21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Olivier

The French are known for being revolutionary and everything, but let me tell you a secret. Give them a one-hundred-euro check, and they'll leave the pickets to bask in the comfort of their home. The revolutionary era is over.

As annoying as the strikes are, couldn't they have kept it up a little longer this time? Now, Hazel is looking at flights back to the US, and I'm running out of time .

I grip the wheel tighter during my commute to work. At least she's coming with me to Champagne tomorrow, so that's something to look forward to. A trip to a chateau and some bubbles might be just what she needs to realize that she likes me too. At least, that's what I'm hoping.

And with the number of tourists who'll be trying to get out of Paris right now, finding a flight won't be easy. Still, I've only got a few days, tops.

I have to step up my game, make her see how good we could be together, because I know there is a spark. I can feel it. With the way her last relationship ended, I understand her reluctance to step into something new, especially in a foreign city that has been, for the most part, a disappointment to her.

Then, a light bulb flickers on in my brain. I check the time on the car's display. I might be a few minutes late for work, but this is worth a try. At the next light, I take a right and drive for a few minutes until I reach a souvenir store with berets showcased in the front window. Did I already mention how desperate I am to make Hazel fall for me?

Once I finish my shopping, I head to work and only arrive five minutes late. But I'm the chef, so as long as I don't run into Jean-Pierre, it doesn't really matter.

My team is already hard at work when I enter the kitchen, and Jean-Pierre is nowhere to be found, thankfully. We go ahead with the usual preparations, but doing so immediately sends me back to that negative headspace and the familiar frustration that eats me from the inside.

Cooking these past few days was amazing. Fall has always been my favorite season. The fresh harvest and cozy vibes have my creativity flowing—with ideas I can't use. If I open my own restaurant, I'll be able to cook whatever I want. Change the menu every day, if I want to, shifting my offerings based on what I find at the market. I know some incredible farmers, and I love working with their produce, highlighting them. That's the real dream. Being inspired by nature and creating dishes that speak to me. Dishes I'm proud of. To treat people to new food combinations and see the twinkle in their eyes as they enjoy their meal with their loved ones. That's why I became a chef. Working in a palace and being a decorated professional was my dad's dream. Not mine.

I never realized, until now, how far my cuisine is from my dad's. That's why I hate this job so much. I'm not aligned with the food I'm making. He likes the posh, nothing-out-of-place vibe. Almost clinical. Meanwhile, I have more of a free-spirited cooking style. I like to see where my imagination takes me, roll with my ideas even if they're not always perfect. I like cozy comfort food with unexpected twists. Growing up, it always seemed obvious that I had to fill my father's shoes. So much so that I never even took a minute to ask myself if that was what I really wanted. But I think I inherited as much from my mom as I did from my dad when it comes to cooking. Elevating the simple tastes is one of my favorite things.

Images stream through my head like a movie, and in every one of them, Hazel is my co-star. She wears a glowing smile on her face as we live our dream together. My heart clenches at the thought. This is my dream, but is it hers? Reminders of my ex, and how I almost tasted my dream before she abandoned me, replace the beautiful picture in my brain. I can't let that happen again. This time, I won't back down. And hopefully, Hazel will be right there with me.

Haze l

When I wake up the next day, Olivier isn't here, so I hop in the shower and start packing some clothes for our trip. Hearing the lock click open, I wander out of my room to see if he wants help with breakfast. I'm kind of starving, but even if I'm comfortable here, I'd never touch anything in his kitchen without his consent. Not unless he was away and I was fending for myself.

When I step into the corridor, I turn around and gasp at the sight before me. Olivier. In a blue-and-white sweater. Holding a baguette. And wearing a freaking red beret.

Ooh, la la!

My arms fall to my sides, and my mouth hangs open in awe. Now I know why it's a cliché, and why it works. Olivier is sporting a cocky grin, clearly satisfied with the little prank he just pulled on me.

"Bonjour ," he croons.

I open my mouth, then close it. There are no words. Nothing to express how incredibly sexy and gorgeous this man is right now, or how impossibly unfair this is.

"I thought you'd like it," he says, frowning as he steps toward me.

"It's—yeah, I like it," I stammer, nodding. "Very French. Well, from an American point of view, at least. "

He chuckles. "I saw it in a souvenir shop on my way to work yesterday. Since you're leaving soon, I thought I'd give you at least one cliché," he says before dropping the baguette on the entryway table and taking out his phone from his pocket. As if I wasn't two seconds away from melting on the floor already, La Vie en Rose starts playing, and he extends his hand.

I know he's goofing around, but the tingling in my body is very much real as we start swaying to the music.

He sings along badly—on purpose—making a show of the situation. We bump into the entryway table and almost break his lamp, so we dance our way to the living room to enjoy more space. He's even a good dancer. Way better than me. I'm just a puppet, going along for the ride and hoping to survive it.

A loud gasp escapes me as Olivier dips me low when we reach the end of the song. This has never happened to me before. I mean, you need some strong muscles to dip me this low. Darn this man. Just when I was getting my heartbeat under control, he had to go and make this moment excruciating again. Our eyes lock, and I don't know how long I can hold on until I kiss this amazing guy. He's everything I hoped to find in a partner, and that's the exact reason why kissing him would be a disaster. The music ends, but he's not moving. His gaze intensifies, and I look away, clearing my throat.

"The baguette is real, right? I'm kind of starving."

He lifts me back up and takes a step back. "Right. No. Yes, it's real." He scratches his head. "Let's have some breakfast."

Oof. That was a close call.

