16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Hazel

I rescind every bad thing I ever said about Kale. This stuff is good. It might even be my new favorite green after last night. You might think I'm crazy, but if you had Olivier cook you a poêlée d'escargots with chorizo butter, butternut, and kale for dinner, you'd love it too. Snails are actually delicious—even if the texture is a little squishy—and coupled with the crisp appeal of the chorizo, the roundness of the butter and creamy squash, and the earthy, green notes of the kale, it was the perfect autumn dish.

We barely finished breakfast two hours ago, and we're already leaving for the restaurant. It's true what they say about the French—eating is a big part of their lives, and I'm here for it. But with the small lump that has lodged in my stomach, I'm not sure I'll be able to enjoy the meal much. Tonight is Joelle's Halloween party, and I'm equal parts excited and nervous. There will be a lot more people there, which means more eyes on Olivier and me. Which also means we'll have to step into our acting roles a bit more. Is it weird to admit that's the part I'm excited about?

And the food. That is, if I'm able to eat it.

We use the metro again to reach the city center. It's definitely not my favorite means of transport. The train cars are gloomy, dirty, and smell like piss, but the part where Olivier and I have to squeeze against each other isn't so bad.

"Do you know the chef this time?" I ask as we stroll down the street to the restaurant .

"I do. How do you think I managed to score us a table?" He winks. "Most of these restaurants are booked for weeks, if not months, in advance."

"Don't I know it." I force a tight smile. Great. I should have known better. Every place he's taking me to will be friends of his. How on earth am I supposed to review them now?

The restaurant is the epitome of Parisian chic, with dark-green velvet draped on the walls, the luxury enhanced with shimmering golden fixtures and leather seats. A young man in a suit guides us to our table, which has been set up in a cozy private room. This is something I could definitely get used to.

"Thank you again," I say once we've ordered, "for making this happen. I feel so lucky to have the chance to try so many restaurants within such a short time frame." As a foodie, I really do. As a food critic who's supposed to be working—but can't—I hate it.

"You did great on your own your first week here," he says with a chuckle.

I lay my napkin on my lap. "True, but I'd been planning it for weeks."

"The schedule of a chef can be hectic, so we always do our best to accommodate a colleague. It's as much a treat for me as it is for you. I don't get much time off to eat out, and dining alone is definitely not the same."

"Yeah, so true."

"But you were eating alone when we met."

I grimace. "I wasn't about to miss out on Paris' amazing food just because I was here alone. I'd rather eat in solitude than not enjoy the city's offerings, you know?"

He gives me a nod. "Agreed."

"Let's drink to that," I say, raising my glass of water.

" Non ." He pulls his glass away. "We don't toast with water. It's bad luck."

My eyes flash wide open. "Oh! I didn't know that. Sorry. Any other French food superstitions I should know about? I wouldn't want to commit a faux pas tonight."

"Are you nervous about the party?" he asks, tilting his head. "We don't have to go, you know."

I swat him softly. "Of course we're going. We told your mom. But yeah, I guess I am a teensy bit nervous. A party is always intimidating. "

He averts his eyes for a second. "It might be, but I promise I'll stay with you the whole time. Just ignore everything my mom says, and it'll be fine."

I nod. Yeah, it's going to be fine. Olivier will be there.

"And as for food superstitions, we have a lot of them ," he declares with a goofy smile. "The most famous is that you should never put the baguette, or the bread, upside down on the table because it symbolizes death. When clinking glasses, we must look into each other's eyes, or we'll endure seven years of bad love. Also, we may never cross the glasses—if we're more than two, obviously—because it brings bad luck. And on the same note, you shouldn't cross your fork and knives on the table. That brings conflict. I could go on and on."

I blink back. "Oh, my. There are a lot of rules. Mostly about not crossing things."

"Yep."

"In the States, we have a few too. Like never spill salt on the table because it brings misfortune, or never gift someone a knife because it brings discord in the relationship. Never seat thirteen at a table because it's bad luck . . . "

"We have those as well," he says with a nod. "I was only joking, though. I don't take those superstitions too seriously. Otherwise, there isn't a lot left that you can do."

