Page 110 of Host for the Holidays
I have no response for that because, even though Madame Fortin and I had that little moment of connection in the kitchen last night, I was under no impression that she was over the moon about my presence at her special dinner—to say nothing of my presence in her son’s life.
But maybe I did better than I thought I had.
Somewhere nearby, a violin starts playing. Gosh, I love Paris. It’s as close as real life gets to a musical, with street performers starting up songs worthy of a life soundtrack all over the place.
“Madi?”
I whirl around to the sound of the new voice, expecting Ashleigh Jo and her boyfriend.
It is not Ashleigh Jo and her boyfriend.
It’s the man in the suit whose back I used as a test subject walking toward me. That suit is a tux, and that man is Josh.
“Josh.” My voice comes out like a croak.
He smiles big, and I’m mentally shaking my fist at both Paris and fate who have teamed up to make it so that Josh would have a business function—or maybe it’s a date with Brianne—right here at the same time that I have a photography session. It’s unreal.
“Merry Christmas,” he says.
“Merry Christmas to you, too.” I glance at Rémy, who’s taken a step back. I turn back to Josh. “Um, it’s good to see you. I’m actually here for a photoshoot, and it’s supposed to start right now, so I should probably go look for my clients.”
His smile widens. “Your photoshoot is right here.” He looks over his shoulder and makes a jerking motion with his head. The violinist starts moving toward us, his bow sliding over the strings as he walks, chin to violin.
Josh puts his hands out and smiles widely. “I’m Ashleigh Jo.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I have never been this confused in my life, and the confusion emoji is one of my top five most used, so that’s saying something.
“Ashleigh Jo Wrutton,” he repeats like it should mean something to me. “It’s an anagram for my name. Joshua Elton Wright.”
My mouth plops closed, and I blink a thousand times. “Like Tom Marvolo Riddle andI am Lord Voldemort?” Harry Potter is the strongest mental association I have with anagrams, and I am mystified that Josh would follow Voldemort’s lead.
He looks a bit miffed. “I mean, no. Not like that. I wanted to surprise you, but I thought I might leave you a little clue. For fun.”
I have no words. I’m trying to process the fact that I’m evidentlynothere to take beautiful pictures of Ashleigh Jo and her fiancé in front of the Eiffel Tower on Christmas Day. I willnotbe pocketing a few hundred dollars tonight to help me pay for a flight change. But what I don’t understand yet iswhat in the heckishappening?
“I have a lot to say, Mads,” Josh says, the violin accompanying him from a few feet behind. “I’m reallyreallysorry for what happened at lunch last week. I royally screwed things up, and you had every right to be angry with me. I’ve been spending my time since trying to figure out how to make up for it. I’ve shown the company your portfolio, though, and”—he takes in a breath and spreads his mouth wide in that charming smile—“they want to hire you on. As an in-house photographer for the brand.”
People are starting to look, and a few are indulging their inner Curious George enough that they’ve stopped to watch. I don’t know if they’re here for the violin music or . . . oh gosh. Do they think that—
“But that’s not all,” Josh continues, taking a step closer and reaching for my hand.
More people stop, and even though there’s an abundance of space at the Trocadéro, I start to feel claustrophobic. I’m frozen, my brain completely disconnected from my body as I process what’s happening.
“We’ve been through a lot together, Mads. Two years worth of stuff.Two years. I’ve spent the last week since I saw you thinking about it, and guess what? Two years isn’t enough. I want more—and I’m not gonna give up on things. When I look at our future together, you know what I see?” He twists and gestures to the scene lying before us—the Trocadéro, the Eiffel Tower, Paris. “I see a vision as beautiful as this one. And I want to give all of it to you—Iwillgive it all to you, Madi.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two small, rectangular papers. “These are Eiffel Tower tickets. I have reservations for the restaurant at the top at 5:30.”
The audience we’ve acquired breaks into littleahhhs.
“But before that . . .” Josh reaches into his pocket again (how many pockets does this man have?) and pulls out a sleek, black velvet box.
This moment is perhaps the strangest of my life, and it’s happening in slow motion. Slow, painful motion. Everything he’s saying is what I would have given anything to hear a few weeks ago. But right now? It’s like reading an old journal entry—familiar but distant.
I look at Josh, at the way he’s waiting for me to react somehow. This is what he does. He sells a product, a vision, and right now he’s selling himself. All he can point to to get me on board is the future. He came in with the big guns, too: a job, a romantic evening with the entirety of Paris in view, promises of a better future than the past, and that ring I waited so long for.
He couldn’t even propose to me without telling me what he had planned for us afterward—dinner at the top of the tower—like that should factor into my answer.
But as I look at the Eiffel Tower, and as my gaze takes in a city shifting from afternoon to twilight, all I see is Rémy.
Rémy took me out for groceries my first night in Paris. Rémy took me to my first museum. Rémy took me to the top of the Eiffel Tower and held my hand the whole time. Rémy showed me how to get around on the metro—again, holding my hand the whole time.
