11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Hazel

Olivier and I are lounging on the couch, the TV on in the background. He's reading a magazine, and I'm scrolling on my phone. You'd think hanging out like this would be painfully awkward, especially since we shared a kiss earlier. A kiss I didn't want to break. A kiss I was dying to deepen just to see where it would lead. But surprisingly, I'm perfectly at ease. It's like I've known him all my life.

That kiss, though. Best twelve seconds of my life—not that I counted or anything. I almost moaned when he broke away. But that was for the best. This whole thing is strictly platonic.

"Can I ask you something?" I venture, unable to get what he said to his brother out of my head.

"Sure," he says, turning to look at me.

"What does canon mean?"

He frowns. "What?"

"Canon . You said I was canon to your brother," I mention, my face warming. "I overheard you while I was looking for the restroom."

He scratches his beard. "Oh."

I drill him with an expectant look, and he lowers his eyes back to his magazine. I knew it. It's something bad.

"Tell me."

"It means you're hot." He swallows hard, making his Adam's apple bob.

"Oh," I say, my mouth hanging open. I must be red as a cherry tomato by now, and Olivier is clearly as uncomfortable as I am, refusing to look me in the eye. No, no, no. This is not what platonic should look like.

"Well, thank you, I guess," I pipe up again, hoping to defuse the tension.

He finally locks eyes with me, and a smile spreads across his face. " De rien. "

"That's ‘you're welcome,' right?"

He nods. "You're getting better."

I choke out a laugh. "Still have a long way to go before I'm fluent. Hopefully, I'll be better by the fall festival, or I'm going to be the town's laughingstock."

A tiny wrinkle appears on his forehead. "You were serious about going, then?"

"Why? Do you not want me to come? I guess I kind of invited myself without consulting you, huh? Sorry."

"Non . Of course I want you to come," he says quickly. "I'm just saying you don't have to."

"I want to. I love a good fall festival, especially when there's French food involved." I wink. "I'd be crazy to turn it down."

"Okay." He settles back into the couch. "I figured you just said yes to make my mom happy."

"I did, but also to make my stomach happy," I say, patting my belly.

"Well, good, then. I think you'll like the festival. It's a fun event, and the food is always the highlight of the day—though of course, I'm extremely biased." He throws me a side glance that makes me giggle.

"What are you going to make? Can I help?"

"I don't know yet," he says, closing his magazine. "It's only my third time catering it, and I try to do something different every year. I haven't really had time to think about it yet because of work. But that's why I took the week off. Tomorrow, I'll go to the market and see what I can do. And of course you can help, if you'd like, but don't you have to work?"

My stomach plunges to my socks. "Oh, no. Just a few things to write, but nothing huge. I was also really hoping to visit some more restaurants while I'm stuck here, but they're all booked up."

"Which ones did you want to try?"

" La Rue , Opulence , or Gabriel Morin , but they all turned me down."

"I'll get you a table," he says, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. "Don't worry about it."

My mouth falls open. "Really?"

He chuckles. "Of course. I know the owners very well. In fact, Gabriel Morin is one of my best friends. We were in school together. I'll text all three and ask for a table. Which day were you thinking of going?"

Could this man be more attractive? He's now getting me into the restaurants of my choice with nothing more than a couple of texts?

"When are you free?" I ask with a smile. "If you want to come, that is. Since you're not working."

He pauses for a second. Just when I think I'm about to receive a world-class rejection, he says, "Of course I want to come. I'm a chef. I never say no to food." He gives me a wink.

"Great," I say with a grin, a flood of relief washing over me. Not because he didn't say no, but because Jeff will be pleased that I can keep doing my job this week. Or at least, that's what I'm repeating to myself as I try to get to sleep. Forget counting sheep. This is the new way to lull myself into oblivion.

Olivier

The farmer's market is my favorite place on earth. No matter what country I'm in, I always end up smack in the middle of one. Of course, my prejudiced heart will always prefer the French markets. But can you really blame me?

I love meandering through the alleys, touching the fresh produce and artisanal food creations with all their perfect imperfections, breathing in their aromas and talking with the people who bring them to life. Everything about it is inspiring, like taking a stroll through paradise. This time, I even take in the beautiful fall colors. How did I not notice them before? With all the trees surrounding the square, the autumn leaves are absolutely gorgeous.