"I sure hope not," I say with a giggle.

"Except the ‘looking each other in the eye when toasting.' That one I can't shake."

I arch my eyebrows. "Not ready to risk seven years of bad love, huh?"

His eyes crinkle under his smile. "Absolutely not. The ‘no love' thing is already plenty for me."

"Now that you mention it, I've been racking my brain trying to think whether I forgot to look someone in the eye while toasting a while back," I say, scratching my chin. "If I did, hopefully I'm reaching the end of the period. Do the years add up if you do it again?"

His deep chuckle booms across the table. "No idea. But I'm sure you can find extensive guides online."

"Gosh, I hope that's not the case, or I'll stay single my entire life."

His deep eyes plunge into mine. "I don't believe that for a second."

The air suddenly becomes stuffy, and I refrain from fanning myself with my palm. Thankfully, the waiter interrupts us to bring us bread, followed by the first dish. He takes his time explaining it to us.

I'm immediately impressed by the presentation. It's very elegant, with touches of color around the plate. The whole thing looks like a work of art.

"Wow."

"Yep. Leon is an artist," Olivier says. "And the best part—it's as delicious as it looks."

Every dish is more beautiful than the last, and we're having a great time. We talk about cultural differences between France and the USA, diving into even more superstitions. It turns out that most of them are universal.

We're now eating the first dessert, a maple syrup pecan pie, and it's a succulent choice. This is the first time I've eaten an American dish in France, and I must say, Leon did it right. It truly tastes like home. Eager to eat more, I shove a large piece into my mouth, but it stays stuck in my trachea. I struggle to make it go down, but it sticks to the back of my throat. I grab some water, but it doesn't go through. Then, I try to spit it out, but the offending morsel doesn't budge.

I start to sweat, my heart rattling in my ribcage as I realize with a wave of dread what's happening. I'm choking.

Olivier

Panic courses through my body as Hazel grows paler. " Mon dieu. Hazel, ?a va? " She looks like she's choking.

Flying up from my chair, I slap my hand twice on her back, trying to clear her throat. I look at her, but her eyes are now bulging, and she's gesturing frantically to her throat. She can't breathe.

I step behind her and lift her up, wrapping my arms around her to perform the Heimlich maneuver, just like I learned in culinary school. I apply a strong pressure to her stomach, but it doesn't work. My hands are trembling, and my arms are weak. This is not happening . Come on, Olivier. Focus. I suck in a quick breath, trying to chase away the worst-case scenario plaguing my mind. I go in again, this time with a burst of strength, and the pecan pie bite shoots across the room. Hazel falls back against me, and I let out a loud breath of relief. My heart is still pounding, and though I know I should, I can't let go of her. Merci mon dieu. I've only known Hazel for a week, but a world without her is inconceivable. It'd be like living in darkness.

"Are you okay?" I ask, rubbing her arms.

Placing a hand on her chest, she inhales a deep breath. "Yes. I think so."

"Are you sure?" I spin her around gently, caressing her cheek. We lock eyes for a minute, and my heart swells with relief when I see a shade of pink in my finger trail. Fire blazes in my eyes, and I'm inches away from kissing her.

"Positive," she says. She sits back down, her chest still heaving rapidly, the rise and fall matching my own.

My heart hammers so hard against my chest, I think I'm going to be the one who needs saving soon.

I pour more water in her glass, and she drinks a few sips before smiling. "Thank you for saving me."

"Of course," I say, leaning back against my chair and taking a deep breath.

"It was kind of a big dill ," she says, glancing up at me with a grin. "Get it? A big ‘dill'?"

As I shake my head, a smile spreads across my face, calming my racing heart. "Now I know you're okay if you're making such lame food puns. "

She laughs, and my breathing finally slows. "Well, come on, then. Show me what you've got." She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Girl, peas . I'm not about to leek all my secrets to you just yet," I say, arching my eyebrows.

