9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Olivier

Hazel and I are currently driving to my parents' house, and my body temperature still hasn't come back down. I'm starting to think I'm running a fever. Surely, if this was just the effect of our talk about sharing a kiss, the warmth would have passed at some point during the fifteen-minute cool shower I took this morning. To be fair, the water did calm my scorching-hot skin. But then, I strode back into the living area, and it all came surging back, as if my eyes still couldn't adjust to how stunning she looks today.

I cast her a quick glance now. She's wearing her brown hair down, but it's styled perfectly, framing her face that bears a touch of tasteful makeup. Her short black sweater dress flares above her knees, and her sheer tights make her legs shimmer. It's as if this dress has been tailor-made for her, highlighting every one of her gorgeous curves.

"So," she says. "What should I talk to them about? What are your family's interests? All you told me was their jobs."

I scratch my temple. "Right. Well, they don't exactly speak English very well, so I'm not sure how this whole thing is going to play out. My dad only knows basic words and kitchen vocabulary since he had a few foreign interns over the years. My mom has a better handle on it, I think. At least, she tells me she's watching most of her favorite shows in English with French subtitles, so that's something. Agathe is probably the one in my family with the most knowledge due to her studies, and Matt," I say with a chuckle. "I have no idea what words Matt knows in English, probably fewer than his daughters who watch Dora the Explorer . "

"Oh, okay," she mutters, and I can sense she's getting nervous.

"Don't worry, though. It'll be fine. In a way, it's perfect, that way they won't bother you too much with awkward questions. And I'll be there to translate. I won't leave you alone."

I reach across the console to squeeze her leg like I would if she were my real girlfriend who I was trying to comfort. But then, I realize she's not, and she probably wouldn't want my hand on her thigh when there's no one around to convince, especially when she's wearing that short dress. I groan inwardly. What did I get myself into? Instead of squeezing her leg, my hand hangs mid-air for a few seconds before I rest it between us on the console. She looks at it for a beat but doesn't say anything, probably wondering what on earth I'm doing.

"Wait. Doesn't Dora teach Spanish, though? Because, believe it or not, my Spanish is even worse than my French," she says with a chuckle-snort.

My eyebrows scrunch together. "No, she teaches English. Doesn't she teach French in America?"

Hazel shakes her head. "Nope. Our kids learn Spanish from her. "

A small laugh tumbles from my lips. "Huh! Who would have thought?"

"I know! Maybe she teaches French in Spanish-speaking countries?"

I rub my chin. "Mm. Highly doubt that. She probably teaches English everywhere outside of English-speaking countries."

"True. We like to have the language monopoly," she says with a cheeky smile that instantly puts my nerves at ease. Thank you, Dora, I guess. "So, is that how you learned English? Because if it is, the girl has a better method for teaching English than Spanish. Your English is virtually flawless."

I place both hands back on the wheel. "Oh, thank you," I reply, flashing a smile. "It's a nice compliment. I worked in kitchens all around the world these past seven years. Then, I decided to come back and settle down here. But it was a great experience."

"Wow. I can imagine. Where did you work?"

"Shanghai, Tokyo, Phuket, Dubai, Copenhagen, Milan, and Montreal."

Her eyes widen. "That's impressive! Not in the US, then? "

"No." I shake my head. "The opportunity never presented itself. But since English is the international language, and we already established that Dora teaches it everywhere, it was the language we always spoke in the kitchens. What about you? Have you traveled a lot for work, or is this your first time in Europe?"

"My first time," she says, looking out the window. "My boss actually wanted me to relocate here. That's part of why he sent me. And because I'm the only sad, single soul in my department, apparently. But I don't think it's a great fit."

My body tenses. Way to go, Paris. Thanks for ruining it for her. "Yeah, it's pretty bad timing. Paris is not the romantic city they portray in the movies by any means, but it's also not usually this bad."

"Yeah. Just bad timing," she repeats, her gaze settling on me for a few seconds before she turns to look outside again.

"At least it's a beautiful day," I say, pulling the sun visor down. "And the weather is supposed to stay sunny all through next week. Even if it's not Florida, I'd say it's not too bad for the last week of October. "

"Yeah. That puts me in a good mood. Maybe this trip will finish on a better note. And those pretty fall colors will never get old."

And you might change your mind, I want to add, but I don't. She already thinks I'm unhinged.

I slow down as I turn onto my parents' street.

Hazel rubs her hands together. "Are we already here?"

"Yup. They don't live far. Here's their house," I say, pointing to the small residence with light-blue shutters and window boxes.

Once I park the car behind my brother's SUV, we get out and stroll toward the house. Hazel nervously wipes her palms on her dress, and I offer my hand to her. Hand holding is part of the agreement, after all, and I have a feeling it'll help with her anxiety.

As we approach the front door, I suddenly don't feel so confident about my brilliant plan. Sure, it'll get my mom off my back for the moment and avoid me having to go on a date with Justine Gardinet, but I feel bad for Hazel. I practically forced her into this. She was too polite to say no after I offered her a room. I had no ill intent when I asked, of course, but that's just how it worked out .

