4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Hazel

After standing in line for three hours—yes, you read that right—it's finally my turn to speak to a receptionist. He's doing his best to look polite and cheerful, but I can tell that he wants nothing more than to yell to the clambering crowd that there are no more rooms available. Because there aren't. I've heard him say just that to the people in line before me. But I also heard there was a waiting list, and I want in on it. I've searched online for another room elsewhere in the city, and there is absolutely zero availability in Paris right now. Yes, it sounds unbelievable, but it's true. That's what happens when every tourist is simultaneously stuck here during the high season. I'm also suspecting that my airline particularly sucked, having notified me at the very last minute when others might have been informed sooner. It didn't help that my flight was scheduled for eleven-fifty p.m.

"I'd like to be put on the waiting list, please. My name is Hazel Clark, I left room 2805 this morning."

"Of course." He types on his keyboard. "Done," he says. "There is no room available now, but we will call you if one does become available. In the meantime, I would suggest looking into another lodging option or going to the airport where they have set up a camp."

From a palace to an airport floor. The French really are romantics.

"Right." I weigh my options, but I truly don't have a choice. "Could you order me a taxi, please?"

"Sure." He nods, typing again. "Please join the queue over there." He points to the far end of the lobby, where dozens of people are sitting on armchairs or leaning against the carpeted walls, waiting. "The taxi services are a little backed up right now, but it shouldn't be more than a few hours."

"Thank you," I mumble before joining the back of the line. This day just keeps getting better and better.

I recline my back against the wall, standing behind a family of six. The children must all be between three and eight years old, tops, and they're all whining, crying, or yelling at each other.

After being awake for sixteen hours and standing in line forever, I don't even have it in me to be annoyed. Frankly, I feel cranky too, and I wish I could let it out.

"Excuse me," a voice says behind me, catching my attention. Wait, I recognize that voice. When I turn my head, my eyes fall on Olivier Brun, the hotel restaurant's head chef from last night, who's fighting his way through a group of Chinese tourists. Even in my exhausted state, I notice how delicious he looks again today. The guy seems more like a model than a chef. Even if—I must admit—the uniform is what does it for me. He probably lights the kitchen on fire every time he sets foot in it. Seeing him again, I think I could forgive the average-tasting meal I endured yesterday. Maybe that's why he tours the dining room at the end of the service. To blind diners with his good looks so they forget all about the lackluster meal. Focus, Hazel . I don't get dazzled that easily. That's the difference between regular people and professionals.

He must sense my gaze, because when he wheels around, he looks straight at me. And because I've apparently grown up in the last two minutes from a cranky toddler to a hormonal teenager, my heart leaps in my chest, and I snap my head away.

"Hello, there." His deep timbre forces me to meet his eyes again. And holy moly is he hot. Sharp jaw, medium-length wavy brown hair with a stylish brushup, green eyes, and a dimpled smile that's to die for. He's in excellent shape too. Those strong arms must be handy when mixing those heavy sauces and batters.

"Oh, hi," I say, pulling myself into focus. I attempt to arrange my hair, but I don't need a mirror to tell me I'm failing miserably. "I didn't see you there." Really, Hazel?

The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile, exposing that deadly dimple. "Is everything okay? Did you manage to get a room?" he asks with a subtle French accent.

I sigh. "No. But I'm waiting on a taxi for the airport. I think. So, that's something. "

His eyebrows scrunch together. "So, your flight hasn't been canceled?"

"Oh, yes, it is very much canceled. Dead on the ground. Not flying. But they have mattresses set up over there. Those are on the ground too, I believe." Gosh, why am I babbling? This is starting to get ridiculous. Yes, this man is as hot as a pizza oven, but that's no reason to lose my cool.

He chuckles lightly, and I almost melt into a puddle on the floor. It must be because I'm tired. Men don't have that effect on me. Ever .

Sure, I get attracted to guys like the next girl, but this is different. And since I'm not into French men—and anyway, he's not even wearing a beret—that can't be the case. My lack of sleep is the only plausible answer.

"I see. Well, this might be kind of inappropriate," he says, his tender gaze twisting my gut, "but I do have an extra bedroom if you need a place to crash for a few days."

"No thanks," I blurt out louder than intended. No, going to this gorgeous specimen's house is not a good idea. And not because I'm dying to try out the military sleeping bag they probably have set up at the airport. It's because the last thing I need is to fall for a French guy—who, may I remind you, is not even wearing a beret—when I already hate this city. If I fall for him, I'll be stuck here for good, and I'll end up on the side of the road, like all the forgotten trash, when he eventually throws me away.

