Page 11 of Host for the Holidays
I glance over at Madi. She’s pulled out her phone. Probably texting her boyfriend. I’m not about to tell André I let her off the hook—not when he’s stressed about money already. What kind of sucker pays hundreds of euros to save a stranger some tears—and one with a boyfriend, no less?
Me. I do that. But what’s a few hundred euros when André’s going through all of this?Besides, based on how he talked about things, he seems more concerned with the reviews than with making money on the first bookings. It’s an investment.
Me:Yep! It’s all taken care of. Working on that 5-star review. *wink face* Give your mom my love, and don’t worry about things here. I’ve got you covered.
André:Thanks, Rémy. I owe you bigtime.
Madi is still on her phone, a little smile on her face that makes me wish it wouldn’t be certifiably insane to peek at her phone screen. The same stomach growling from a couple of minutes ago cuts through the silence. Her fingers still, and her gaze flicks up to me.
With a sheepish grin, she turns off her phone. “Is there a grocery store nearby? I better feed this thing before your neighbors call and complain about the noise.”
“Yeah, there’s a Monoprix on Rue Saint-Antoine. It’s just a five- or six-minute walk. Just take a left at the bottom of the street, then a right on Sévigné, then . . .” There’s that look again. It’s like when I said Monoprix, her eyes started to glaze over and she mentally checked out. “You know what? I’ve got a few things to get at the store, too. How about I just come with you?”
SIX
RÉMY
Madi is shiveringas we walk to the store. It’s getting dark out, and we can see our breath as we walk down the street at a brisk pace. She’s not dressed for December, but she declined my coat when I offered it. The only other option I have is to put my arm around her, and while there’s admittedly some appeal in that, there’s also potential for me to end up with a red hand mark across my cheek, so I keep my hands in my pockets.
“So how do you speak such good English?” she asks. Since turning down my coat, it’s like she’s trying to keep her teeth from chattering so that she doesn’t seem too obviously cold. Technically, it’s working, but it seems like repressing it is having the effect of sending the rest of her body into violent trembling.
“I grew up speaking it. My dad is American.”
She turns her head to look at me, her eyebrows sky-high. “Well,that’sunexpected.”
“Why?” I start turning at the street corner, and since she’s not anticipating it, we bump into each other.
“Oops, sorry,” she says. “I just don’t get the vibe that you’re terribly fond of us Yanks.”
I don’t answer right away. I hadn’t realized I was giving off that vibe, and it bothers me a bit to hear that I am. I’ve always hated how much my mom complains about Americans. I guess she’s rubbed off on me more than I thought if Madi thinks I don’t like them after knowing me all of two hours.
“Not just you,” she clarifies. “Siena warned me that French people love to hate Americans.”
I chuckle. “Whoever Siena is, she’s right.”
“She’s my best friend. So your dad is American. What about your mom?”
“French. Through and through.”
“Oooh,” she says. “That’s gotta be interesting.”
“A little too interesting,” I say. “They’re divorced.” It still feels weird saying that, even though it’s been years—ten, to be precise.
Madi is horrified. Her shivering disappears, and she stops walking. “I am so sorry, Rémy! No wonder you guys hate us. Always sticking our feet in our mouths.”
“No,” I say, eager to put her back at ease. “You’re right. The cultural difference was . . . a lot.”
Her mouth twists to the side, like she wants to say something more but she’s keeping it in.
I turn to keep up our progress.
“So what do you teach?” she asks, skipping to keep up. I look over at her, and she smiles. “I saw your red pen. Dead giveaway.”
I love that she thinks she’s a supersleuth. There’s something ridiculously endearing about her now that she’s stopped chucking toiletries at me. “I teach what you guys call high school English.”
She stops again, staring at me. At this rate, we’ll make it to Monoprix by bedtime.
“Youteach high school English?” she says.
