Page 16 of Host for the Holidays
Sometimes, I just wish I didn’t have to defend him quite so often.
Josh looks to Rémy. “Hey, man, I want Madi to have an amazing time in Paris, so if you’re ever free and want to take her around, that’d be awesome. It’d give me some peace of mind, and I’m happy to pay you—anything to make sure she has a good time.”
Rémy glances at me, but I’m too embarrassed to mold my face into any recognizable expression, so I look away. Josh is actually asking Rémy to take me around like some kind of travel babysitter. My cheeks could heat all of Paris right now, which is saying something because it’s below freezing.
I’ve got to give Rémy an out. “That’s not neces—”
“Sure,” Rémy says over me. “I’ve got some time in my schedule.”
“Thanks, man,” Josh says, pulling a card out of his phone wallet.
Rémy holds up a hand. “No need to pay me. I’m happy to help.”
I don’t know if he’s just being nice or trying to help me save face, but I can’t bring myself to look at him to try to figure it out.
I see Josh to the door, and as I shut the door behind him, I can’t help but wonder if my coming to Paris like this was a massive mistake. Nothing is going according to my plan, and I don’t like that thought at all, because I am counting on those plans for my future—both romantically and professionally.
“Do you want me to show you how to work the washing machine?” Rémy asks from the kitchen.
I take in a breath and turn. “That’s okay. I have nothing to change into right now. There isn’t a clothing store nearby that opens at, say, the crack of dawn, is there?”
He laughs. “No. Crack of dawn opening times are not a French value.”
I pull a disappointed face. “You guys probably don’t stampede over each other once a year for sales on Instant Pots and giant TVs, either, do you?” I click my tongue. “Such a shame.”
I like the smile he gives me for poking fun at my country. I love where I’m from, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see some of the ridiculous things we do.
“I’ve got some extra clothes you could wear while you wash those,” he says, indicating what I’m wearing.
“Really?” I sound like a woman treading water in the middle of the ocean who’s just been offered a lifebuoy.
He smiles at my reaction. “Yes, really.” He leaves the kitchen and disappears into his room.
Maybe I should have hesitated more about wearing a stranger’s clothes, but at this point, I amthatdesperate. If there was a fire nearby, I’d consider burning the ones I’m wearing. Am I being dramatic? Yes. Am I being serious? Also yes.
Rémy comes over and hands me a pile of folded sweats.
“Thank yousomuch,” I say.
“It’s no problem at all.”
I glance at the washer, wondering how long it’ll be until a cycle finishes and whether I’m willing to stay awake until then to hang the clothes up to dry. “Maybe you can teach me how to use the washer in the morning?”
“Sure. I have to leave around eight-thirty for work, so anytime before that.”
“Oh, I’ll definitely be up by then.” I never sleep past seven.
He raises a brow. “You’ve never had jet lag before, have you?”
“No, but I’msupertired.”
The way he smiles at me tells me he has serious doubts on the matter. “Netflix is here for you if the jet lag hits unexpectedly. And don’t worry about waking me up if you come down. I’m a deep sleeper.”
* * *
I donotsleepthrough the night. I’m wide awake at 2 a.m., and it takes me an entire minute to remember where I am. I toss and turn, determined to vanquish jet lag if it’s the last thing I do. But after an hour, I raise my white flag and head downstairs, hoping a documentary will lull me back to sleep.
Using my phone as a flashlight, I head over to the couch. There’s a teacup and saucer sitting on the coffee table. Next to it is a torn piece of paper and a tea bag.