"I'm sorry," I say, turning to her. "I realize how crazy this entire thing is."

Her smile warms my heart. "It's fine. I understand why we're doing this. Plus, the house looks gorgeous!"

I glance back toward my parents' home. Mom always goes overboard when it comes to decorations. Large wooden planters filled with orange flowers and big pumpkins frame the pathway to the front door, and a friendly scarecrow holding a "welcome" sign is staked in a haystack near the mailbox. Topping it off is an autumn wreath adorning the front door. Oh, I forgot to mention the burgundy-leaf garland draping the bushes. And this is relatively low-key. You should see it at Christmastime.

"Yeah. I hope you're starving, because Mom always goes all out for her birthday," I say, guiding Hazel toward the front door.

"Oh, your mom is the one cooking?" She tips her head to the side. "I thought it'd be your dad."

"Right," I chuckle. "I forget that the dynamic is kind of weird. My dad never cooks at home. But don't worry, my mom's cuisine is full of flavor and generosity. "

"Oh, I'm not worried one bit. Let's do this, boyfriend ." She squeezes my hand. "Though you could have offered to cook for your mom's birthday!" she scolds.

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the warm tingling that's traveling up my arm. "Oh, trust me. I wanted to. But she always refuses. No one is allowed to cook in her kitchen or for her guests. Probably her way of proving to us that you don't have to be a chef to be an excellent cook."

"I love her already," Hazel chirps, tugging my hand as we reach the front door.

Another current of tingling energy courses through my arm. I really hope she does. I hope she clicks with all of them, and that in return, they see how amazing Hazel is.

I kick a pebble on the stoop, and it bounces against the door. It might as well have landed on my forehead because I'm suddenly hit in the face by reality. None of this is genuine, so it doesn't matter if they hate each other's guts. Something must be wrong with me. Why do I even care? She's practically a stranger, and she's leaving in a few days. I shouldn't give a hoot if they get along or not. Actually, you know what? I don't. At least, that's what I repeat to myself as my knuckles rap on the door.

Hazel

My heart thrums harder and harder in its cage as Olivier knocks on the door. It'll be fine, I tell myself. People who decorate their house for fall with wreaths and garlands can't be monsters, right?

The door flies open, and a plump woman with a beaming smile opens the door. She exudes mixed vibes of Molly Weasley from Harry Potter and Mrs. Patmore from Downton Abbey .

" Enfin, vous voilà! " she greets, opening her arms wide to take her son into a hug. When they break the embrace, she places a kiss on each of his cheeks.

" Bon anniversaire, Maman ," he says. " Je te présente, Hazel, ma petite amie. Hazel ne parle pas bien fran?ais. " He turns to me. "Hazel, this is Joelle, my mom."

I stick my hand out. "Happy—"

Joelle surprises me by pulling me into a tight hug, just like she did her son. And I get the kisses too. Yup, definitely your typical overbearing mother. Well, the kisses are honestly a bit much, but I go along with it .

"Hello, Hazel. Beautiful name. Enchantée. "

Her accent is thick. Definitely the typical French accent I encountered during my trip, but with a roundness to it.

" Enchantée ," I echo back with a dip of my head. "And Happy Birthday."

She claps her hands together, her gaze raking my body. "Thank you. Please, come inside."

We follow her into the house, and it's as cute on the inside as it was on the outside. The whole neighborhood has this quaint village atmosphere, between the colorful trees, the cobblestone streets, and the cute houses with pumpkin-lined windowsills.

We hang our coats in the hallway before stepping into a large living room and dining area where a hardwood table has been set up for lunch. The fall theme is still going strong in here, and the festive atmosphere instantly makes me feel at home. My mom was always big on decorating too, but Christmas was her favorite holiday. Taking in the spread, I spot a few carved pumpkin decorations, various potpourris on the consoles, and a table runner with a patchwork of leaves. In the middle of the dining table stands a giant flower arrangement made of deep burgundy and burnt-orange dahlias, sprigs of goldenrod, and clusters of miniature pumpkins.

Behind the table, a floor-to-ceiling window opens to an outdoor deck, and I hear the shouts and giggles of children playing from afar.

"Philippe," Joelle yells, and a grunt carries from the upper level.

"J'arrive," a gruff voice responds .

"My ‘usband is coming," Joelle says with a warm smile.

" Où sont Agathe et Matt ?" Olivier asks, looking around. "My brother," he explains to me. I don't get it at first, but then his mom speaks a few words, pointing to the backyard, and I understand he's looking for his brother.

"Let's go say hi," he says.

I let him guide me outside, my hand still firmly wrapped in his. A wave of electricity zipped through me when we first touched, but now that I've gotten used to it, his firm grip is a welcome comfort.

" Ah, Olive est là, " a tall, lanky guy calls out, walking toward us. " Salut, mec ," he says to his brother, and they greet each other with a brotherly handshake. Olivier's brother looks like a younger version of him.

