8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Hazel

I haven't seen Olivier since last night, but I heard him come home at around two a.m. It's after nine, and I've already showered, once again using his incredible cinnamon body wash. Even if it smells a bit masculine, it's delectable. I do have some of my travel-size shower foam left, but I couldn't resist.

When I exit the bathroom, I'm surprised to find Olivier out of his room and eating breakfast at the kitchen bar. A large mug of coffee sits in front of him, and he's dipping a slice of bread in it before bringing it to his mouth. And trust me, I never thought I'd say this, but the way the soaked-up bread melts against his lips, wetting the corner, is unbelievably sexy. It must be a French thing. No one in the States ever looks hot while eating a slice of bread.

He notices my presence and does a double take, probably wondering why I'm staring at him eating breakfast. "Bonjour! Please, sit. There's coffee in the pot."

"Hey, thanks." I manage to get my feet moving and pour myself some coffee. Hopefully, the caffeine boost will clear my mind.

As I sit down across from Olivier, I notice the jar of Nutella on the table. Sure enough, there's a generous layer of chocolate hazelnut spread slathered on his bread.

"I figured you'd stay far away from that stuff," I say, glancing at the jar, "being a chef. Fight the rise of processed food and all that." I chuckle, then force myself to take a sip of my tongue-burning coffee before I attempt to make another joke this early in the morning.

My little quip still makes him smile, and I tear my eyes away. "You and your brain full of clichés," he laments, shaking his head.

I choke out a laugh.

Leaning over the bar, he says, "I'll let you in on a little secret. We. Even. Eat. Fast. Food."

A gasp bursts out of me, and I cover my mouth. "You don't!"

He waggles his eyebrows. "Oh yes, we do. Sometimes, you just want something greasy, juicy, and hopelessly bad for you, and you want it fast."

I break into a fit of laughter, and I'm grateful for it. Hopefully, that will hide the shade of tomato red coloring my face.

"So, yeah," he continues with a grin. "This stuff is technically not good for you, but it's still good . Food is pleasure, after all. Besides, it doesn't make sense to prepare a big breakfast on a day like today. We're going to be eating all day long," he jokes. "Help yourself." He gestures to the rest of the baguette. "Or do you want something else? I can fix you—"

"No need," I reply with a smile. "This is great." Grabbing the knife, I spread some Nutella on my slice of bread. "So, are you from a family of chefs? What am I walking into? "

I bite the inside of my cheek, hating that I have to lie to him. But I also can't admit I know who his dad is. It might make him suspicious.

He scratches his beard. "Well, yes and no. My dad is a chef—was, technically—and he worked in kitchens his entire life. Most of the time in the kitchen I'm currently running, actually. I just took over a few months ago."

"Oh, okay," I say with a nod. "And your mom?"

"My mom didn't work outside the home. She was a hostess in my dad's first restaurant, but then they had me, and she quit. It's hard to raise children when both parents work in the hospitality industry."

"I can imagine, yeah."

"Then, there's my younger brother, Matt. He's a cop. His wife, Agathe, is a physiotherapist, and they have five-year-old twin girls, Juliette and Camille."

"Okay," I say, trying to absorb all of this info into my brain. "I can't promise I'll remember their names, but . . ."

He smiles, showcasing his dimple, and I avert my eyes again. "Don't worry. You're already being kind enough to do this for me. It doesn't matter if you remember their names. "

I blush at the way his eyes size me up. Like they're devouring me with the same fervor as his teeth tearing into that slice of bread. "Of course. I mean, it's the least I can do after what you did for me. But, um, we really should put some ground rules in place for today, you know?"

"Rules?" he asks with a frown before drinking a sip of his coffee.

I shift in my seat, already regretting bringing it up. "Yes, that's what we're supposed to do, apparently, since we're—you know—fake dating?"

He arches an eyebrow. "Really? I didn't know there was a guide written about this."