Once we're done eating, we each prepare an overnight bag for our trip to Champagne. I have to admit, I'm really looking forward to it. Even if it does mean I'll be tortured for the next day and a half. Sometimes, I worry about my sanity. Let's just hope he's not taking his beret.

I'm zipping up my bag when my phone rings, and my stomach drops. I managed to get Jeff off my back about the pending reviews after telling him I choked during a meal and had to be rushed to the hospital. Yes, I'll admit I did exaggerate things a little, but I had no choice. And yes, I do realize how deep of a hole I've dug myself. Covering a lie with another one is never a good idea, and you always get caught. Maybe I'm about to .

I sigh in relief when I see Ivy's face on the screen. I throw myself on the bed, my forehead wrinkling. Why is she calling so late?

"Ivy," I say, picking up. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm engaged!" she yells, showing off her hand on the tiny screen. But it's moving so much, I can't see anything. Though the background is dark, I'm pretty sure she's on a beach.

"Wow."

"Yes!" She jumps up and down. "It happened about two hours ago. We had a romantic dinner on the beach, then we danced. Oh my gosh, Hazel, it was perfect."

Even through the darkness, I can see the sparkle in her eyes, and my heart leaps for joy for my sister. Or is it a clenching feeling of hurt?

"That's fantastic, Ivy. So, he's the one, then?" I ask, flipping onto my back. "He makes you happy?"

She bursts into loud giggles. "Of course. We've been together for two years. If he didn't, I wouldn't be with him anymore."

"Okay. Sorry, I'm the big sister. I had to ask." To tell the truth, I never really liked him, but hey, I'm not the one marrying him. If Ivy's happy, so am I .

"It's everything I've ever dreamed of. And we've already decided on a winter honeymoon. I wanted a snowy wedding, but we settled for a honeymoon in the mountains. In a way, it's even better."

"You have a date for the wedding already?" I ask, trying to hide the surprise in my tone.

"Yes! Christmas Eve next year. That way, we can enjoy the December Floridian weather for the wedding before cozying up in the mountains afterwards. You know how much I want to see snow, and how Dan hates it. So, we made a compromise."

"That sounds perfect." I force a big smile. "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks! Anyway, enough about me. What's going on with you and the Frenchie?" she asks, arching her eyebrows.

I pick at a loose thread of fabric on the bed cover. "Nothing."

She snorts loudly. "Oh, come on. You blush every time I bring him up, and half of your texts are about him."

"Shh." I glance behind me. The last thing I need is for Olivier to hear I have a crush on him.

"Then tell me. "

"Fine," I whisper. "He's gorgeous, and I'm completely in the merde , Ivy. He's probably the nicest, funniest, most generous guy I've ever met. But he doesn't want a relationship, and we live on different continents. So there's that."

"Oh, wow. It's more than just a little crush, then? You're falling for this guy."

"Thanks for the reminder. And I challenge anyone to spend time with Olivier and not fall for him. I mean, the guy showed up with a beret and a baguette this morning. How am I supposed to resist that? And now, I'm going on an overnight trip with him to a chateau in Champagne."

"Oh my stars!" She clasps her hand over her mouth. "Really? Now I'm jealous. You should definitely go for it. Even if it all ends in a few days."

I resist the urge to sigh. The thing is, I'm not sure I'd be able to leave if anything were to happen with him. I shake the thought away. It doesn't matter, because it takes two to tango. "It won't happen, Ivy. He just got out of a bad relationship, and he's not looking for anything. Not even a fling." As if I'd be satisfied just having a fling with him.

"Well, you were in the same boat, if I recall. ‘Not my season of love,' blah blah blah," she says in a very poor imitation of me. "Maybe he changed his mind too, you know?"

The idea makes my heart flutter. But then, it sinks again. Even if he did, I'd bring him right back to that place when he learned about my job and the fact that I lied to him.

"Anyway, all I'm saying is that you should go for it, Hazel. You'll regret not taking the chance. I'm newly engaged and over the moon in love, so the fact that a teeny tiny part of me is jealous right now is telling. But I thought French men didn't wear berets?" she asks, frowning in confusion.

"They don't."

Her eyebrows scrunch together. "But he does?"

"No."

"So, he bought a beret for you ."

I swallow hard, because that's exactly what happened, and the gesture was incredibly sweet.

"Um, Hazel. If a Frenchman buys a beret for your sake, you say merci and jump into his arms," she scolds. "Where are your manners? "

That makes me laugh out loud. I miss Ivy so much. "Don't you have a fiancé to get to? Did he leave you on the beach or something?"

She giggles, looking behind her. "No. He's getting champagne from the hotel lobby. We're going to sleep on the beach tonight. It's no chateau, but it will do."

I chuckle. "Well, have fun, you lovebirds."

"Merci . You too."

I end the call, but the conversation lingers in my head. Should I give in to one last hurrah with Olivier? Explore these feelings, get a taste, even if I know it won't last? My body heats at the thought, and I fan myself. No. Nothing good would come of it. It's not me. I don't do casual. And anyway, why am I conjuring up stupid scenarios in my head when he probably doesn't even want that with me? My mind is just jumbled with all the emotions being thrown at me—and that stupid beret. This is just a champagne-tasting trip between friends, and that's how we'll play it.

I straighten myself, grab my bag, and step out of the room. Olivier is in the hallway, putting his coat on.

He holds back a beaming smile. "All bready to go? "

The corner of my mouth twitches into a grin. "Yup. It's going to be a grape day."

Energized by the sound of our laughter, we pile out of the house.

Champagne, here we come.