Page 103 of Host for the Holidays
I chuckle softly and shake my head, leaning into his hand because it feels good to connect with him after feeling so disconnected from everything and everyone.
“Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”
I breathe out slowly. “I just feel a little one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-other-y, you know? And by a little, I mean majorly. That and the fact that everyone thinks it’s crazy for me to be here when we’ve known each other such a short time . . . it’s just a lot. I can’t blame anyone for thinking that. I mean, a week ago, I was in a relationship with Josh.”
He nods. “It’s moved quickly.”
“And I don’t even know whatitis,” I say. “I mean, my flight leaves in nine days.”
“I know,” he says, resting his forehead against mine. “Believe me, I know.”
I shut my eyes and swallow. “I came here tonight hoping to feel closer to you—getting to know your mom, seeing your home, participating in your traditions—but now I’m realizing how much of it feels out of reach. I don’t speak French, I’m not scoring any points with your mom, I’m pretty sure Élise has it out for me, and there’s just no time.”
He pulls back to look at me. “No, you don’t speak French fluently. And I don’t expect you to, Madi. I’m here to help if you want to learn. That’s all. As for my mom . . . she’s intimidating, I know. She’s had to be tough to make it through. It’s a façade she puts on until she knows people better, and I have no doubt at all she’ll love you if you justbe you.” He sighs. “And Élise . . . if she wants to get to you, she’ll have to go through me first.”
I laugh. “Um, pretty sure that’sexactlywhat she’s hoping for. She basically said if I stay away too long, she’ll steal you back.”
“Well, first of all, you can’t steal something back you never had.”
I cock a brow. “She told me last time she saw you, you kissed her.”
He tips his head from side to side. “That’s wording it differently than I would. We kissed, yes. I felt like I owed it to her or something. It was my attempt to resurrect feelings I’d had for her in the past. And it didn’t work. She knows it, too, because I told her I didn’t want anything with her. She’s just seeing if you’ll scare off easily.”
He looks at me intently, his gaze running all over my face. When he talks, his voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper. “Please don’t scare off, Madi.”
“Rémy?” His mom’s voice sounds somewhere down the hall.
He looks at me, and taking my face in his hands, he kisses me soft and slow, a seal to his plea, an assurance that nothing has changed for him. I’m powerless against his sweetness. If he is at the top of the peak I’ve been staring at all evening, his kiss makes me want to sprint up there.
But I’m not a sprinter—not even on flat surfaces—so I guess that means a long, trudging hike to the top. It feels well worth it for Rémy, and I return his kiss, hoping it tells him what I need him to know: we may only have nine days to decide what happens next, but I want to give it what I’ve got.
“Rémy?”
We break apart reluctantly as his mom knocks on the door, opening it slowly.
“Ça va?” she asks. For the first time this evening, I understand something someone’s saying—she wants to know if things are okay. Her gaze shifts between us.
“Ça va,” I reassure her. My French might be terrible, but I’m not going to worry about that. I want her to see me trying, however pathetic my efforts might be.
“Ready for the main course?” she asks.
I nod and stand up. Rémy follows suit, then leads the way out, while his mom lets us pass in front of her.
I slow as we near the dining area. “Can I help you bring things out, Madame Fortin?”
She hesitates for a second with a quick glance at Rémy. “Of course. Thank you.”
I follow her into the kitchen. Dirty dishes are stacked in and next to the sink. On the counter, there’s a pile of the plates we used for thefoie grasand oysters. In short, it looks like the kitchen of a woman who’s been working all day to feed a complicated meal to guests. It’s relatable. And, boy, have I needed some relatable tonight.
Madame Fortin moves around the kitchen with confidence, giving me a stack of plates to hold while she transfers meat to them from a covered casserole. Then we work side by side, adding a little garnish to the plates to make them look more finished.
She glances at my work and, to my pleasure, looks almost impressed. Not all of my ventures into product and food photography were wasted, then!
She adds a final sprig of parsley to the plate in front of her, then uses a nearby dish towel to dab at the beads of sweat on her brow. “Voilà. We can take them in now.”
I nod and take two dishes in hand, starting to walk toward the door. I pause halfway there, then turn. “Madame Fortin?”
She’s taking the other plates in hand, but she looks up at me, her brows raised. It’s a look that I could easily choose to be intimidated by, but I let Rémy’s words replay in my mind.She’s had to be tough to make it through.