Her mouth opens slightly, then she bites her lower lip. My heart picks up its pace again.

Gentlemen, can I have your attention please? I think I just cracked the code. What if the path to a woman's heart is paved with clever food puns?

"You win," she says, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "I have muffin more to say. Thank goodness you were able to romaine so calm."

Darn it, this girl is amazing. I could keep this going forever.

Hazel insists that we don't skip the second dessert and the mini pastries before we go thank the chef. Despite the incident, she assures him that she had an amazing time, and I can only agree with her. Which makes me lean toward opening my own restaurant even more. Creative control is key to a fruitful career. But as we chat with my friend, Hazel keeps rubbing her chest, and worry scratches at my mind. What if I hurt her when I did the Heimlich maneuver? I know it should only be done in extreme circumstances when someone isn't able to breathe because you can easily break a rib. Her case certainly fit the bill, but what if I applied too much pressure?

"Are you okay?" I whisper to her as Leon shows us his new state-of-the-art oven.

"Yes, I'm fine," she says with a grin, but I can feel she's lying.

After a few more minutes, we bid goodbye to Leon and the kitchen staff before getting our coats back from the hostess.

As she puts her coat on, Hazel winces. Now I'm beyond worried.

"You're not okay," I say when we reach the street, my heart clenching. "You're hurting. We're going to the hospital, now." Taking her hand, I start walking.

She tugs at my hand to stop me. "Olivier. No, I'm perfectly fine. This is silly."

I stop and swing around to look her in the eye. "You're not fine. I've noticed you rubbing your chest and wincing. I hurt you." I rake a frustrated hand through my hair. "Gosh. I'm so sorry, Hazel. We'll fix this."

"You did what you had to do. You saved me," she murmurs, her voice soft as she squeezes my hand again.

Our eyes lock, but I can't stand seeing her like this. I can feel her pain. "Either way, we're going to the hospital. There's a good chance I cracked one of your ribs."

She stops arguing, probably noting the distress in my voice, and we make our way to the nearest hospital. Thankfully, there isn't a long wait, and she sees a nurse after a few minutes. It's a good thing they need me to translate because that keeps my mind occupied. My blood pressure is probably alarmingly high right now, and I keep pacing the room like a caged lion.

"Calm down," Hazel soothes as we're waiting for her x-ray results. I can't even look at her. She's perched on the edge of an examination table, wearing a hospital gown because of me. If I hurt her, I will never forgive myself.

"I feel fine," she continues. "I'm sure it's nothing."

I don't answer, aware that she's only saying those things to make me feel better. Instead, I continue pacing, which helps with my stuttering heart .

"Good news," the doctor says as he glides into the room. "There's no cracked rib."

A long swoosh of air escapes my lungs, and I clutch my stomach. " Merci, Docteur . But why is she hurting, then? Is that normal?" I ask, my panic rising again. Perhaps they missed something.

"I'm fine, Olivier," Hazel says in a comforting tone.

"She is," the doctor agrees with an empathetic smile. "It's probably just from the pressure of your fists. You did good, though—probably saved her life. The pain will subside in a day or two."

As I bob my head, I let his words sink in. "Thank you," I say, shaking the doctor's hand. As soon as he's gone, I slump into a chair, relieved. A few seconds later, Hazel rests her hands on my shoulders.

"I told you I was fine. You did nothing wrong, Olivier. You saved me. Thank you again." Then, she kisses my cheek, effectively setting it on fire. I'm so dazzled by that kiss, I don't even realize she put her coat back on.

"Should we get going? We have costumes to buy."

"What?" I raise my head, meeting her gaze. "We don't have to go to the party. We had enough emotion for one day." Plus, my mom's parties are always an excuse for her to meddle even further in my personal life. Her seeing Hazel twice within such a short period is going to put false ideas into her head. And mine.

"Olivier, don't use this as an excuse to ditch your mom's party," she scolds in a tone that reminds me of my mom. "We said we'd be there, so we're going." Her eyes twinkle. "Plus, shopping for costumes is always fun."