15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Olivier

I think I'm falling hard for Hazel. Scratch that—I know I am. She's kind, funny, loves food as much as I do, and even laughs at my dumb jokes. Not to mention she's beautiful and has a way of making my heart pound every time she looks at me.

She talked so passionately about my job, my future, that it messed with my head. I thought about it all night. Could she be interested in me too? I looked for signs when we were cooking earlier, but I didn't get any clear indication that she sees me as more than a friend.

We've finished eating, and we're at the sink doing the dishes when her phone rings somewhere in the room.

"Oh, shoot," she says, drying her hands. "It's probably my sister. I'll be right back."

She darts to the couch, where the sound is coming from, and picks up.

"Hey, Ivy. What's up?" she says, smiling into the screen. Looks like they're video chatting. As they dive into conversation, she walks to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

In the meantime, I finish the dishes and start preparing the food containers to bring to the shelter. I'm looking for an extra tote bag at the entryway when I overhear Hazel's voice.

"I miss you too," she says. "I can't wait to get home either, but it's better here now. I'm actually starting to like it."

She stops, Ivy probably having cut her off.

"No, I'm still not taking the job. My life is in the States. I didn't—um—fall in love with the city like you said I would. Anyway." Her words are followed by some noise .

Sensing she might be coming out of her room, I hurry back to the kitchen. My heart is hammering wildly, not because of the roughly sixteen feet I just sprinted, but because Hazel is really going to leave. After our conversation yesterday, I thought something had changed. I also thought I felt something when we were making gnocchi together. Something heavier. A sense of attraction. And then, we laughed so hard . . . Maybe it was just me.

Still, it's been a long time since I've felt this for a woman. I still have a few days left with her, and I have to make the most of every minute. More importantly, I have to make her fall in love with Paris. If I did, maybe she'd have a reason to stay.

"So," I begin when she steps out of her room. "I was thinking we could go into town this afternoon. It's a nice day. Maybe I could show you some of my favorite spots in Paris."

Yep, I'm that smooth.

She leans against the doorframe. "Oh, you don't have to do that. I told you, I've seen plenty already."

My eyebrows shoot up. "And you hated it."

"I don't hate it," she says with a shy smile. "I just don't love it. Not the same thing."

I give her a pointed look.

"Anyway, I'm sure you have better stuff to do on your only week off in . . . forever."

"As I said, they're my favorite places. Plus, as a Parisian, I can't let you go back to America with a bad impression of our city. Clichés aren't always true, as you know, but Paris is a wonderful city. You just have to see it from the right angle and with the right person. It's not a place to be alone."

She shakes her head. "Are you really that offended that I didn't like it?"

"It is my duty to at least try to change your mind," I joke. "Honestly, though, I really want you to leave with a good impression. I know it's not ideal being stuck here, but I don't want you to return home with bad memories of your trip."

"I won't," she breathes. "Have bad memories of my trip, I mean." A short silence falls between us. I'm debating how to break it when she beats me to the punch. "But I see what you're saying. We do have a lot more fun together than I had alone my first week here."

"Alors, on y va?"

She smiles . "Oui."

Hazel

I may have cast my judgment on Paris a little too early. And too harshly. After taking the train into town, Olivier brought me to the Parc Monceau, AKA the most charming park in Paris. Scratch that—in the entire world. Tourist guides will tell you about the Jardin des Tuileries, the Jardin du Luxembourg, the Jardin des Plantes, or the Champs de Mars. But why on earth don't they talk about Parc Monceau? It's like stepping into a masterpiece by Claude Monet. Nothing is well-trimmed or organized like in other parks I've been to. Here, nature takes over—overgrown bushes, spontaneous flowers, and ivy creeping over the pathways. From this slice of heaven, we don't even hear the car horns and noises of the city, even though we're right in the middle of it.

"It's gorgeous," I say as we stop in front of a round pond bordered by a Roman colonnade that transports you to another time.

"I know." He gazes at me with a smoldering intensity before directing his eyes back to the pond. "Told you you'd like it. Did you know it's called a naumachia? It's a lake where mock sea battles took place in ancient Rome."

I hang on his every word, appreciating the depth of his knowledge about the park. I'm already imagining a raging sea battle being fought in the pond when his laugh brings me back to reality.

"But I'm sure you already knew that. I forgot who I'm hanging out with."

I force myself to chuckle along. "Well, I never studied Roman history that deeply, so it's fascinating for me."

He opens his mouth, but I'm quicker. I don't want to give him a chance to ask what I studied. "Please, tell me more," I say. "How did it end up here in Paris? And I'm pretty sure it's not a real naumachia. Those had to have been massive since they held entire ship fights."

My heart is pounding now, and I pray I didn't just stick my foot in my mouth.

"Right. In the eighteenth century, this was the Duc of Chartres' garden. He was a bit of a megalomaniac and asked a famous painter to envision a sumptuous bucolic garden with rivers, minarets, mills, this naumachia, and even Egyptian tombs. It was like a world tour. "

"Wow," I breathe quietly, truly in awe as I look around me.

"The garden was eventually seized during the revolution, and it was pretty much completely forgotten. About one hundred years later, Napoleon III decided to restore it. It's a lot smaller than it used to be, though."

"This place is amazing. How do you know so much about the garden? Are you a historian as well as a chef?"

Smiling, he glances back at the naumachia. "Definitely not. But I love this place, and there are so many oddities here that I just had to dig deeper and understand. Do you want to see the rest of it? We can check out the pyramid if you want."

"Sure."

