20. Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Hazel
Playing beanbag toss with Juliette and Camille brought me back to when Ivy and I were young. Mom used to take us to the school fair, and we’d begged her to let us stay just five more minutes. Somehow, we always ended up going home at closing time. Those were some of my favorite memories with her.
The twins both give me a big hug, and I pat their hair, chuckling.
“They like you,” Agathe says with a warm smile.
“They’re adorable.” We stand side by side as we watch the girls skip over to their grandma. “But I don’t know why they like me. I can’t line up more than three words in French.” I sigh, shaking my head. “I’m such a failure.”
“Ah, don’t beat yourself up. French is hard to learn, but I’m sure you’ll pick up on it quickly.” She nods to a nearby stall. “Want a drink?”
I nod and follow her. “Yeah. I think I’ll get better, eventually.”
“How are things going with Olivier? You guys look good together.”
A blush warms my cheeks at her comment. I try to hide it as we order some coffee drinks.
“Merci ,” I say to the woman handing me my pumpkin-spice latte. With drinks in hand, we start walking. I was hoping Agathe would have forgotten about her question, but she’s looking at me expectantly.
“It’s going great.” I try to plaster on a look of confidence, though my heart is prickling in my chest. “We’re having fun. I’ve never laughed so much with someone.” Which is absolutely true. A smile forms on my lips as I think about our pun-packed cooking sessions .
“Olivier was always the funny one, so it’s good to have him back. He wasn’t the same after what happened with his ex. He became more closed off and lost his sense of humor. I’m glad to see that sparkle of mischief back in his eye.”
I know what she means. That sparkle is one of the things I love about him. It’s hard to picture him without it.
“Oh, really?” I ask absently, sipping my pumpkin-spice latte “He never talks about her.” I didn’t want to pry, but the jealousy building in my core decided otherwise.
“Well, it was bad, very bad. But it’s not my story to tell. Maybe he’ll tell you one day,” she says with a smile. Even though I really want to know, I’m glad he has people in his life protecting him instead of talking about him behind his back. “Matt always teases him, saying that he’ll be single forever, but Olivier never seemed bothered by it. And I thought he didn’t care. But now, I can see very clearly what was missing. Before you came along, he’d been looking so . . . What’s the word?” she says, looking up. “Extinguished, maybe? And now he’s glowing again. Night and day. ”
My blush intensifies. Could I really be the reason behind Olivier’s mood change? Sure, we’re having fun, but we’re not even dating for real. Besides, I only met him ten days ago. “Thanks,” I peep.
“Anyway, I’ll stop now, or you might run,” she says with a laugh. “I’m sure you already feel overwhelmed by Joelle. But I just wanted to say thank you, really. For bringing him back. And again, thank you for today. You didn’t have to lend a hand. It’s very gracious of you.”
“Of course,” I say, clutching my drink tighter as I try to wrap my head around everything she just said. “I was happy to help.”
“Merci encore, ” a guy says, shaking Olivier’s hand as we’re packing up. “C’était délicieux.”
“Merci à vous,” Olivier says, beaming.
People have been stopping at our stall practically every minute to tell Olivier how good the food was and to thank him. Clearly, the menu was a hit. A feeling of pure joy washes over me. Not because I participated, but for Olivier’s sake. He needed a reminder of how good his cooking is. He might have chosen the dishes to be family-friendly, appealing to kids as well as adults, but they were in no way less demonstrative of his gastronomic talents.
He deserves all the praise he’s gotten today—and more. He’s a wonderful man, generous, creative, kind. If only he was looking for a relationship, things might be different. I had almost made up my mind to call Jeff and accept the promotion, see where this could go between Olivier and me. I figured that maybe after his job situation got sorted, he might start dating again. But then, he kissed me. Another spectacular kiss that validated everything I was feeling, that reinforced my theory that we have a vibe, a connection. Until I saw his mom from the corner of my eye. Of course that was why he kissed me. There was no vibe. My hormonal brain had made that up entirely.
Chasing the thoughts out of my head, I follow him to the car to put away the last of the boxes before sliding into the passenger seat.
“Did you have a good day?” he asks, backing out of the parking space.
“I did. I’m so glad I had the chance to take part.”
Turning to me, he smiles, showcasing that darned dimple again. “I’m sorry if my mom was overbearing, as usual,” he jokes while adjusting the rearview mirror.
“Actually, she didn’t say anything,” I say, shaking my head.
“Phew.” He laughs softly. “I feel like I should apologize every time she talks to you, though. Just in case. I love her, but she can be a lot sometimes.”
“Don’t worry. I know how it is. My mom was just like yours, only the American version.”
“Really?” he asks with an encouraging smile.
“Yup. The first time she fixed me up was in kindergarten. She started early,” I say, unable to suppress a giggle. “And she never stopped. As annoying as it was sometimes, I know it came from a place of love, and it’s the same with your mom. It’s just their way of making sure we’re happy.”
“And that they get grandbabies,” he adds with a smirk. “I’m sure of it. And it worked with Matt. Believe it or not, Agathe was actually Mom’s physiotherapist.”
“Oh . . . I see. So, things might work out after all,” I tease. “You should give it a try. Your mom might just have matchmaking super-powers. ”
He stops at a red light, then glances at me with a grimace. “Yeah, I’m not so sure about that.”
I laugh, and we lock eyes for a minute. I can’t seem to tear my gaze from his. There’s a magnetic pull in the deep chocolate shade of his irises.
“You have the most unusual eyes, you know that?” he murmurs, and I shift in my seat.
A horn blares behind us, and I jerk my head to face the light. Who knows how long it’s been green?
He presses on the gas again, and I look out the window.
Watching a couple stroll down the sidewalk hand in hand, I venture, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
He glances toward me, then back to the road. “Sure. I’m always asking about you. It’s only fair.”