"Trust me, neither did I." A light chuckle escapes me. "My sister, however, seems to know all about it."

His eyebrows shoot up. "You have a sister?"

"Ivy. She's a nurse. She called yesterday to make sure I was still alive, and that you didn't cut me into little pieces. I mentioned our arrangement for the day, and she said—"

"Wait. What? Cut you into pieces?" He shakes his head, his forehead wrinkled.

I wave a hand in dismissal. "Oh, don't worry. We're way past that now. The time we thought you were a serial killer is long gone," I tease .

He bursts into laughter. "Well, that's reassuring."

I roll my eyes with a smile. "I know. Anyway, she said we need to set some rules. It's mandatory, apparently."

He shoots me a smirk. "Well, if Ivy said it's mandatory, who am I to stand in her way?"

I suppress another chuckle. "Sorry. She watches too much TV. It's a problem."

"What kind of rules are we talking about?" he prods, standing up to clear the table.

"Mostly concerning PDA, I guess. Also, we have to get our story straight for when we tell your parents."

He places his mug in the sink, then turns to me. "Right."

After rinsing his mug, he scratches his chin. "Well, we met at the restaurant," he says. "We can pretty much stick to the true story to make it easier. Let's just say this was a month ago instead of two days. I did tell my mom our relationship was new, and she doesn't know anything about you except your nationality and name. You can just say that you're working here temporarily for the university? Maybe a six-month mission? "

"Whoa, okay. For someone who didn't think this through, you already have a pretty clear idea about what our story looks like," I joke.

He scrunches his nose. "Yeah, sorry. That's just how my brain works. Ideas leap from one to the next at lightspeed, and I can see the entire thing unraveling."

I place my chin in my hand. "Pretty cool."

"I guess. So, does that work? I think it's smart to go with the temporary mission here in Paris. That way, when they eventually learn we've broken up, they won't be surprised, and my mom won't try to chase you down."

"Oh gosh, yes. Great thinking." It's a good thing I'm not planning on moving here. I'd be afraid to run into his mom every time I went out. "Okay. We have that settled. What about PDA? How much is expected?"

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and I'm relieved to see this whole thing is a bit awkward for him too.

"I don't know. What are you comfortable with? We don't have to do anything you don't want to. It's only a family lunch, after all."

The way he just fretted about my feelings made my heart leap a few inches in my chest. Olivier really is a thoughtful guy. I don't know him well, but that facet of his personality is hopelessly endearing. And oddly refreshing. Neal was more a "let's do this" kind of guy. He was so pretentious that he didn't feel the need to seek my agreement on anything. Or care about what I thought. Just like his move to Australia.

I suck in a small breath. "Okay, yeah. Let's not go crazy. We can hold hands, I guess. You can have your arm around me, that kind of thing."

"Would you be okay with kissing me?" he asks, swallowing hard.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out, probably because my brain is drawing blanks.

"Not with tongue or anything," he quickly amends, as if sensing my distress. "It's just that our relationship won't be believable if we don't kiss at least once. My mom already doesn't believe I'm really bringing someone, and she probably has that other girl on speed dial in case I show up alone. A kiss or two would guarantee she doesn't eye us with suspicion all day long."

"Right," I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You can kiss me. Without tongue." I didn't even know that was possible in France. Yet another disappointing false cliché.

He wrings his hands in front of him. "Okay. Well, thank you."

"No, thank you ," I say, my lips too tight to smile. "It's the least I can do to repay your generosity." I clear my throat. "So, we only have one rule, then? Stick to hand holding and kissing with no tongue?"

"I guess so. Do you have something to add?"

"Don't break rule number one?" I say, one eyebrow raised.

"Sounds good to me," he replies with the beginnings of a smirk.

I giggle softly, and as he walks toward the bathroom, my eyes zero in on his incredible derrière. Simmering heat takes over my body as I feel a tinge of regret. Why did I limit the PDA to hand holding?