Page 3 of Host for the Holidays
Just generally, he does not look thrilled to see me.
“Bonjour,” I say with a courageous attempt at a smile. I don’t want to brag, but my accent is pretty good. Or so Madame Wilson told me.
The man is unimpressed. “I have been waiting for you for an hour,” he replies in heavily accented English.
“Oh,” I say. “I amsosorry! The airline lost my baggage, and it took—”
He holds up a ring of keys that look a lot like the massive, rusted ones I almost bought at Hobby Lobby for my entry table. “Through there. Top floor.” He points toward a set of French doors I must have passed in the dark archway. He holds up one key. “This is for the door from the street.” He holds up the next one. “This one is for the door to the building.” And one more. “This one is for the apartment.” He hands them to me, nods, then turns.
Mouth still open with apologies on the tip of my tongue, I watch as he walks away, leaving via the big doors I just came through. I’m starting to think Siena was playing a sick joke on me when she told me French men are flirtatious. So far, they just hate me.
By the time I manage to open the building door and take the stairs up to the top—that’s right, there’s no elevator, and I’m on the fifth floor—I’m breathing like I just completed a triathlon. But I’m not over the finish line yet. The three medieval keys in my hand weigh a metric ton (look how French I already am, using the metric system!), and I still have to remember which one goes to this particular door. I am woefully inexperienced at recognizing the subtle differences in ancient key design.
After five minutes of finagling, I’m ready to give up. Apparently, I will spend my nights on this apartment landing because I’m not smart enough for Parisian doors.
I give it another go, determined to take a shower and a nap before I see Josh. The struggle continues, though, and this nightmare door is like the wind that turned my Mary Poppins umbrella inside out so I can’t float anymore.
I might lose my mind. I just want to get inside, for the love of Pete.
Why does Paris hate me so much? I’ve been trying to stay upbeat, but it feels like the universe is telling me to get out of Dodge. I’m not someone to cuss, but plenty of four-letter words are pinging around my brain when my phone starts vibrating.
I scramble to take the phone from the side pocket of my backpack and hurry to answer. “Josh!”
“Hey, Mads.”
I let out a relieved sigh. The familiar sound of his voice is exactly what I need. Everything is going to be okay. I’m in Paris. With my boyfriend. Soon to be fiancé.
“Sorry I missed your call,” he says. There’s chatter in the background like he’s in a crowded place. “Everyone went to the hotel café after we arrived, and it was pretty loud, so I didn’t hear my phone ring.”
“No worries,” I say. “I can’t believe we’re both here!” Well, notherehere. But he knows what I mean.
“I know, right? So sorry about your luggage.”
“It’s okay.” I toss away his sympathy as if I have no need of clothes. I packed my carry-on full of my toiletries, shoes, and boots so I could stay under the checked luggage weight limit. In retrospect, perhaps that wasn’t the best idea.
I’m feeling rejuvenated by Josh’s voice, so I balance the phone between my ear and my shoulder, sticking the key back in the lock. “You won’t believe what a crazy day it’s been, though. The lady at the lost luggage place looked like she was trying to shoot me with eye lasers—”
“Mads,” he says, “I’m so sorry, but I’ve gotta run. It looks like we’re going to have a little impromptu meeting. But I’ll call you right after.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, trying not to betray that I’m deflating like a balloon. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Love you.”
The phone clicks, and, mercifully, so does the door. It squeaks loudly as it opens.
Victory! Who knew the hardest part of traveling to Paris would be unlocking my apartment? I’m assuming the hotel Josh is staying at doesn’t have this sort of key, but honestly, nothing is as I expected so far, so I’m going to go ahead and refrain from placing any bets. Especially because I’m a hundred euros poorer than I was a half-hour ago.
I pull my suitcase inside and shut the squeaky door, feeling accomplished. Triathletes ain’t got nothin’ on me. I look around, taking stock of my new digs, wondering if I should have hired MTVCribsto come film me.
But no. I definitely shouldn’t have, and not just because theCribscrewmembers are probably old enough to be retired by now.
Let’s just say, this place used all its wow factor on the curb appeal.
The apartment is . . . small. And bare. The courtyard gave meDownton Abbeyexpectations; reality looks more like my freshman dorm. There isn’t a single thing on the walls, which, honestly, could really use some pictures to cover up the places where the paint has peeled off. There’s a couch up against the window with a scraggly blanket thrown over it, a small coffee table, and a galley kitchen to my right. More like half of a galley kitchen. Or half of a half of a galley kitchen. Also, is that a washing machine in there?
I take in a breath. Okay, so the place isn’t winning any interior design awards, and Chip and Joanna Gaines would definitely not dub it an “open-concept floor plan,” but if this is what Josh chose, I’m sure it was the best option. I’d choose location over luxury anyway.
My phone tells me it’s almost 2 o’clock in the afternoon. I blink, realizing how heavy and weird my eyelids feel. I eye the blanket on the couch, which is trying to cast a sleep spell over me. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to run over, drape it over my body, and lie down.