“What happened with your ex?” I peer at him to gauge his reaction. He’s still looking straight ahead, hands on the wheel. “I was talking with Agathe and—”
“Oh, I see.” He casts me a quick glance. “ La curiosité est un villain défaut ,” he says, and I want to throw myself at him. That usually happens when he says more than three words in a row in French. Sue me.
“What does that mean? ”
“It’s a saying. I don’t know if it exists in English. ‘Curiosity is a bad trait’?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, yes. Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Really? Wow. You guys are a lot more intense than us,” he says with a dramatic whistle.
“We’re Americans. The kings of drama,” I joke. “Why do you think we invented Hollywood?”
“True,” he says with a soft chuckle.
A short silence falls between us, and I hate it. I shouldn’t have pried. It’s none of my business.
“You don’t have to—”
“Agathe has a big mouth, but I know she means well.” He shakes his head. “My ex used me,” he mumbles, gripping the wheel harder. “She was an up-and-coming food influencer when I met her, and she followed me around for some content.”
“Oh.”
“I fell for her, and we started dating. Except I was the only one committed in the relationship. She had another boyfriend, and she was just dating me to get her business going. She lied to me, to my family, and she did it without any remorse. She even encouraged me to open my own restaurant, offered to be a partner and everything. Then, she just disappeared.”
Curiosity might very well kill the cat. Or maybe it’s just me. A lump is now lodged in my throat, blocking my trachea. I don’t think oxygen is even reaching my brain anymore. My mind is blank, my face is warm, and I think I’m going to faint.
“You okay?” he asks. Then, his hand settles on mine over the central console.
“Yeah,” I say, jerking my hand back like I’ve just been bitten. “I’m just sorry that happened to you.”
He pauses for a beat, then places his hand back on the wheel. “Me too.”
With each passing mile, I try to calm down my breathing, counting the trees dressed in their fall foliage as we whiz past.
Reality just caught up with me, and it hit me hard in the face. Even if I’m starting to feel something for Olivier, and even if he could eventually develop feelings for me too—that’s a huge if —he would never get over the fact that I lied to him. Not when it hits so close to home.
When I step out of the bathroom after my morning shower, I nearly bump into Olivier in the hallway.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry. Just ran out to the bakery to get some bread. Thought we could do a processed food breakfast again.” He winks, showing off the long baguette in his hand.
My breath catches in my lungs. I don’t know if it’s the way his navy striped sweater hugs his muscles perfectly, or because of the baguette he’s carrying, but Olivier’s swoon level just demolished all previous records. The baguette. That has to be it. And that sweater. Stupid clichés.
“Is that okay? Did you want to eat something else? ‘Cause I can—”
“No, no,” I say with a smile. “I just got hit in the face with a cliché for a second, and I lost my words.”
He laughs hard, twirling the stiff bread. “What? The baguette?”
“Yep,” I say, biting my lip. “You’re only missing the beret, and then the look will be complete. ”
He peers down at his chest. “Oh, right. Well, as I said, we don’t really wear berets.”
I heave an exaggerated sigh. “I know.”
“Well, are you hungry?”
“Yes!” I say louder than intended. “I mean, you know me.” I go for a more casual tone, but I’m not sure it’s working.
After he makes a pot of coffee, we spread Nutella on our slices of bread before dipping them into the hot beverage. My new favorite thing.
“Mmm,” I say. “It’s so simple. But berry good.”
I keep my head down but raise my eyes to peek at him. He’s halfway through his bite. Swallowing, he wipes his mouth with his napkin. And just when I think my pun fell flat, and he didn’t get it, he says, “I know. I like it a latte .”
We both explode with laughter like a pair of teenagers. Or should I say, a pear ?
Catching my breath, I hear the buzz of a notification on my phone and check it out.
French strike finally over after an agreement was reached this . . . The rest of the text doesn’t fit in the email previewer .
“The strike is over?” I mumble, more to myself than Olivier, but he snaps his head toward me.
“What? Already?”
“Apparently.” I click on the notification to read the full article, my heart stuttering with every word. Apparently, the strikers and the government have found a suitable compromise, and life will start to return to normal from today onward. I guess this is it, then. My heart twists painfully at the thought of leaving Paris. Leaving Olivier. But it’s for the best. I’m falling for him, and if I stay, I’ll only end up getting hurt. Again. Plus, I couldn’t bear seeing the disappointment in his eyes if he found out who I am. It’s not too messy—yet. The situation is still salvageable. Once I get back to the US, I’ll forget him eventually and move on. I think . . . Probably.
“I’ll look online to see if I can find a flight,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Yeah. I’m happy for you. You’re finally going home.”
“Right.” Our eyes meet, and I suddenly want to throw my phone away and jump into his arms. I wish I could tell him everything, declare my love for him and beg him to forgive me .
“I wanted to ask you something,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “But it might be bad timing.”
I swallow hard. “Shoot.”
“My boss asked me to go to a champagne tasting at a chateau near Epernay. It’s about two hours away, in the Champagne region. I was wondering if you might want to go. But now you’re getting ready to go home, so . . .”
“I’d love to. I mean, you know me. I’m not the type of girl to refuse a champagne tasting in a chateau ,” I joke, though it’s true. I’m really not. Though I’m not sure there is a type of girl who would refuse that.
His eyes sparkle. “Oh, yeah? Okay. Great. It’s only for two days, so we’ll leave tomorrow afternoon and come back the next day.”
“Perfect. In that case, I’ll see if I can find a flight after that. One last French adventure before I go back.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Yes. So egg-citing .”
“Thank you very matcha ,” I say with a goofy smile, “for asking me to go with you.”
“Of course.” He winks. “Any- thyme .”