5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Olivier

When I wake up, my eyelids are heavy, like I've just fallen asleep. Or maybe I haven't slept at all. In my defense, my night did take an unexpected turn—to say the least—and I was too electrified to close an eye. Possibly because of the spunky American historian sleeping next door, and the fact that even after running down the street in heels at one in the morning, she looked as breathtaking as the first time I saw her. But let's not go there. I'm just helping her out. Nothing more. When I saw her in the lobby, I couldn't leave without offering my spare room. Not as a thank you, because she hated my food, nor to make up for the uninspired meal. But because she looked so defeated and alone, and the sight made my heart break. The offer just came out naturally. I didn't overthink it.

Glancing at the wall clock, I realize it's already noon. Looks like I did manage to sleep a little after all. I yank the covers off and hop out of bed. My stomach is gurgling now, begging for breakfast. Sliding on a pair of pants, I shuffle into the living room. The house is quiet, so I assume Hazel is still sleeping.

My place is small, but for Paris' suburbs, it's not bad. There's a small garden in the back and a single-car driveway. It's a quaint bungalow with two bedrooms, a bathroom, a laundry room, and a large living area that opens into the best corner of the house—the kitchen. I chose every inch of it when I first moved into this house. From the marble countertops to the appliances, nothing has been decided lightly. This is, after all, the most important room of a household. At least, it is for me, being the room where I spend most of my time.

In honor of my American guest, I settle on cinnamon pancakes. Grabbing my utensils and ingredients as silently as possible, I get to work, now fully awake and pumped for the day.

When I'm done with the batter, I let it rest to ensure maximum fluffiness. Then, I check the fridge and realize I don't have maple syrup—a crime, I know, given it's fall. Placing both hands on the counter, I brainstorm a solution. Either I wait an hour and go to the store, or I try to make something up on the spot. I open my fridge again and survey what I'm working with. Butter, right. That will do. I could just let it melt on top and then sprinkle some powdered sugar and cinnamon over it. Or, I could melt the butter in a pan, then add powdered sugar, cream cheese, milk, and vanilla to make a rich cinnamon-roll-like glaze. My mouth starts to water. Looks like we have a winner.

I've just started frying the pancakes when Hazel steps out of my guest room wearing a dark satin pajama set that complements her curvy figure well.

"Morning," she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

" Bonjour . Sorry if I woke you. I was starving."

"Oh, no. You didn't wake me. For some reason, my brain just decided it was acceptable to switch itself on full-throttle after only six hours of sleep. "

I chuckle, flipping the pancakes in the oversized pan.

"That smells amazing," she says, coming closer and breathing in deeply. "Is that cinnamon?"

"Yes. Cinnamon pancakes. I hope you'll like them. It's not one of our country's specialties, but I always prefer pancakes over crêpes for breakfast. They're more filling."

"Well, I have a thing for crêpes, so I don't know if I can agree with that judgment. But that's probably because pancakes are so common for me," she says with a small smile. "Can I?" She glances toward the high stool behind the central island.

I wave my spatula. "Of course. Sorry. Where are my manners? Like I told you last night, make yourself comfortable, and feel free to use any furniture."

"Thanks. And I'd say your manners are pretty polished. You're cooking me breakfast, after all," she says, her eyes teasing with laughter. "Some of that is for me, right?"

I nod, a grin escaping. "Yes, of course."

"Looks like I'm the one with bad manners. I should be offering my help. And if you were anyone else, I would, but I wouldn't dare touch anything in a chef's kitchen."

That makes me laugh. "Why not? We don't bite. "

"I'm sure you have your methods and habits, and I wouldn't want to mess it all up for you."

"I guess you're right, but that's not just a chef thing. It's a human thing. I love cooking with company, actually, but please stay seated," I say with a smile when I see she's about to stand up. "Because I'm almost done, and the fun part, otherwise known as the eating part, is about to start. Can I offer you some coffee?"

"Please."

I grab two mugs from the cabinet and fill them with the filtered coffee I started earlier.

"Thank you," she says as I place the mug in front of her. "It's really beautiful out here," she adds, gazing out the window. "I love how you can really see the seasons in Paris. One glance outside, and you can tell it's fall. "

I follow her gaze. I must admit, today is particularly beautiful. The glow of the sun reflects on the trees bursting with color. It's almost like there's an orange and yellow filter in the glass of the window.

"It's not like that where you live?"

She snorts, turning her eyes back to me. "Florida has two seasons—wet and dry. Trees do change colors in the north, but it's super quick and definitely not as dramatic as it is here."

Frankly, I never paid too much attention to the fall foliage. I love nature, but I'm so caught up in my work and the day-to-day hustle, I forget to appreciate the simple things. "You do have warmer weather in Florida, though. In a few weeks, it's going to get really cold here. Trust me."

She wraps her hands around her coffee mug. "I guess you're right."

I clasp my hands together. "And now, the food."

"Yes," she chirps, her eyes sparkling as I serve her a plate of three—hopefully fluffy and delicious—pancakes.

"I made a sauce, but I don't know if you'll like it. So try it first, okay?" I place a small porcelain jar of the creamy sauce next to her.

"Fancy," she says, lifting the jar and checking it out. She holds it to her nose and inhales. "What is it? It smells familiar."

"Guess," I say with a smile, serving myself some pancakes.

