Page 28 of Host for the Holidays
“What did he want to do exactly?”
“I’m not totally sure.” Rémy swings around in his chair to survey the place. The blazer stretches tight across his shoulders. I’m not looking because I have any interest in or respect for those shoulders; this is purely out of concern for the seams of the nice blazer.
“I know he planned to have updated pictures taken once he had put his mark on the place—the ones up now are from the past owner. He was also going to buy new duvets and towels, which I’ll do after work today.” He turns back toward me. “I could ask him everything he intended to do, but I don’t want to bother him right now. He’s spending all of his time at the hospital. I kind of want to surprise him and just get it all done, you know?”
I nod, looking at him—really looking at him. He’s about to embark on Christmas break, and he’s going to spend it fixing up someone else’s Airbnb and taking around a pathetic tourist. “André’s lucky to have you, Rémy. So am I.”
His gaze locks on me, and my pulse kicks into gear.
I hurry to stand, then reach for his plate. “Lemme get that for you.”
He hesitates, but I smile and take the plate anyway.
“Do you need help fixing up the apartment?” I ask as I start rinsing his dish and utensils. “I could take the pictures, if you want. Or help you pick out duvets. Not that I don’t trust your design sense.” I glance at his clothes again. He’s got a style that’s very put together without trying too hard. I can only imagine that he would have an equally capable interior design style.
He comes up next to me, grabs the dish towel, and puts a hand out for me to pass him the dish I just washed. A piece of that perfectly styled hair drops into his face, and I’m cursing Siena for putting my thoughts about Rémy onto the wrong track.
“You don’t want to spend your time in Paris doing that kind of stuff, Madi.”
I can’t help but love how he says my name. It showcases his super subtle French accent. It’s like he pronounces both syllables with equal emphasis.
I lift my shoulders. “Why not? Creating the city guide will get me out to see Paris, and doing this Airbnb stuff will give me a different experience of the city. Seems like a pretty great option to me. But also, you should feel free to tell me to just back off if I’m butting my head into—”
“You’re not,” he says. “I’d love your help.Ifyou really don’t mind.”
“Then it’s a deal. But maybe I should see those listing pictures first so I know what I need to top.”
He frowns and dries his hands on the dish towel. What is it about that gesture that’s so attractive? Probably the domesticness of it, especially on the heels of drying the dishes. My mom has always said there’s nothing more romantic than a man crushing the 50s housewife stereotype.
“You haven’t seen them?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Josh booked it.”
His eyes linger on me for a second. “Right. I can show you. I’ve got a few more minutes.”
I’m curious to see what these pictures look like for them to have convinced Josh this would be the best option for my time in Paris. He knows I’m afraid of heights, so I’m wondering if maybe the picture of the bed was taken from an angle that didn’t show the wholeLadder 49aspect. And maybe the photographer was skilled enough at editing that he or she made the red curtains look luxurious instead of vaguely creepy.
“Thanks,” I say as he pulls his laptop out of his briefcase. “It’s possible I’m not as good a photographer as whoever took the listing shots on there now, so I probably should wait to volunteer myself.”
Rémy laughs as he sits down and opens his laptop. Not just a chuckle. He is genuinely laughing, and maybe it’s because I wasn’t expecting that response, but it does something weird to my pulse.
“What?” I say, taking a seat beside him.
He shakes his head, but he’s doing a terrible job trying to mask his smile. “You’ll see.”
He pulls up the listing and clicks on the first picture. Slowly, he scrolls through the photos. It doesn’t take long—there are only a few.
He looks over at me when he’s finished, but I’m busy staring at the laptop screen because WHAT WAS THAT?
I reach over and scroll through the photos again. And then I shudder. I can’t help it. Seeing those dim, blurry photos is the photography equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. My eyes feel violated.
But I have to scroll through again because I forgot to take note of the bed picture. I pause on it. It’s taken from below and, blurry as it is, it definitely shows the ladder.
I close the laptop lid. I can’t even look at it anymore.
Rémy looks over at me. “Still not sure you’re the more capable photographer?”
I can’t even smile at that. “I can’t believe he rented it after seeingthose. No offense.” Maybe it was the only thing available. Plus, I could have asked to see the listing if I had really wanted to be sure it was a good fit. I imagine Josh thought he was doing me a favor. He’s always trying to persuade me to face my fears, but still . . . he could have prepared me at least.
