Page 13 of Host for the Holidays
Apparently I’ll have a better view of him tonight when he comes over. I’m more curious than I should be what kind of guy gets a girl like Madison Allred.
SEVEN
MADI
Despite having thoughtRémy was a psychopathic, soulless human trying to attack me when we first met, it turns out he’s an incredibly decent guy. He’s been nothing but nice to me so far.Especially in comparison with luggage lady, taxi jerk, and key guy. And I didn’t even throw shampoo at their heads.
I pull out our grocery store haul from the bag, setting stuff down on the itty bit of counter space not taken up by the sink, dish rack, and stove. I hold up the baguette and wheel of cheese Rémy grabbed at the end of our visit to Monoprix. I assume they were his not-so-subtle way of showing me what bread and cheese French people deem appropriate.
“Where do you want these?” I ask.
“I bought them for you,” he says, sticking the orange juice in the small fridge.
I glance over at him, unsure what to make of his response. But he’s busy putting away groceries. “My Americanness offends you deeply, doesn’t it?” I open the wheel-shaped cheese package with genuine curiosity.
In his hand, he’s holding the flat pack of sandwich cheese I chose. I have no idea what kind it is, but it’s orange, which makes me trust it. I intended to make a grilled cheese sandwich with it, and only now do I realize I forgot to buy butter.
Rémy holds the package over the garbage can for a second.
My mouth opens, and I stare, waiting for him to drop it, daring him to do it.
He meets my eyes briefly with a twinkle of mischief in his own before putting it in the fridge. “No, it doesn’t offend me. But just so you know, cheese should not be this color.”
My nose wrinkles, and I touch a finger to the white wheel of Camembert in front of me. “According to you, it should be furry and soft and smelly? Like a pet.” I stroke it lovingly.
He chuckles, giving me a full view of his smile. Rémy is a very attractive man. He’s got dark hair that’s cut short on the sides and longer on the top. It’s styled so that it waves back from his forehead, the comb marks still just visible. I’m wondering how Josh will feel about Rémy when he comes over in a while. Though, Josh isn’t really the jealous type. He’s a very confident man, which is what attracted me to him initially. It’s also what makes him very good at his job.
Rémy starts boiling some water in the kettle, and I’m glad he’s distracted because I’m genuinely concerned about trying this cheese. I don’t want to offend him if I can’t control my facial expression when I do. Better to get it over with while he’s focused on something else. If I eat the cheese and the bread simultaneously, maybe the bread will mask the taste of the furball.
I take a deep breath and grab the cheese in one hand and the baguette in the other, opening my mouth.
Rémy shouts something in French, rushing over and grabbing one of my wrists.
I stare at him, wondering if the cheese reallyisa living animal and he’s worried I’m about to kill it. That’s the only thing I can think of to justify the look on his face like he just stopped Armageddon.
We stare at each other for a second.
“Were you really about to bite into a wheel of Camembert?” he asks.
I show a smile full of clenched teeth, but I’m still holding the cheese and baguette—caught red-handed. “I plead the Fifth?”
He gives me a funny look. He has no clue what I’m talking about. My American humor is so wasted right now.
“The Fifth Amendment,” I explain. “It means I can’t be forced to testify against myself.” I glance at his hand holding my wrist, and my heart skips a little, especially because he’s close enough I can smell his cologne. Men as attractive as Rémy should be legally barred from using anything that smells good. The government should give them bottles with scents likeMen’s Locker RoomorDairy Farm—or Camembert. “We also havehabeas corpus, which means you can’t detain me without taking me before a judge to plead my case.”
He lets go of my wrist, his mouth curling up at one edge as he steps back and rolls up his sleeves. “We have that too. But when it comes to how people treat cheese, all bets are off.” He turns around and grabs two knives and a cutting board. “Allow me to show you how toproperlyeat a baguette and Camembert.” He sets the baguette on the cutting board and starts slicing through it. The muscles in his forearms distract me momentarily. Is cutting a baguette an exercise I should be implementing in my workout routine? All signs point toyes.
With a separate knife, he cuts into the cheese like it’s a pie, then expertly spreads some on the piece of baguette. It’s much creamier than I had anticipated given its fuzzy exterior.
He hands the piece of baguette to me. “Bon appétit,Stars and Stripes.”
I’m trying to act cool, like it’s no biggie at all, but inside I’m wondering, given its rough start, whether this roommate relationship can withstand me throwing up all over Rémy’s freshly cut baguette and sacred cheese.
But there’s no avoiding it. I hold up the bread like it’s a glass of champagne and take a hearty bite. I chew for a few seconds, trying to understand the things happening in my mouth. The texture of the bread is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It’s soft and dense, while the crust has just enough crunch for contrast.
The first thing I feel is anger that I’ve been deprived of this my entire life. Who dared give me anything else and call it bread? How have American bread companies not been sued for false advertising? What we have there is a distant cousin at best; it’s closer to cotton.
And the cheese . . . it might smell like a zoo, but it melts on my tongue, and even though I’m not sure how to feel about the taste yet, I think it’s something I could get used to. Though, to be fair, I’d eatanythingif it was served on this baguette.
