Page 66 of Host for the Holidays
“Hey,” I say, stopping at the intersection, “do you want to grab something to eat?”
“Oh my gosh, yes!” The words come out in a desperate jumble that has me raising a brow. “You’re asking because you’ve been listening to my stomach growl for the past half hour, aren’t you?”
“No, but ours must be communicating because mine is growling too. Why didn’t you say something before?”
“Siena told me that French women survive on red wine and cigarette smoke, so I guess I was just trying to channel my inner French woman.”
“Do you smoke?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t drink, either. But I’ve inhaled enough secondhand smoke since being here, I thought I’d probably be okay.”
I chuckle. “You shouldn’t believe all the stereotypes you hear about us, and youdefinitelyshouldn’t try to imitate them.” I pause, making a quick decision. “Come on, I know just where to go.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
RÉMY
I leadus over the bridge and into the thriving area of Les Halles. It’s a Saturday night, which means it’s full of locals, tourists, street performers, music—the whole bit. Madi follows me with wandering eyes until I come to a stop. It takes her a second to realize that I’ve stopped because we’ve reached our destination.
She looks around, her brow furrowed. But there’s only one restaurant nearby.
“Finger Lickin’ Chicken?” she says incredulously.
I smile.
She elbows me in a way that I, personally, would classify as flirtatious and very not about-to-be-engaged-to-another-man. But I may be biased.
“After lecturing me about not believing all the stereotypes I hear, you bring me to eat atFinger Lickin’ Chicken? I’m offended. And not just because it’s a stereotype. Because it’s a completelyfalsestereotype.”
“Whereas French women surviving on cigarette smoke and wine is not?”
“You’re missing the point again. A lot of French womendodrink red wine and smoke cigarettes. Americans donoteat at FLC. At least you could have taken me to McDonald’s.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “You’re telling me Americans don’t eat FLC?”
“Not under anything but dire circumstances, Rémy. FLC is the food of last-minute family gatherings at public parks andshoot-everthing’s-closed-but-I’m-starvingscenarios. FLC is American, yes, but it’s rock bottom American. To be quite honest, I’m surprised that the country best known in the world for its culinary prowess would even authorize its presence here.”
“There are a bunch of them in Paris, actually.”
She presses her eyes shut and puts her hands to her temples like I’m hurting her brain. “No wonder you have such a low opinion of us.”
I keep quiet, enjoying this too much.
“Why are you smiling like that? This is serious.”
“I didn’t bring you here because you’re American, Madi. I brought you because Finger Lickin’ Chicken is my favorite restaurant.”
She stares at me, blinks once, then stares more. “Wow. Wow wow wow. Your love for us goes so much deeper than I suspected. You’re serious right now?”
I nod. “I mean, I’m not particularly proud of it, which is why I’ve only ever come here alone. If my mom found out I ate here once a week, she might not recover.”
Madi’s eyes balloon. “Once a week?!”
“I have it at the end of the week as a kind of reward. For what it’s worth, I hear it’s better here than it is in the U.S.”
“Well, that’s not saying much, is it, Rémy?”
I shrug and look around. “We can go somewhere else if you’d ra—.”
