Page 42 of Host for the Holidays
“I figure I’ll put my hair up after lunch into a quick French twist”—she pulls her hair back with both hands to give a sense for the idea—“because we’re in France, of course.” She drops the hair, and I swallow down my feelings. “In the evening, I’ll put on this”—she pulls out a red lipstick and pulls off the cap to show me—“to glam things up a bit.” She looks at me nervously. “What do you think?”
It takes me a second to talk. “I think,” I say slowly, “that Josh will be lucky if he can manage to think straight enough to get out a proposal.”
Madi’s cheeks go a little pink, and she looks away. “Thanks, Rémy.” She slips her lipstick back into the purse and fumbles a bit with the clasp. “I’m useless. I’m just so nervous.” She puts up a hand, and sure enough, it’s shaking.
I walk over and take the purse in hand, working on the clasp. “It’s a big day. It’s normal to be nervous.” I do the clasp and look up at her with a smile. I’m just going to be happy for Madi. Clearly, she’s been waiting for this day for a long time. I’m just hoping Josh knows what he’s doing. And what he’s got.
She shrugs a shoulder. “No biggie. Just my entire future in the balance.”
Our gazes meet, and I’d kill to know what she’s thinking because I could swear she’s not thinking of Josh right now. And as for me? I’m thinking what her future would look like if I had any say in the matter. I’m imagining kissing her and turning those pink lips red without any help from the lipstick she showed me.
Beep!
The doorbell startles us both.
I turn away, feeling jumpy—and guilty for the direction of my thoughts. “That must be the delivery.”
“Oh, good!” she says, her voice a little higher than usual. “I can still help you for a little while, then. And if you want to wait, we can do the rest tomorrow—or after I get home tonight.”
I walk over to the door with a wry smile on my face. “I don’t think you’re going to be thinking about decorating an apartment tonight.”
NINETEEN
MADI
The voicethat responds to Rémy belongs to a woman. I was not expecting that. I mean, props to IKEA for hiring strong women for their deliveries. I don’t think we bought anythingtooheavy, but there was a ton of small stuff in our cart. And that laundry drying rack is something else, I tell ya. It could swallow a person whole.
Rémy responds to the woman with even more surprise than I feel. I stare at him for a second because it’s impossible not to feel mesmerized by the sound of him speaking French, especially given how he could pass for being born and raised in America most of the time.
Meanwhile, I can barely remember words in my native language, and my skill in French is limited to telling people I like a sport I haven’t played since I was seven.
Rémy glances at me, making me wish I knew what in the world he said to the delivery driver, then presses the button to let her into the door from the street.
“Did IKEA send Luisa fromEncantoto deliver our stuff?” I ask.
Rémy’s got his hands on his hips. He’s not wearing his work attire—Saturday, remember? Apparently Weekend Rémy’s outfit of choice is a t-shirt and athletic pants. The t-shirt sleeves stretch slightly around his biceps, and he hasn’t shaved yet, drawing my attention to the way his facial hair follows the line of his upper lip and shadows his jaw—as if it needed any contouring. It’s for the best that the girls in his classes don’t see him like this.
I volunteer as tribute. I’ve already got a boyfriend, which acts like a shield against his attraction. In theory. Even shields have their bad days, right? Mine is busy powering up to move from girl-with-a-boyfriend status to girl-with-a-fiancé status. It’s a thing. I’m banking on that.
“It’s not IKEA.” He rubs the back of his neck with a hand, his brow furrowed slightly.
“Oh. That girl didn’t have a low enough voice to be Luisa anyway. Who was it?” None of my business, but clearly that doesn’t weigh with me. Rémy just buzzed a girl into the building, and my curiosity is bursting at the seams.
“It’s Élise.”
Élise. I thought my own name sounded good when he said it, but Élise has the advantage there. By the way Rémy’s acting, I’m getting some major there’s-some-history-here vibes.
“She’s a . . . friend.”
Whoa. Definite history. Most assuredly not just a friend. Why is my stomach feeling so weird?
“She’s André’s cousin,” he adds, like it’s sufficient explanation for her showing up unexpectedly—based on his reaction—on a Saturday morning.
“Oh, cool,” I say just as there’s a knock on the door. That was fast. Apparently Élise is not afraid of the elevator in the building. That, or she just sprinted up a million stairs.
Rémy looks at me for another second like he wants to say something, but instead, he turns and opens the door.
The little mat in the entryway may as well be a red carpet. When Élise takes a step inside, everything moves in slow motion. She’s wearing a boatneck Breton striped shirt and high-waisted light jeans around a tiny waist. Her dark brown hair is down in a style I can only describe as careless perfection.