Hazel's eager eyes widen further with each step we take and each stall we visit.

"You know everyone here," she says, finishing off a piece of cheese Pierre gave her. "Do you come often?"

"Most days," I say with a smile. It's become one of my daily routines, a way to get inspired.

"Whoa, you're lucky. What a fantastic way to start your day."

"It is. How can someone not be inspired by all of this fresh produce? The colors, the smells, the passion of the people who grow and select them. This is what cooking is all about, you know? "

"Believe me, I'm with you." She takes a long breath of the cool morning air. "So, do we have everything we need? All this sampling has made me hungry," she jokes.

"I think so," I say, checking my tote bag one more time. "Oh, wait. Apples. We need apples."

She quirks an eyebrow. "We've already got cheese, mushrooms, and smoked ham. And now apples ?"

"Trust me," I say with a secretive smirk.

We stop at Marie's stall for the apples before strolling back home. Living on the outskirts of the city is just like living in a village, but only half an hour from the capital. The best of both worlds.

Back home, we set up everything in the kitchen, and I grab us two aprons. I put on my fall one—with pumpkins, leaves, and mushrooms, and give her the Christmas one, which features candy canes, Christmas trees, and snowflakes.

"Do you only have seasonal aprons?" she asks as she ties the back.

" Bien s?r . That's how you get in the right mood."

Pulling my knives out, I begin sharpening them like I always do before I start any serious cooking session. She just stares at me, wearing an intense look on her face .

"Sorry for the noise," I say. "But you can't make great cuisine with bad equipment."

"No, it's fine," she says, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "Where do you want me? Wait, what are we even making?"

"We're making portobello mushrooms stuffed with fourme d'ambert —the blue cheese we picked up—plus smoked ham, pine nuts, and apples."

"Sounds delish." She licks her lips, and I wish she hadn't. This platonic thing is excruciating enough as it is.

I tear my eyes away. "Right, okay. You can begin by washing the mushrooms and the apples. I'll start on the cheese."

Cooking with Hazel feels surprisingly natural, and she's a great sous chef. She doesn't stand in my way and always lends a helping hand. She has great instincts too. When I told her to watch the apples as they were cooking, she knew just when to take it off the fire.

Once we finish, I take the dish out of the oven and probe the mushroom with my finger. "Yep. It's done."

She offers me a warm smile, and I can tell she's as eager as I am to taste it .

I serve us two plates, and she gets us a pitcher of water from the fridge. We're about to have our first bite when I say, "Stop."

"Why?" she whines, her hands falling loudly on the table with a slap.

"I forgot the final touch. Hold on."

Getting up, I grab the pine nuts and crush them meticulously.

"You're killing me," she groans with a light chuckle.

"Just wait." Hustling back to the kitchen bar, I sprinkle a few pine nuts over her dish, then mine. "Okay, now we can eat."

I cut my mushroom in two halves and gaze appreciatively at the way the cheese melts on my plate. Then, I try it. As always when I eat something, I analyze every element of the dish. The mushroom bursts with savory flavor, and the texture is perfect, firm but a little squishy. The strong personality of the cheese takes over, but it's toned down by the sweet and sour taste of the apple. The smoked ham brings a meaty taste and a touch of crispiness, and the pine nuts crunch under the teeth, finishing the game of textures on the palate .

"Mmm," Hazel moans, her eyes still closed when I open mine. "This is amazing. And it didn't even take that long to make. I'll have to steal this recipe."

"Thanks," I say with an exaggerated sigh. "Finally, something I make that you like. Disaster averted."

She gives me a pointed look as she takes another bite of stuffed mushroom. "Come on, we've talked about this. Plus, I liked breakfast the other day, remember?"

"Yeah," I say, raising my eyes to meet hers. "But I'm a chef, and breakfast isn't my specialty. This is."

"Darn right it is."

I don't say anything. Instead, I just smile. It's a real smile too, one that's impossible to break. A smile that stretches from ear to ear and showcases all your teeth. Because as much as seeing other people enjoying my dishes is a treat, seeing Hazel revel in my cooking is without a doubt the best sensation in the world.