He frowns. " Comme vous voulez . I was just offering. Have a nice evening, then."

Evening? It's one a.m. What is he talking about? This man is clearly as worn out as I am. "Yeah, you too."

What is wrong with me? Refusing a bed, and probably an excellent breakfast, from this very fine gentleman. I should have said thank you and followed him out the door. Instead, I chose a sleeping bag that probably smells like feet as I cram up against a thousand roomies. Plus, just because I have the hots for this guy doesn't mean he's even remotely interested in me. That wasn't the vibe I got from his offer at all. He was just being friendly because I was a restaurant guest. Nothing more. Besides, I'm sure he already has a wife or a girlfriend or whatever. And even if he doesn't, why would he even find me attractive right now when I look like a hag? Even on my best day, I can't compete with the gorgeous women that walk the streets here .

Accepting his offer would have been the sane thing to do. He wasn't even flirting with me. Gosh, I really am a lost cause. I've been burned by men so badly, I can't even recognize a kind gesture from a nice guy when I see one. And he clearly is a nice guy. I didn't hold back when I critiqued his cuisine yesterday, yet here he was, offering me some much-needed help. My skin itches at the thought, and guilt washes over me. This is why we're not supposed to create links with chefs we're evaluating. It muddies the water and makes you feel like crap afterwards. Yet here I am, considering his offer. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

I run outside—well, "run" is a big word. I don't run. I speed-walk in my stilettos, dragging my large suitcase behind me. As I hustle down the street, I catch sight of him as he's about to turn the corner.

"Olivier," I yell. "Olivier." Obviously, I'm not shouting loud enough, because he doesn't hear me. It might be the middle of the night, but there are a lot of people out on the street. In addition to everyone being stuck here against their will, it's Friday night. I continue chasing him down, trying my best to avoid dog droppings and wet leaves—learned my lesson—while zig-zagging between angry tourists and groups of drunken youngsters smoking cigarettes. Forget sleeping in a real bed tonight. I'll be lucky if I get out of here alive.

I'm at the corner now, but I can't keep up my pace. This street is less crowded, so I try my luck again. "Olivier!" I yell at the top of my lungs, and it does the trick. He turns around, and a smile springs to his face when he sees me. Granted, I must look like a crazy person right now.

Catching my breath, I shuffle toward him, and he meets me halfway.

"I changed my mind," I gasp, hands on my knees. "If you're still offering your bed, I'll take it."

He arches an eyebrow at the exact same moment I realize what I just said.

"No! Sorry," I stammer, my face now effectively on fire. "Not what I meant. I—"

" Pas de problème ," he says with a coy smile. "You must be tired. Let's go."

My shoulders slump with relief that he's still keen on letting me crash despite the level of crazy I just showcased. "Merci . It's been a long day."

He yawns while stretching his arms over his head. "Yes, it has. Here, let me help you with that. "

Taking the handle of my rolling suitcase, he starts dragging it down the sidewalk. "Geez. What are you carrying in there? A dead body?"

That makes me smile. Not an easy task given my current state, I assure you. "Maybe."

He chuckles. "Well, in that case, I won't ask any more questions. I don't want to be an accessory to murder."

My smile widens. "Good thinking."

He shakes his head as he begins walking again, and I follow suit. After a few steps, his head snaps toward me.

"You were joking, right?"

A loud laugh bubbles from my chest. "Believe me, the only thing I'm guilty of is my inability to resist Paris' incredible shopping."

He dramatically sweeps his forehead with the back of his hand. "Phew. Dieu Merci. I thought so, but it doesn't hurt to make sure. Your country is well known for serial killers, after all."

I strangle a laugh. "Right. Well, the only thing I killed this week was my credit card limit."

"Perfectly acceptable," he jokes as we stroll into a parking lot, and I almost sigh with relief. I was praying we wouldn't have to take the metro .

"Plus," I add, "if there's one thing I learned this week, it's that most clichés are completely off base."

He shoots me a curious look. "I was referring to statistics, but sure, let's go with ‘cliché.' It'll help me sleep tonight. Especially since I don't even know your name."

I nudge him with my elbow, and he just chuckles. "It's Hazel, by the way."

"Hazel, enchanté ," he says, and his voice sends warm tingles coursing through my body. The way he says my name—now that's something else. It's as if the syllables glide on his tongue and roll off his lips. Like my name is coated with sugar and completely irresistible.

"Here's my car," he says, pointing to a black compact vehicle. "Let's go home."

Oui, monsieur.