18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Hazel

"I'm sorry again about my mom, and that kiss ," Olivier says as he pulls up in front of the school and finds a parking spot. The festival is tomorrow, and we're going to spend the day in the school's kitchen cooking and doing prep work.

"Ah, don't worry. Like I said, it's fine."

I gaze out the window to hide my blush. The truth is, it's more than fine. He's welcome to kiss me like that any time he wants. French kissing a Frenchman is completely different than doing it with an American. It's on another level. Earth shattering. Or maybe it's just Olivier?

"I know, but it's not what you signed up for. We said ‘kissing with no tongue,' and—well—I didn't want to break the rules."

"No, you're right," I say, forcing the memory away. Yeah, we should stick to the rules. Rules are important. Rules are needed. I clear my throat. "So, are we ready to go?"

He looks at me one more time before opening the car door. "Are you sure you're okay, though? Your ribs? I don't want you to lift stuff and cook all day if--"

I give him a pointed look. "Olivier, you've asked at least a dozen times since yesterday. I'm fine. I don't even feel anything anymore." Okay, it's still a little sore, but it doesn't really hurt.

He sighs. "Sorry. I just hate that I hurt you." He looks down, his mouth twisting.

"You didn't," I say, placing my hand on his forearm. "Now, let's do this."

Nodding, he gives me a feeble smile, and we get out of the car .

We'll be cooking most of the food and completing the preparations today so that we only have to reheat them tomorrow. We narrowed the offerings down to our favorite dishes from what we tested the last few days, and we swung by the market this morning to pick up everything. And let me tell you, there is a lot of food.

Just when I'm wondering if we'll manage it all with only four hands, I meet the half dozen members of the Parent-Teacher Association who've offered their help today. All women. All dressed to impress. They're standing in the kitchen in their high heels, tight jeans, and cleavage-heavy blouses, looking at Olivier like he's their favorite snack.

"Mesdames ," Olivier says, entering behind me with his arms full of cardboard boxes. " Merci d'être venues aujourd'hui. Nous avons une paire de main supplémentaire, " he continues, turning to me. "This is my girlfriend, Hazel. She's American, and she's here to help as well."

My heart leaps in my throat when he says the word "girlfriend," even though I knew it was coming. After all, we have to keep up appearances since Olivier's family will be at the festival tomorrow .

"Bonjour ," I say with a smile and a friendly wave. Some of them answer, but I can hear the hushed whispers of "Americaine ." And the way they look me up and down.

I knew the French were famous for always being chic, but we'll be cooking all day, so I figured jeans and a light sweater would do the trick.

They each kiss Olivier twice, once on each cheek, putting a hand on his shoulder when they lean in. As they do, I want to rip their hands off. Olivier is dressed casually too, now that I think of it. A blue sweater with black jeans. But he doesn't count. He always looks good.

Embarrassed by my fashion choice, I don't wait for him as I walk back to the car and unload the rest of the goods. Only two other women help.

My much-anticipated day of cooking fun with Olivier quickly turns into a nightmare. He gives us all directions to follow, very clearly. Or at least they are in English. I would think they'd be even clearer in French since it's his first language, but apparently, the women still feel the need to interrupt him every five minutes to ask him to show them something. "How do I make the dressing again, Olivier?" He explained it five minutes ago in painstaking detail . "How do you want this chopped, Olivier?" He already said, in squares. "Am I doing this right, Olivier?" No, you're purposely not. "Can you help me, Olivier?" I'm sure he has better things to do.

I hate this. So much. Because my growing annoyance only showcases the feelings I'm catching for Olivier, and I can't help but feel like I'm being punished for something I did. Or is it karma?

Did I kill a bird and not realize it or something? There must be an explanation for the fact that I'm falling for the hottest, nicest, funniest French man in existence, who kisses like a god, when I live thousands of miles away and he's not looking for a relationship. It doesn't matter how canon I may be. He made it perfectly clear he doesn't want a girlfriend, and I believe him. After all, he could have any one of these gorgeous women. One snap of his fingers, and they'd probably be naked in his bed.

Olivier appears next to me, startling me. "Penne for your thoughts?"

I'm so annoyed right now with those women and myself, I only respond with a feeble smile.

"Darn," he says, shaking his head. "I hesitated between that and ‘pickle.' Should have gone with pickle."

My smile widens. "Penne works better, I think. "

"What's up?" He bumps me with his shoulder. "It doesn't look like you're having a grate day."

I turn to see the large grin stretching across his face, that irresistible dimple on full display. Then, he waggles his eyebrows, and that does it for me. I explode in laughter.

"Ah, much better," he says. "But seriously, are you okay? You haven't said a word in a while."

"I'm fine," I reply, bobbing my head. "Just focused on making my gnocchi, that's all."

He frowns. "Okay. Well, when you're done, can you show Catherine how to properly fold the ravioli? She's having trouble making them stick. You are my sous chef, after all, and I need to delegate."

The only American in the kitchen giving a cooking lesson to a French woman? I'm sure she's going to love that.

"Me? What are they, then?" I gesture to the women with my chin.

"They're commis. You're the most trusted member of my brigade."