We continue our exploration of the garden, and I feel like the only words coming out of my mouth are "oh," "wow," and "beautiful." Most of the trees have already shed their leaves, which has created a carpet of yellow and orange on the ground. With the sun casting its rays over the park, the crisp leaves turn to gold.

We pass several sculptures, a bridge, an old-style carousel, a few small waterfalls, and the famous pyramid. Parisians are relaxing on benches, talking or reading while others are walking their dogs or enjoying a romantic stroll together. It's so peaceful, I could stay here forever. I get why they try not to advertise it too much.

We're now walking to a narrower, more private part of the park, and on every bench—literally—couples are cuddled up, kissing or hugging. A lump forms in my throat as I fight with my infuriating imagination, which is picturing Olivier and me cuddling on one of these benches. Not going to happen.

"So, are you falling in love?" he asks just before we exit the park.

My eyes widen. "What?"

"With Paris," he says, as if that should have been obvious. "How did you like our first stop?"

"Oh, right. Yes, I loved it. This place is truly magical. Where are we going next?"

"To a small village inside the city—Montmartre. I know you've probably been there already, but I want to bring you to my favorite corners of it."

"I didn't, actually. I spent most of my time in museums for my, um, research."

Surprise flashes across his face, giving way to a smile. "You're going to love it."

We walk for about thirty minutes before finally ending up in the quaint streets of Montmartre. I've heard about this neighborhood, of course—specifically its basilica—and it looks like I'm not the only one. There are many more tourists bustling through here than at the park, but if Olivier brought me here, he must have his reasons.

The cobbled streets are undoubtedly charming, and I get why he called it a village. Once again, I feel like we've been transported outside the French capital. Cafés and street artists line the paths, offering to paint your portrait or playing their accordions. Finally. That's where they've been hiding. The accordion playing in Paris is a real thing after all. I just didn't know where to look.

Not wanting to look too clueless, I take advantage of a restroom break to have a look online so I know at least a bit about this place. And if it explodes my phone bill, so be it. I need a lifeline here.

When I emerge from the restrooms, he shows me another, smaller park lush with nature. We also visit an unexpected vineyard right on the butte of Montmartre, a windmill, and Le Mur Des Je T'aime, a large wall where the words "I love you" are written in every language in the world. Naturally, it's another popular place for couples.

"Should we stop and have something to eat?" he asks. "There's a cute crêperie at the corner. Walking up all those steps made me hungry." He taps his stomach, and I can only agree. I've loved wandering around Montmartre, but those stairs are no joke.

"Well, I never say no to crêpes," I answer with a smile.

Making our way to the eatery, we sit down at a table outside. Fifteen minutes later, we're enjoying our crêpes with a cup of coffee.

"So, what's the verdict?" Olivier inquires after taking a bite. "There is so much more to explore, but we'd need a lifetime to see it all."

"I loved it. It's very different from the Paris I saw by myself. Which was a lot more"—I rub my chin—"urban, I guess."

"Yes, that makes sense. When you come here, you want to see all the touristic places and museums, but Paris isn't really a city that you visit. At least, not if you really want to get to know the city, discover it. You have to take your time, wander, get lost. That's when you truly see Paris."

"Yeah," I say, taking a bite of my Grand Marnier crêpe. "I see what you mean. And there was even some accordion music, so I'm good."

He tilts his head back in a laugh. "Well, there you go. At least Hollywood didn't make that one up."

"Isn't it a little sad to live here alone sometimes, though? As you said, Paris is better experienced with someone else, and I can clearly see that." I glance around at all the couples at the tables around us.

He scratches his trim beard. "It can be. But you can feel lonely anywhere. Paris isn't unique in that way. If anything, it might be even easier to find love here because of the romantic vibe."

I quirk an eyebrow. "Says the guy who needed me as a fake date."

He rolls his eyes. "Ah, come on. We've been over this, Hazel. I'm just saying, if you're looking for love in Paris, you'll find it."

"Fine. Maybe you're right," I joke. "But I usually don't have trouble finding love. It's keeping it that's the problem."

"Really? Why's that?" he asks, his question surprising me. He's perfectly casual about it. No intensity in his eyes or tension in his shoulders, like the rigor that's seizing my entire body.

"Oh," I say, twirling my café au lait . "Well, if I had the answer, we wouldn't be having this conversation." I chuckle. "I guess it's not my season of love or whatever. I know, it's cheesy."

"Non . I get it. We all go through different seasons in life."

I tilt my head to the side. Could a man actually understand the concept? They must be made different here in France. "Yeah. And I really tried after my last breakup. It's actually embarrassing how hard I tried. We're talking blind dates, speed dates, online dates, double dates. I did it all in an attempt to forget my ex."

"Did it work? Did you forget him?" he asks in a breath.

I nod slowly. "I did. Not because of the many, many bad dates I suffered through, but because I realized he wasn't good for me. He didn't love me. He kept trying to change who I am, like getting me to follow some crazy weight loss routine or eat kale or whatever," I say with a chuckle.

He arches an eyebrow. "What do you have against kale?"

I wrinkle my nose in disgust. "Not very tasty. "

"Oh, but it can be," he says. "Every vegetable can. You just have to know how to cook it."

"Well, my ex just pulverized it in smoothies and called that lunch."

His expression of disgust mirrors mine. "Yikes."

"Told you. Like I said, he wasn't good for me."

"Definitely not," he says, shaking his head vehemently. "Well, let's go. I just got inspired."

"Where are we going?" I ask, getting up after him.

He drops some money on the table. "We need to get to the market before it closes, and then we're going home. I'm going to cook you kale tonight, and you're going to love it."

I have no doubt about that. Olivier has a gift of making everything taste like it was touched by the gods.