Page 87 of Host for the Holidays
She gives me the evil eye as she scoots closer. “You know, one day I’m going to speak fluent French, and you won’t be able to pull moves like that.” Our bodies touch, and her eyes widen a bit.
“What?”
“Who are you? Jacob Black?” She puts a hand to my arm, which is covered by my sweatshirt, then moves it to my hand, like she needs to check my skin temperature. After a day of avoiding contact with her, the touch trips up my heart.
“How are you possiblythatwarm, Rémy?”
“I mayseemwarm, but I don’tfeelwarm. Who’s Jacob Black?”
She shuts her eyes, as though pleading with the heavens to grant her serenity. “That’s it.” She reaches for the remote on the coffee table. “We are drinking our hot chocolate while we watch Twilight. And if you want to know who Jacob Black is, we have to watch the firstandsecond movies, so get comfortable.”
I protest, but Madi will hear none of it, and since I’m only doing it because I feel like it’s my duty as a man to pretend I’m not interested in watching, my protests are half-hearted. I’m preoccupied with how close we are, despite the rules we set in place this morning. The way my body is feeling, I won’t be needing this blanket for long, and yet, I can feel Madi’s body tremble every ten or fifteen seconds, so I grit my teeth.
Her phone vibrates next to her, and she extracts an arm to pick it up. Her brow furrows then rises. “I got another request for a session! Through my website!”
How does it surprise her that people want her to take photos of them? I put up my hand and give her an all-American high-five. “When is it for?”
Her eyes scan her phone screen. “Oof. Christmas Day.” She reads on. “Sounds like it’s an important anniversary for”—she glances at the end of the email—“Ashleigh Jo Wrutton and her boyfriend.”
“Are you going to do it?”
She considers it for a minute. “I don’t see why not. I need the money, and it’s not like I won’t be enjoying myself.” She taps to respond to the email, and I keep quiet. I hadn’t really considered what Christmas will be like for Madi here, but I’m pretty sure there’s a hard line right next to “inviting a girl to spend Christmas with you and your mom.”
When Madi spills hot chocolate during the opening credits, she goes quiet for a few seconds, sighs, then starts pressing a napkin to the wet spot on our laps. “On the new blanket.”
“That’s why we went with black. It’ll come out in the wash.”
“Still. Today is not our day.”
“No. But I had a really good time.”
She looks at me for a second, her smile softening and her eyes searching mine. “Same here.”
Warning bells are going off in my brain. What I’m feeling right now is too close to what I felt last night, and this time, there’s no jolting elevator to stop me. “Who knew being miserable could be so much fun?” It’s my weak attempt at shifting the trajectory we’re on, and I can see by the change in Madi’s eyes that she understands that.
She gives me a smile and picks up the remote again. “The perfect segue forTwilight.”
Her shivering seems to calm as she drinks the hot chocolate. It warms me up, too, but it’s only temporary. The air in the room isn’t much warmer than the air outside, and it’s not long before I feel her tremble again.
“Want more hot cocoa?”
She groans. “My body says yes—you make a fine hot chocolate, by the way—but my stomach says absolutely not. Is there a way to give it to me intravenously?”
“I think the prevailing medical wisdom says not to inject boiling liquid into human veins. And the last thing we need is to add a hospital to the day we’ve had.”
She straightens suddenly, her hand grabbing mine. “Rémy, you’re a genius. The hospital. It’sjustwhat we need. They’d have heatingtherefor sure. You could take me there and pretend I fainted from that Paris Syndrome thing!”
I laugh because Madi is so ridiculous—and so ridiculously lovable. And also, her icy hand is still holding my hand. “So youdon’twant to watchTwilight. . . .”
The movie has been going during our conversation, which she had clearly forgotten about until I mentioned it. She releases my hand and settles back into place, fixing the blanket so that it’s pulled all the way up to her neck. She extracts one arm to handle the remote, rewinding a couple of minutes. “This plot moves lightning fast, so we better go back to make sure you can keep up. American young adult cinema is notoriously high-brow.” Her nose is pink from the cold, and was that her breath I just saw?
I can’t handle it anymore. “Come here.” I lift my arm, inviting her to snuggle up next to me.
She looks at the space I’m offering, and I can see the longing there like she’s wearing heat vision goggles and I’m glowing red and orange. Her gaze travels back up to me. “What about the lines?”
I take in a breath and let it out slowly. “We’re going to have to blur them a bit in the interest of fending off hypothermia. Besides, I don’t think the lines are doing as much for me as I hoped they would.”
She doesn’t answer for a second, like she’s considering what I just said. “I don’t want to make things more difficult for you.”
