7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Hazel

I had to say yes to Olivier's crazy ploy to please his mom. I know what it's like to have a meddling mother. My heart aches at the thought, as if I've been punched in the chest. Unfortunately, mine is no longer here to interfere with my non-existent love life, and I've missed her every single day these past three years. So, yeah, as crazy as his offer is, I accepted. As much as a thank you for his generous hospitality as an homage to my mom. I know she'd be proud .

Plus, I admit I'm a tiny bit curious to meet the legendary Philippe Brun in the flesh. Even if I'm meeting him as his son's fake date.

Oh no! The review. I had this sinking feeling since yesterday, and now I know what's been pricking at my brain. Crap. I need to email Jeff and see if he can hold the article. I grab my phone and start typing, then pause. Wait. What am I doing? I can't ask him to do that. My job was to eat at Olivier's restaurant and write a review based on the meal I had. And it wasn't glorious.

The thing is, I'd give him a five-star review on this morning's breakfast, but the meal I ate at the restaurant paled in comparison. I didn't sense any personality or firm direction in the dishes I tasted. They had no soul, and that makes me even more curious about Olivier. Because from what I'm seeing of the guy, he definitely has one.

Which is why it sucks having to lie to him about my job. When I first met him, I had no choice. Food critics never disclose who they are. But now, it definitely feels sketchy to keep it from him. I contemplate coming clean but decide against it. That would make things weird and awkward between us. He'd know I came to his restaurant to evaluate him and that I didn't approve. And the last thing I want to do is hurt his feelings, especially after a single bad meal when the guy is extremely generous and kind.

That said, I really need to do some research on French history. I almost liquefied on the spot when he asked about my job. Why on earth did I choose that as a cover? I sucked at history when I was in school. I could never remember dates, and I kept messing the names up.

No. The only right thing to do is shut up about my work and return the favor tomorrow. Oh my goodness. Yep. I definitely can't disclose my real job when I'm meeting his family as his girlfriend . Especially since his dad is a gastronomy legend here in France. Let's not fill up that awkwardness gauge we have going on. It's plenty uncomfortable already.

Anyway, it doesn't matter. In a few days, I'll be out of here, and our time together will be just a funny anecdote he'll share with his grandkids over coq au vin.

My heart pinches at the thought, but I swat the air of melancholy away as I lock my phone. But the screen lights up again, and Ivy's face pops up.

"Hey!" I say, smiling into the phone camera when I see the gorgeous face of my baby sister. She's wearing her work scrubs, and the medical equipment and white walls behind her tell me she's at the hospital.

"Sis, how are you?" She wears a mischievous grin. "Still alive, I see."

I already filled her in on my new host and his statistics about Americans via text last night. To which she replied that only creeps and actual serial killers know those numbers.

I give her a pointed look. "You couldn't have been that worried, since you waited until your lunch break to check up on me."

She waves a hand in dismissal. "I saw your last text when I got up, but I was already late for my shift. Anyway, how's it going? Does he have an amazing apartment? Are you finally getting the unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower you deserve? That suite in your palace was a little disappointing in that regard."

I bubble out a laugh. I was fine with the partial view, but Ivy is still not over it.

"Nope. It's a house in the suburbs, actually, but it's very nice," I muse while looking around, impressed by how well kept his place is. "You'd never guess a single guy lives here. I'll give you a tour." Flipping the camera around, I take her through the small townhouse. The front door opens to a half-corridor with a bathroom and two bedrooms. On the other side is the spacious living area featuring a dining nook at the far end, a sofa facing a flat-screen TV, and the impressive marble kitchen and bar, which take up half of the space.

"Whoa, that kitchen is spectacular," she says. I turn the camera back around after finishing the tour.

"It really is! And he made me cinnamon pancakes drizzled with cinnamon-roll glaze this morning," I say, my mouth watering at the memory. "Delicious."

"Oh, yeah. You're living your best life, aren't you?"

I roll my eyes at her. "I wouldn't say that. I'm stuck here, and I'd much rather be home, but I'll admit it could be worse. It sure beats airport floors and assembly-line food, that's for sure."

"How long do you think you'll be stuck there?"

