Page 5 of Host for the Holidays
“I just want to talk,” he says from the other side. If it weren’t for the tiniest hint of a French accent, I might have thought he was American.
With a tug on the handle to ensure it really is locked, I pick up my clothes—worn, wrinkly clothes—and set them on the counter. “Why are you here, and what do you want from me?”
“I just want to know how you got into this apartment.” He sounds like he’s trying to talk down a crazy person.
“With the keys,” I say. Does he think I Spiderman’d up the façade and slipped through a window? It was hard enough getting in the normal way.
“Wait,” he says. “Are you Josh?”
My hand goes to my sopping wet hair, and I glance in the mirror. Do I look like a man? Do most French men wrap a towel under their armpits to cover their pecs after showering?
“No, Josh is my boyfriend.” Realization dawns on me. “Are you the host?”
“Yes,” he says. “But the booking was only for one person.”
“Yeah. Me. Madi.” I clasp my bra, then reach for my shirt. “Josh isn’t staying here. He just made the booking for me.” I don’t understand why this guy cares so much. I looked in the bedroom, and there’s a bed big enough for two there.
I pull on my leggings and cringe. No one should ever have to put on yesterleggings. They’re like the clothing equivalent of soggy cereal—formless and droopy. But since my other clothes are partying it up in Morocco, I’m stuck with them.
“We weren’t expecting you, you know,” the host says. “Or anyone. The second part of the payment never went through. We’ve been trying to get a hold of . . . your boyfriend, but we haven’t had any luck, so we figured no one was coming. That’s why I was so surprised to hear someone in the bathroom when I got here.”
I pause with a droopy sock in my hand. “Oh my gosh. I’msosorry.” Here I thought this guy was the criminal, but it’s me. I have no right to be here.
“Go ahead and finish up,” he replies. “We’ll talk when you come out.” His footsteps fade away.
I’m basically dressed, but I look in the small, round mirror on the wall and comb through my long, brown hair with my fingers. Without my usual conditioner it’s like trying to comb through a crocheted blanket. I’ve looked better, that’s for sure, but now is not the time to worry about that. This guy wants his money (I’m sensing a trend here in Paris), and for all I know, he’s out there holding my suitcase hostage like the taxi driver did.
I pick up my phone from the floor—no notifications from Josh yet—and open the door, stepping out. The Airbnb host is sitting on the couch with an open folder on the coffee table in front of him. He’s looking over it with a pair of thick-rimmed glasses on and a red pen in hand. It’s a very non-murdery picture. If I’d seen this view of him, I probably wouldn’t have felt the desire to summon Mr. Neeson.
I head to the bedroom, glad the guy is occupied enough that I can manage to drag the comb through my hair before talking money. Maybe Josh will call by the time I brush through the tangles.
“That’s my room,” he calls over to me.
I stop in the doorway, hesitating for a second. Is that an informational comment? “Yeah,” I say with a laugh, cuzwhy is he making this weird?I turn to him and smile. “I promise I’ll give it back when I leave.”
He stands up, pulling off the glasses and setting them on the coffee table. “No. I mean, you aren’t sleeping in that room.”
Sheesh. This guy is a kill-joy. Is money all he cares about? I swipe to unlock my phone and pressJosh-wah’s name. “I’ll call Josh and have him try the payment again.”
“That’s not—”
“Hold on,” I say as it starts ringing. I turn away, and he stops talking. If it’s as loud at Josh’s hotel as it was earlier, I’ll need all my focus to hear.
But it goes to voicemail. I clench my eyes shut. Why can’t Josh just answer his phone every once in a while? I try him three more times, sending my host reassuring smiles over my shoulder. They get less convincing with every unanswered ring.
So I shoot Josh a text in case he’s still in the meeting and can’t take calls, and then I watch for those three dots to tell me he’s responding.
Nope. Nothing.
“Why don’t we try my credit card?” I’m not particularly hopeful, since my hundred-euro payment didn’t go through less than an hour ago, but I need to dosomething.
“Sure,” the guy says, pulling out his phone.
I open the Airbnb app and navigate to the payment section, inputting my credit card details. My eyes bulge at the sum listed: over three hundred euros. And that’s only part of the total. You’d think for that much, you’d get some conditioner and a couple of throw pillows.
“Is there a problem?”
“No,” I hurry to say. After chucking a shampoo bottle at this guy’s head, I’m thinking he won’t need much motivation to send me packing. I press the submit button. “There.” Josh will pay me back. In fact, we’ll be sharing finances soon enough. I’m just praying the engagement doesn’t last as long as the dating phase has.
