19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Olivier

I thought I hated Jean-Pierre, but now my feelings have boiled beyond hatred. He just had to ruin everything yesterday when he kept calling me like a maniac. I was this close to kissing Hazel, for real this time, and that's the moment he chose to ring me up about a freaking champagne tasting next week. Was it really that important to ask if I could go on a Friday night at eight? Couldn't it have waited until this morning?

After the call, the moment had passed, and Hazel went to bed as soon as we got home. I guess not all hope is lost, because I'm pretty sure she was about to kiss me back, but I don't know when I'll get my shot again.

We're now setting up everything for the event, and I can't help but admire the festival decór. The school event committee members really outdid themselves. The entire main street, which runs from the school to the church, has put on its fall colors. Arrangements of pumpkins and various squashes, mixed with hay bales and planters of autumn blooms, line the street between festival stands, and the trees with their sunset shades need no artifice to stand out.

Our stall is situated right next to the school's kitchen entrance so we can easily transport goods once they're cooked. We do have small ovens in the booth, and chafing dishes in the stalls, but the bulk of the food is reheated in the kitchen to keep things moving faster. Our stall is probably the longest too, easily fitting the eight of us. We narrowed our menu down to three savory and three sweet dishes, which means one person is in charge of serving each while Hazel and I are supervising and taking care of the behind-the-scenes action. Luckily, this arrangement also allows me to spend more time with her.

Since she doesn't speak French well, I don't want to leave her out on her own, especially since my family hasn't arrived yet. The festival just started a few minutes ago, and the first visitors are meandering down the street.

"Thank you again," I say to Hazel as we're pouring the potimarron and cêpes velouté in a thermos. "For helping with all this. It means a lot to me."

"Of course," she says, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiles. She looks absolutely stunning today—granted, she has every day since I met her—but this dark-green velvet skirt and the thin brown sweater she's wearing over it complement her figure and match her eyes perfectly. "It's my pleasure," she continues. "I had fun."

"Me too. It's been a while since cooking has been this enjoyable for me, so really, I mean it when I say thank you."

Our eyes plunge into each other again, and just when I'm wondering if I should just go for it, right here and now, I hear heels clacking on the tile floor followed by Catherine's voice.

" On a besoin de velouté s'il vous plait ," she says.

She needs more velouté? Already? Though I'm surprised, I'm glad they're selling like hot cakes. Glancing at Catherine, I give her a slight nod and return to the cooker.

Of course this won't be the right time to kiss Hazel. Today is going to be mayhem, and it's just getting started.

The lunch rush has finally receded, and we've run out of most of the dishes we've prepared. Only a few crêpes à la crème de marrons et aux poires are left, as well as the pumpkin-spiced caramel apples.

Hazel is perched on the edge of a brick wall, drinking a bottle of water.

"Water?" I say with a severe frown. "We're at a fall festival. That's unacceptable."

She laughs. "What do you suggest?"

"Perhaps we can walk down the street? I'm sure we can do better than plain water."

With a grin, she nods and screws the lid on the bottle. "Sure."

Before we get going, I steal two caramel apples from our stand and hand her one. "We deserve it." I wink .

As we walk away, I feel a dozen eyes following our trail. It's only once we're out of ear's reach that Hazel releases a long swoosh of air.

"Glad it's over, huh?" I ask, bumping my shoulder with hers.

"Yeah, I'm grateful for a break." She giggles, closing her eyes. "These women do not like me."

I tilt my head to the side. "Oh, come on. You're very likable."

She gives me a pointed look. "Anyone who holds the title of ‘Olivier's girlfriend' would be despised by those women. Even Mother Teresa."

With an embarrassed chuckle, I scratch my forehead. "Yeah, sorry. This gig was clearly more than you bargained for."

"Don't be. I asked to come, remember? I brought this upon myself," she says with a glint in her eye. "I guess it's a good thing I'm not living here."

Her words hit me like a filet knife in the chest. How can she say that when everything I've done these past few days was to make her want to live here? I'm clearly doing something wrong, or maybe it was just the PTA women who discouraged her .

"So, you're not going to take the job, then," I say. My tone is dry and firm. "You've decided."

She sighs, taking in the festive street filled with smiling guests. "That's what I'm leaning toward. Even if I do see why you love Paris now," she says, glancing at me with a smile. "But I don't know. It still feels so foreign, I'm nowhere near fluent, and I don't have anyone here."

"You have me."

She rolls her eyes, biting into her apple. "You know what I mean. Plus, we're not going to keep up this charade much longer. If we do, your mom will end up marrying us," she jokes with a laugh. I join in, but the thought scares me more than it amuses me. Or is it the fact that it doesn't amuse me at all, but tempts me that's scary?

"Yeah. You're probably right. But we could stay friends. People can maintain a friendship after they break up."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Really? Is that a French thing? Because it rarely works on the other side of the Atlantic."

I wince.

"That's what I thought," she says, taking another bite of her apple.

"But there's always an exception to the rule, right?" I realize my tone sounds way too hopeful .

"Maybe."

We've now stopped in the middle of the way to gaze into each other's eyes. It's one of those moments when everyone is walking past you, but they seem transparent, like you're not really in the same place as them. My eyes linger on her face. I can't believe how lucky I am to be here, in this moment with this amazing girl. This time, I'm not letting anyone interrupt us.

Leaning forward, I caress her cheek with my free hand, and she shivers at the touch. Her hand runs along my forearm, sending tingles through my body. Closing my eyes, I press my lips against hers. They're as soft as I remember, but slightly sticky from the caramel. The sweetness tastes even better on her.

" Ah, te voila, Olivier." Mom's voice pulls me out of the moment.

Opening my eyes, I see her standing a few feet from us, holding the hands of both granddaughters.

I break away, and Hazel turns around to see my mother. At the same time, my nieces notice me and scramble toward us to give me a hug. I can't help but notice the blush on Hazel's cheeks deepening. Is that why she let me kiss her? Because she saw my family? Or maybe she assumes that's why I did it.

I don't have time to think it over, because the girls immediately steal us away to show us their favorite stalls and play some games with them. We play pop-a-pumpkin and ring toss. We're halfway through a game of Jack O'Lantern bean bag toss, enjoying every moment, when Mom and I step back from the line.

It's Hazel and Camille's turn, so we give them space.

"You seem happy with Hazel," Mom says, rubbing my back.

"Oui ," I say, swallowing hard. Because it's the truth. I am happy with Hazel. And I haven't been this happy for a long time. " Où est papa? " I ask, hoping to change the subject. I don't really need to know where my dad is. He's probably at home mowing the lawn or whatever other activity he decided to do today to keep himself busy.

"Hazel is a beautiful girl and really nice. I like her a lot, " she continues, not wanting to let this go. No need to remind me how amazing she is.

"And she loves your cooking," she adds.

"Oui ." Well, that wasn't the case at the beginning, but I'm pretty sure all of that has changed now .

"I think that was the issue with the other girls," Mom continues. "They didn't fully appreciate you because they didn't take pleasure in eating your meals. They didn't understand you. Cooking is in your DNA."

" Oui, you might be right."

"Ah, it's my turn," she blurts, scurrying up to the throwing line.

As I watch Hazel walk toward me holding Camille's hand, I wonder if my mom could be right. It's true, cooking is a big part of me, and my exes never really cared about it. Sure, they ate my cooking, but they didn't appreciate it as much as Hazel does. Her passion for food matches mine, and that's why we match each other so perfectly.