I shake my head, blowing out a breath. "It's pretty bad. Every day, another profession seems to go on strike. Hopefully, the debacle will become too big for the government to ignore, and they'll give the people what they want. "

"Yeah. The French and their strikes," she jokes. "So, what are you going to do while you're there?"

"Well, I guess I'll work on my articles. Also, Jeff sent me a list of new restaurants to try if I can score a table. They're all booked up online, but I'll try calling in a bit. Oh, and tomorrow, I'm going to Olivier's mom's birthday party."

"You what ?" she screams. The image shakes so bad, I can barely see her anymore.

"Sorry," her voice peeps, sounding distant. "Dropped the phone."

Her face pops back on the screen. "Did you just say you're going to the Frenchie's mom's birthday dinner?"

My cheeks catch fire. "Well, it's lunch actually, but yes."

Her face twists in confusion. "Why?"

"To thank him for his hospitality and—"

"You're lying," she says. Now she's the one giving me a pointed look, which reminds me so much of our mom's.

"I'm not lying." I wince. "Well, maybe a little. He asked me to pretend to be his date tomorrow. His mother is apparently very much like Mom was, always meddling in his business, trying to marry him off. He doesn't want to endure another arranged date, so he asked for my help. And, as a thank you for his generosity, I agreed."

"So, in other words, you're his beard."

"What! No. At least, I don't think so. He's not gay. No way." I glance around, trying to find the answer. Yes, this house is suspiciously well kept, but everything about Olivier screams virility. From the way his huge biceps stretch his sweaters to the beard on his sharp jaw. Then, there's the intoxicating smell he leaves in his wake and the way he carries himself with confidence.

I fan myself with my hand.

"Okay, if you say so. I mean, even if he is gay, who cares? He has every right to be his authentic self."

"Yes," I blurt a little too loudly. "For sure. Totally." I flash a big smile, pretending I don't care about Olivier's sexual orientation while the heat spreading through my neck tells me I very much do. What's wrong with me? "But no, I'm sure he's not," I say, my brain unfogging. "He mentioned not ‘having a girlfriend,' so . . ."

"Okay." She taps a finger on her lips. "Is he super repulsive or something?"

"Ivy!"

"What? Aren't you curious why he's single and in such desperate need of a fake date? If he's not gay and he's good looking, that's kind of sketchy. Especially considering he's a chef! They are like gods over there." A frown clouds her features. "Maybe we ruled out the serial killer thing prematurely."

I shake my head. "There are plenty of reasons why someone would be single. Look at me. Not gay, not a troll—at least I don't think I am—and I haven't killed anyone in a while, so . . ."

"But you're not asking a guy you just met to be your fake date, are you?"

"Well, when he brought it up, I was on board with it so that's something. And he said one of the reasons he's not dating is because his job takes up most of his time."

She sighs. "Well, I hope you have at least set some solid rules in place."

Now, it's my turn to frown. "Rules?"

Her eyes stretch almost as wide as her mouth. "Yes, rules, Haze. Duh! It's the first thing you should have established. The basic building blocks of every healthy fake relationship."

I scratch my neck. "Right. I didn't know you were such an expert."

"Don't you watch romcoms?" she asks, as if this stuff is common knowledge .

I shrug. "Why would I? My life is one."

"Oh, really? ‘Cause you're the cheery girl with a high-powered job who's meeting a handsome billionaire in an elevator?"

"Nope. I'm the one who cries in front of the TV eating ice cream straight from the carton after a bad breakup. Doesn't that count? Bridget Jones is a romcom, right?"

"I guess so," she relents with a chuckle.

"Well, there you go. I can count the number of times that has happened in the last year alone on both hands. That's embarrassing."

"Exactly. That's why you need those rules."

"Fine," I say, sitting down on the kitchen stool. "What kind of rules are we talking? No intercourse, I'm guessing, right?"

"Hazel!" Ivy squeals again.

I blink a few times, suddenly feeling dizzy. "What? Is that not right? How could it be a healthy fake relationship if we—"

"Of course, no intercourse!" she cuts in. "Oh my gosh, it's a good thing I called you. I need to give you a crash course on this fake dating thing, stat."