She places a finger on her lips and lifts her eyes to mine. "Hmm. The only thing I can make out is vanilla?"

I nod. "Try it. "

She pours some of the glaze into a spoon and studies it before bringing it to her lips.

"Milk and butter?" she proposes, her forehead wrinkled in thought. "But I'm missing something."

"Yes. But you're getting warmer," I tease, drizzling some of the sauce on my pancakes.

"I can't put my finger on it, but it's something I've eaten before, for sure. It kind of reminds me of the glaze on top of . . . Yes! That's it. It's cinnamon roll glaze. What's the last ingredient, though?"

My smile widens, hurting my cheeks. "You're good. It's cream cheese."

She nods. "Makes sense."

"Now, try it."

She shakes her head. "Right."

I freeze as she brings a mouthful of pancakes drenched in sauce to her lips, fork in one hand, knife in the other. Holding my breath, I watch her like I'm at a cooking competition, and she's the jury.

"Delicious," she gushes. At her verdict, my entire body relaxes. Finally, she likes some of my cooking.

A silence falls between us, but it's not uncomfortable. After a few minutes, we both finish our plates .

"Thank you again, so much, for letting me crash here," she says, tucking a strand of brunette hair behind her ear. "I promise I'll be out of here as soon as possible."

"So, my cooking still didn't convince you, huh?" I shake my head, closing my eyes. "Tough crowd."

Her face lights up. "Are you kidding? This was the most delicious breakfast I've eaten in—well, ever," she says, her compliment going straight to my heart. "I just don't want to impose, that's all. And by the way, I did like your cooking before. At the restaurant."

"No, you're not imposing. I offered." I cast her a smile. "And yes, that's exactly what I'm talking about. Like is not love, and that's what I always aim for when I cook for someone. But alas, you can't win every time. You were right, though, the other night. It wasn't a proper display of my skills. I should have done better."

She blushes. "I'm sorry if I offended you or your cooking in any—"

"Don't. It's part of the job. You can't please everyone. And like I said, it definitely wasn't my best night. Which is why you must stay here a bit longer. So I can redeem myself and show you what I can do," I add with a wink.

Biting her lip, she rips out a laugh .

I frown, looking away. "Gosh, that sounded incredibly arrogant, didn't it?"

She nods, unable to speak through her laughter.

"Well, what do you know? Some clichés might be true after all," I joke. "It is something people say, right? That the French are arrogant."

"I think I've heard that once or twice," she says between giggles. "But you're not, I can already tell. There's always an exception to the rule."

I chuckle. "Thank goodness. I wouldn't want to change your views on clichés and false expectations. Paris didn't live up to the hype, huh?"

She winces. "You could say that. I came here hoping to fall in love with this old, romantic city and accept a job here. Instead, I've never missed home so much."

I wince. "Ouch. That bad?"

"I don't mean any disrespect," she utters, wringing her hands. "It just didn't do the trick for me."

"I get it. Foreigners have such a romanticized view of Paris, and France in general, that it can be quite a shock when they get here. Especially now, with the strike going on. "

"Yeah . . . It's just super dirty everywhere, and people aren't very nice here. Everyone smokes, and there's a lot of pollution. Plus, it rains. All. The. Time. Coming from Florida, I'm used to warmer weather and—oh my goodness. Am I just being the brattiest American ever? That's another cliché, right?"

Now it's my turn to laugh. "You're fine. I was about to ask anyways. What were you expecting coming in?"

She shrugs. "Great food, fantastic shopping, a romantic atmosphere with accordions playing at every corner, and nice people wearing berets and holding baguettes?"

"Like every American movie set in France, basically." I laugh hard, and she joins me.

"Obviously, I was way off. Well, the shopping was great but more expensive than I thought. And finding my size hasn't always been easy. But the food was the highlight of my trip. Just one tiny disappointment—I didn't eat one single snail or frog leg."

"Because those aren't everyday dishes for us," I say with a chuckle. "I might eat snails once or twice a year, tops—usually around Christmastime. As for frog legs, I don't even remember the last time I had them. A few years ago, maybe. I know we're famous for those because they're weird dishes, but they're really not a part of our routine."

She sighs. "That sucks. I was really hoping to try some."

"I'll see what I can do," I say with a wink, already unraveling a recipe in my head.

"And here you told me you weren't a good host. I beg to differ."

My heart bounces in my chest, but I ignore the feeling and laugh politely instead.

"Seriously, though." Her warm eyes settle on me. "Thank you. If there's anything I can do to repay you, let me know."

"No worries," I say with a wave of my hand.

She gets up. "Let me at least clean this up for you."

"Oh no, you don't have to."

"I want to. Please, it's the least I can do," she says with a tone that leaves no room for argument.

"I wash, you dry?" I suggest.

She nods. "Sure."

We head over to the sink and get to work on the dishes, chatting about the different restaurants she's tried during her week here. I'm impressed with the prestigious tables she's dined at. I had the feeling she knew what she was talking about the other night at the restaurant, and that confirms my suspicions. This girl is no rookie when it comes to high gastronomy, and I can only agree with the praise she's showering on my colleagues.

The way she talks about food is exceedingly attractive. I feel her passion as she describes the flavors and textures of the dishes she tried, but my blood also simmers with jealousy. This is why I cook, to make people feel something. And I know I didn't elicit the same emotions my colleagues did. Something has to be done about this. Tout de suite.