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Hazel breaks a smile, hopping up to perch on the countertop. “I’m not really a rule-breaker,” she admits.
“Not even back in your clove cigarette days?” I find eggs, and cheese, and a massive block of butter, so pull down the ingredients and set them beside the stove.
“You remember that?” Hazel sounds surprised.
I shoot her a look. “A chance airport encounter with a beautiful stranger? It’s not the kind of thing you forget.Minnie,” I add, and she laughs, burying her face in her hands.
“Please do forget it. The part where my underwear got strewn all around the departures lounge, anyway.”
“I’ve been wondering when they’ll make an appearance,” I tease her, finding a bowl and starting to crack eggs to whisk. “So far, it’s been nothing but skimpy silk and lace, no cartoon characters in sight.”
“Sorry to be such a disappointment.”
I look over, in time to catch Hazel’s playful smirk. I huff a laugh. As if getting her naked could even exist in the same sentence as ‘disappointment’. She’s pretty much ruined me for all other women.
I pause, struck by that sudden, unwelcome thought. Date another woman, after knowing someone like Hazel exists?
Impossible.
“So what are we making?” Hazel’s voice breaks through my zone-out. I look up. “And by ‘we’, I obviously mean, you do all the hard work, while I sit here and watch,” she adds with a smirk.
I smile. “Sounds about right to me. And I’m making an omelette.”
“Fancy,” she teases.
“They are the way I make them.” I finish whisking the eggs, and set about melting butter in a pan. “The trick is, using the right pan. And plenty of fresh herbs,” I add, spying a row of pots on the window ledge. I snip off a generous handful, just as the butter starts to foam.
“How did you learn to cook like that?” Hazel asks, breaking off a corner of the cheese to nibble on.
“From my ex,” I reply lightly. “She lived in France for a while, swore it was the only way to make them. And she was right.”
Hazel falls silent as I add the eggs to the pan, jiggling it softly once they start to set. I grate in some cheese, flip it over, and then slide it onto a plate with a flourish. “Voilà,” I say, sprinkling the finely chopped herbs on top. “Mademoiselle.”
Hazel takes a forkful. “It’s delicious,” she says, a little surprised.
“I know.” I grab a fork too, and dig in. “Say what you want about the woman – and I’ve said plenty,” I add, wry. “But she knew how to cook.”
I take another bite. “Can I ask something?” I say, watching Hazel.
“It depends. Is it a request for me to parade around in my Disney underwear?” she asks with a smirk, and I sound a playful groan.
“See, now you’ve put that imagine in my mind, it’s going to be hard to think about anything else.”
“You’re a man with strange taste, Josh Carlyle.” Hazel grins, looking downright adorable in her sweatpants and hoodie.
I fight the urge to peel them off her, right here on the kitchen floor.
Focus.
“It’s about Lottie,” I say, dragging my thoughts back to civilized things. “Her father wasn’t an option to pick her up from camp?”
Hazel shakes her head. “Her father’s dead,” she says matter-of-factly. “Wrapped his car around a streetlamp, driving drunk before she was even born.”
I stop. “I’m so sorry.”
Hazel gives a shrug. “It was tragic when he died, but I didn’t really know him – and he definitely didn’t want a kid,” she comments, making a face. “So I figured, it wasn’t much of a loss, at least, not to us. But now that Lottie’s older, I wonder sometimes.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “He might have been a good father to her, if he’d had the chance to grow up, and get it together.”
“Or, he could have stayed an asshole,” I point out, and Hazel bursts out in surprised laughter.