" Voici Hazel, " Olivier says, taking a step back to stand next to me. "Hazel, this is my brother, Matthieu, but you can call him Matt."

" Bonjour ," I say with a timid smile.

"'Ello," he says before venturing a step toward me, placing two kisses on my cheeks. I remain rigid, having trouble grasping the need for this family to assault strangers with their mouths. Don't they usually reserve this greeting for the people they're close with? Then, the image of Olivier assaulting me with his own mouth flashes through my brain. Suddenly, it doesn't feel like an invasion of privacy anymore. I shake the intrusive thoughts away.

" Ah, salut ," a blonde woman wearing a dark-green jumpsuit says, rounding the corner from the side of the house with a bunch of toys in her hands. " On est arrivé il y a vingt minutes et elles ont déjà fait le bazar ," she says with an exasperated voice, shaking her head.

Olivier turns to me. "She said they've been here twenty minutes, and the girls have already made a mess."

"Ah." Yeah, that makes sense.

Olivier kisses her on both cheeks and—yup— it doesn't feel that weird after all. " Salut, Agathe. C'est Hazel, ma petite amie. "

"Oh!" she says, stepping around Olivier to greet me. And yes, she kisses me too. " Salut, comment ?a va? "

" Elle ne parle pas fran?ais ," Matt says to his wife. " Elle est américaine."

"Sorry," Agathe says. "Nice to meet you. Welcome to France."

"Thank you," I say, feeling a bit more at ease now that someone else speaks the same language as me.

" Les filles, " Matt says, turning around to catch sight of the two girls scrambling across the yard with their dolls clutched tightly. They are beyond cute with their matching orange dresses and pigtails. " Oncle Olive est arrivé. "

They stop what they're doing, their heads snapping to where we stand. They come running straight into their uncle's arms, their dark-blonde pigtails bouncing.

I don't understand a word their little voices are saying, partly because weird things are happening to my body as I watch the way Olivier spins them in the air and talks to them.

" Les filles, " Olivier says, squatting down to their level. " Dites bonjour à Hazel ."

Olivier stands up, and his sparkling eyes meet mine. "Hazel, my nieces, Camille and Juliette. "

" Bonjour, " I say with a timid wave. French children are even more intimidating than French adults. They can't understand yet why I'm this weird person who doesn't speak their language.

" Hazel est américaine, " he says. "Do you know any words in English?"

He casts a quick glance at Agathe, who nods.

"Hello?" Juliette peeps, cocking her head to the side.

" Très bien ," Olivier says, high-fiving her.

" Je le savais aussi ," the other girl says, clearly feeling rejected.

" C'est bien ," Olivier says, high-fiving her the same way. "She said she knew that as well."

I nod. I still suck at speaking, but I'm getting better at understanding, at least.

"And ‘thank you'," Camille adds.

"There you go," Olivier says, standing up. "I told you my nieces knew more words than my brother."

Agathe and I chuckle, and Matt peers at his brother, eyes squinting. " Tu parles de moi, n'est-ce pas?"

"Pas du tout . I'm not talking about you at all," he says, winking at me. "Ah, Dad." His eyes lift to something above my head. I turn around to see a tall man with a square jaw and an imposing frame. He looks like a mix between Olivier and Matthieu, but he doesn't have that gleam of mischief in his eyes.

Olivier introduces us, and I try to smile. I take back what I said about the girls being the most intimidating of the bunch. Philippe definitely beats his granddaughters in that department. The way he looks at me—while not mean or anything—exudes confidence, seriousness, and respect.

They all start chatting in French. I try to follow, but they're talking way too fast, and I quickly lose the thread.

When the girls go scurrying to the side of the house, Agathe and Matt follow them. I take the small respite to turn to Olivier. "Can I ask you something?"

He nods. "Of course."

"What's with all the kissing?" My cheeks warm as the question leaves my lips.

"Oh." He chuckles, revealing his sexy dimple. "I forgot how French that is. It's called faire la bise. That's just how we greet each other in a casual setting. When we're in a professional environment, we shake hands like everyone else. Sorry, I should have told them to—"

"No, no." I place a hand on his shoulder. "It's perfectly fine. I'm the one who needs to adapt, that's all. It took me by surprise, I guess. I thought it was only for close friends and family."

He scratches the back of his head. "My bad. I should have warned you. And no, we basically greet everyone like that."

"Oh, wow. Okay."

"Good thing that here in Paris, it's only two kisses," he says with a grin. "In some regions, they do three or four."

That's a lot of kisses, though if it were with Olivier, the number wouldn't seem that high after all.

The door to the back porch opens, and Joelle's face appears through it. "C'est prêt ," she says. " A table. "

The girls come running from the corner of the house, screaming their lungs out.

Olivier turns to me. "She said—"

"Oh, I know what that one means. We're eating now."

A large grin splashes across his face as he motions me into the house ahead of him.