13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Hazel

I have officially landed in heaven. Again. The farmer's market near Olivier's house is my new favorite place on the planet. It's Paris—France—at its finest. Dozens upon dozens of stalls featuring the best locally sourced products, from veggies and fruits to fish, meat, poultry, and delicacies like foie gras. And of course, cheese. I don't have to tell you which stall is my favorite. This is only my second time here, and Pierre, the cheese maker, is already running out of things to have me try. Olivier left me here for half an hour so he could pick up the rest of his ingredients, and I'm not mad about it.

When he returns to the stall, his two tote bags are about to explode.

"Whoa," I say when my wide eyes land on the bags. I'm finishing a piece of Soumaintrain cheese, a creamy and soft variety that tastes both sweet and salty. Go try it if you can; you'll thank me later. "It's delicious, Pierre," I gush before turning to Olivier. "Exactly how many people are we feeding today? "

"About a thousand."

I almost choke on the last bit of cheese. "What?"

He belts out a laugh. "I'm going to test a few different dishes for the festival, so it'll be a lot more intense than yesterday. I'm doing the savory part today and sweet tomorrow."

"Oh! Fun."

"It's a lot of work, though. I don't want you to feel obligated to help. I'm sure you'd rather do something else with your extended stay in Paris, especially as a historian, with your boss calling and everything. I'd hate to get you in trouble."

Crap . "Oh, I've already seen everything I wanted to see. Plus, French food is just as much a part of French history as the architecture. And don't worry about my boss. I sent him everything I needed to earlier," I lie. After meeting Ludo in person, it feels awkward to write his review, so I'm holding off for a few days until I figure out what to write.

"All right. That works for me. You were a great sous chef yesterday."

I offer him my best military salute. "Sous chef Hazel, reporting for duty."

"At ease, soldier," he jests. After we thank Pierre again and bid him goodbye, we begin the walk back to Olivier's house. The weather is pleasant today, a warm fifty-six degrees, and the sun is shining, which gives the small market a tranquil atmosphere. The scene all comes together with a pretty orange backdrop thanks to the trees shedding their leaves around the square.

"What are we going to do with all that food after we test the recipes, though? I don't mind cooking it, and I love eating—look at me," I joke. "But I'm pretty sure there'll be leftovers. "

He shakes his head. "We're not going to eat it all. There's a local homeless shelter about ten minutes away. I usually bring any extra food over when I'm testing dishes."

Of course he does. Because he's shown me how generous and selfless he is from day one. Far from the rude, selfish cliché of Parisians we always hear, but he could be the exception to the rule.

Back at the house, we don't waste any time getting to work. I'm on cutting duty—mostly mushrooms and herbs—and Olivier is . . . now taking off his sweater! A wave of stifling heat overwhelms me, and it's not because of the oven, where the butternut squashes are currently roasting.

My eyes bulge as I steal a peek at his abs. "What are you doing?"

"Making myself more comfortable," he says casually, stopping mid-pull, as if he's not currently displaying bare skin to me. Sculpted bare skin that I may or may not have tried to envision prior to this. He tugs down the white T-shirt he's wearing underneath, only removing his gray sweater .

Phew! For a second there, I thought the man liked cooking shirtless. Is the clenching of your heart a normal reaction when you're relieved? Because that's what's happening right now. Call me crazy, but it almost feels more like disappointment.

I shake my head, bringing my mind back into focus. No, it's a relief . If he cooked shirtless, we'd have a serious problem because this kitchen would be effectively on fire.

"I'm going to make gnocchi," he says in a casual tone, as if his display of skin didn't start a heated monologue in my brain. He takes the butternuts out of the oven, and the warm, honeyed aroma brings me back to reality. The squashes appear crispy and tender at the same time, and my stomach growls instantly.

"Wait." I scrunch my face in confusion, registering what he just said. "Gnocchi from scratch?"

"Yes, of course," he says, as if crafting homemade dumplings is just a part of everyday life.

"Can you teach me?"

He cocks his head to the side and pauses. Maybe he's trying to find a nice way to tell me I'm the sous chef and I need to cut the veggies .

"I'd love to." His bright smile puts his dimple on full display. "We just need to let the squash cool for a few minutes, then we'll remove their skins."

I feel like the butternut squashes aren't the only ones who need to cool down for a few minutes. But then again, talking about removing skin isn't helping.

Once everyone is chill—kinda—he turns the pulp into a puree, then asks me to flour the counter.

"Okay, now for the fun part. Time to get our hands dirty," he says with a lopsided grin.

Am I going to survive this cooking lesson?

Taking the ball of dough, he places it on the counter. "Now, we make a little hole in the middle. In France, we say ‘ un puits .'"

" Un puits ," I repeat. "What does that mean?"

"Um. A place below ground where you can find water?"

"A well?"

"Probably," he says with a smile.

I make a well in the dough, and he places some egg yolks in it along with more flour.

"Now, you just have to knead. "

With a firm nod, I place my hands on the smooth dough and start kneading, the egg sticking to my hands. Yeah, I'm not very good at this. "Sorry," I mumble, glancing at him.

"You just need to put a little more passion into it, that's all. More pressure."

I knead with more fervor, and the ingredients start to blend better. He adds more flour, some spices, and a dash of salt. My pace slows down.

"I'm sorry. I suck at this. I hope your sous chef at work is better than me," I joke. "Maybe you should call them up."

"You're fine. You're all I knead ."

Pausing, I glance toward him. "Did you just make a cooking pun?"

He scratches his forehead, dusting some flour on his eyebrow in the process. "Maybe. Did it work, or am I just pronouncing ‘knead' wrong?"

"Nope, you got it right," I say with a giggle. "Good one."

"That's no reason to slack, now. Keep up the pace," he says. "It's the most important part of the process. We need a smooth dough. "

He places his hands over mine, and the temperature rises further. He adds so much more pressure, I feel like my hands are going to be kneaded right into the butternut.

"There we go," he says, but when I glance at him, his eyes are fixed on me and not on the dough.

Swallowing, I lower my gaze to my hands. "Is that good?"

"Yes, I think so."

I take a step back. He presses the dough expertly to get it exactly the way he likes it, and I'm in awe of his technique. It's fast, precise, and efficient.

"It looks great. Now, we'll divide it into small balls," he says, separating the dough as he speaks. He hands me one of the balls. "Then, we're going to roll them into logs."

I watch him do the first one and imitate his movements. "Like that?"

"Yep. After that, we cut small pieces, and voilà. We made gnocchi."

"That's it?" I say, my mouth agape at the simplicity of it all.

"Yes, or should I say, ‘that's a wrap .'" He waggles his eyebrows, making me crack up with laughter. I've always been unable to resist a man who makes jokes. And don't even get me started on puns. They're funny and creative. Not to mention hard to come up with when you're speaking a foreign language.

"Darn . . .You're on a roll today."

"A cinnamon roll," he adds, puffing with laughter. I'm cackling so hard, I can't even catch my breath.

I place a hand on my aching ribs. "You're killing me."

"Oh, I have a joke," he says. "What do you call a fake noodle?"

"I don't know." I shrug between loud bursts of giggles.

A goofy smile spreads across his face. "An impasta ."

After gathering my composure, I shake my head. "What a lime joke."

He presses his hand over his chest, looking falsely offended. "How dare you! I'm such a funghi ."

And we keep it going the entire day, one bad cooking pun after the other. Who knew the cooking part could be as fun as the eating part? Or maybe it's just us.

What can I say? We're a couple of weird-doughs .