"Wow. Okay," I say, wiping my hands with a dish towel. "Right away, chef. "

After I show Catherine, twice, how to properly fold the ravioli so they'll stick during the cooking phase, she finally gets it. She wasn't nice, by any means, but she was less awful than I expected considering the way she glared at me earlier, so that's something.

" So ," she says, drawing out the vowel as I'm about to return to my station. "You and Olivier. Iz it seriousse?"

"Oh, um. It's still very new, so . . ."

"You are a lucky woman. Olivier does not date. At least, that's what he said to me." Her accent is so strong, it could cut a butternut squash in two. But I'm not judging. At least she can produce a coherent sentence in English. More than can be said about me in French.

"Yes, I guess I am," I say as both our gazes are drawn toward him. He's cutting vegetables at lightspeed, and like everything Olivier does in the kitchen, it comes off as extremely sexy. Jacqueline is actually fanning herself, and there's some drool at the corner of Catherine's mouth. I wipe my mouth, just in case I'm in the same state.

"How did you meet ‘im?" Catherine asks, focusing back on me.

"At his restaurant. I dined there. "

"Oh, I see. So you are a rich American. Maybe that's what it takes to be his girlfriend," she snaps before turning back to her ravioli folding. Okay, so maybe I was right about her the first time.

I jump at the opportunity to get away, escaping back to my station. I sort of understand where Catherine is coming from, though. When there's a nice, funny, hot guy who takes days off to cook food for his nieces' school, you need to find a reason why he's not interested in you. Just to ease your pain. Especially if you're as good looking as Catherine—short blonde bob, wide blue eyes, and porcelain skin. She's gorgeous.

Four hours later, we're finally done. We cooked and arranged everything we could and stored it all for tomorrow's big event.

"Are you coming for drinks tonight?" Catherine asks, addressing Olivier and me as we're saying goodbye in the parking lot.

Drinks? Goodness. I'm exhausted after today, and tomorrow is sure to be even crazier. How do these people do it? I muffle a yawn.

"Actually," Olivier says, casting me a quick glance, "I was thinking we'd skip it, but have fun. "

A shadow of disappointment flashes over her face. "But it's our tradition."

" Pas cette fois , Catherine," he says with a smile before opening his trunk to pack a box of supplies inside. " à demain."

Wait, is he really refusing a night out with a bunch of women who worship him, just to stay home with me? Not that I'm complaining. A night in with Olivier is my favorite kind of night, but I didn't know he felt the same way. Looks like the butterflies are back in my belly, and this time, there's no stopping them.

" Oui, à demain, " she responds. I wave goodbye to her, but she doesn't even glance my way.

"Are you sure you don't want to go out with them?" I ask when we sit down in the car. "I don't want you to miss out because of me."

"Frankly, I'd much rather stay home with you tonight."

My mouth goes dry, and my mind freezes when I try to formulate an answer.

He coughs a little. "I mean, we're getting up so early tomorrow. We have to keep up our strength."

"Right. Yes." That's what I thought he meant. "I'm sure I won't stay up long. Catherine seemed disappointed, though," I add, because I like torture, apparently. "So were the other women." I force a chuckle.

He scratches the back of his head, then turns on the engine. "Yeah. They're not very subtle. But I don't think I'm leading them on. Am I? If so, it's not intentional."

I shake my head. "No, no. I didn't see any of that today."

"Okay, good. Because I'm really not interested." His gaze is currently burning through my skull, and I'm suddenly realizing just now how close we are in his car. It seemed so natural at first, but the way he's looking at me makes me keenly aware that we're both leaning toward each other.

"Why?" I breathe. "They seem like nice people, and they're good looking."

"Trust me, it's just the chef effect," he says with a long sigh. "The moment they realize this job takes most of my time, and I can't take care of them the way I should, they'd ask for the check and move on."

"Not all women are like that," I say, my mouth now so dry, the words scratch my throat.

His gaze drops to my lips, and I can feel the car heating up around us. Then, his eyes meet mine, full of hope and something I might describe as fear. "Maybe. "

I swallow. "Some girls can understand, I'm sure."

He leans toward me, and a raging battle erupts in my brain. Should I let him kiss me, or run for the hills? He's getting closer, and I don't know which side I'm on. This was not part of the plan, and it'll make things so much more complicated. I don't live here. I don't want to live here, even if I do like Paris better now. But my heart won't survive another breakup. Not this soon. He's just inches away now, and I'm running out of time. Screw this. I can't overthink it. Only a few days with Olivier, and it feels like forever. Ever since last night's party, I've been dreaming of him kissing me again. I'm doing this. I want it.

I lean forward a few more inches, and a loud tune blasts through the car. We both jump in surprise, bumping our foreheads in the process.

"Gosh, sorry," he says, loud enough to carry over the sound as his hand reaches into his pocket. "Are you okay?"

Finding his phone, he presses a finger on the screen without detaching his eyes from mine.

"Yes. I'm fine," I say with a nod.

We're still looking at each other, not daring to move, when the phone blasts again. I tear my eyes from his and glance at his phone. Following my lead, he picks up without even looking.

And just like that, someone else made the choice for me.