a few seconds, intending to break apart after a moment, but I can't do it. Instead, I step closer and wrap my arms around her waist, deepening the kiss. She responds by lacing her hands behind my neck. Warmth spreads through my body, and I force myself to take a step back before I accidentally take this even further. We did say no tongue, after all, and the whole thing is just pretend. She opens her eyes, and her gaze meets mine. For a second, I think I detect a fiery flicker mirroring the flame raging inside of me, but then, she shoots a glance to the right to see if my mom is still there. She turns back to me with a knowing look and a thin smile.

I break away, forcing a grin. Taking her hand in mine, I guide her back outside, hoping my racing heart will settle down.

The rest of the afternoon goes pretty well. It almost feels like Hazel has been here for years. Right now, she's laughing with Agathe and my mom, which doesn't help with my heart rate. I've been looking for this my entire life. An honest woman who I share interests with, who I can laugh with. A woman who would get along well with my parents and understands the demands of my work. But I remind myself that Hazel is not that person. While we do have a lot in common, and she's always up for a good laugh, she's not my real girlfriend. This is just a favor. After one week, two if I'm lucky, she'll go back to her life, and I'll remain stuck in mine.

The sun is dipping low, and it's getting chilly outside. Matt and Agathe call it a day, with Hazel and me following close behind. Right now, I'm waiting for her near the entryway as she uses the restroom.

"I like Hazel," my mom declares in English, clearly improving by the second. "She is magnifique , superbe. Une vraie femme , with curves and substance. Pas comme les brindilles avec qui tu étais avant ."

I nod, agreeing completely. Hazel is nothing like any other woman I've ever met, let alone dated. Now that I think of it, I have mostly gone out with rather thin women. Not thin like a rake, like mom is suggesting, but still. Hazel's body is perfection. Her curves are exquisite, a gorgeous reflection of the love that she and I share of food. She looks healthy and full. "A woman of substance," like my mom said, and she's exactly right.