Page 44 of Host for the Holidays
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, pressing a kiss to my lips and pulling me toward him with a hand on my waist.
It’s a weird moment, this kiss. I’m just feeling so nervous and jittery that I can’t really enjoy it, despite the fact that Josh and I haven’t done much in the way of physical affection since getting to Paris.
We make our way to the metro station, holding gloved hands. Josh is checking his phone a lot, so I ask him how work has been going. He can talk about work forever, and I find it oddly calming to my nerves to focus on something other than the big things that might happen today. It seems to calm him, too, since he leaves his phone alone while he recounts all the usual drama from his trainings.
There’s a violist in the metro, playing “O, Holy Night” as Josh buys us tickets. I try to keep my cool as we head for the turnstiles. It’s a lot less crowded than it was with Rémy last night, but there are still enough people to put me on edge.
I can’t remember if the tickets have to go in a specific way, so I look at mine, trying to see if there’s any indicator arrow. I don’t wanna stick it in the machine only for it to pop right back out.
“Come on, babe,” Josh says behind me. He turns and smiles apologetically at the girl waiting. “Sorry,” he says to her.
He’s just being considerate of her, I know—that’s a good thing, right?—but it still bothers me as I slip the ticket into the machine and push through the turnstile.
We make our way to the platform and barely slip through the doors of the waiting train. While it moves from station to station, I flip through the portfolio in my camera bag, planning what I’ll say to Dan Vincent about each photo. I chose each one carefully, knowing they’re what he’ll be judging me on—what will decide him on whether to give me the job or not. I’ve taken so many pictures over the course of my life; it’s strange to think my future could be determined by just a few. Not only that, most of these pictures don’t even represent my personal favorites from my work. Those would all be candid portraits, where all but two of these are product shots.
Thankfully, the restaurant Josh chose is just a couple minutes’ walk from the station we get off at. It’s a nice place, which makes me feel more nervous than ever. If I can’t get it together, I’m going to leave sweatmarks on my portfolio folder. Can’t imagine that’s going to score me any points. No one wants a photographer they worry will drop her camera mid-shoot because of sweaty fingers.
I look around the restaurant, for what, I’m not sure. I have no idea what this guy looks like. But there isn’t anyone sitting alone, so Dan must not be here yet.
I feel my camera bag vibrate and take out my phone while Josh is trying to communicate with the maître d’. He’s speaking English to the man but interspersing it with whatever French words he happens to know, all of which are said with a distinctly American accent. The result is slightly embarrassing and, based on the expression of the maître d’, also mildly offensive.
Rémy:Bonne chance, Madi.
I smile. For some reason, knowing Rémy thought to text me good luck while he’s busy decorating the apartment with Élise makes me feel like a million bucks.
Madi:Merci, mon ami.How’s the decorating going?
Rémy:Slowly. But it’s coming together.
Slowly . . . do I want to know why it’s going slowly?
The maître d’ leads us to a table, so I put my phone away after noting the time: 12:40. The appointment we had with Dan was for 12:30. Maybe running late is company culture. If so, Josh is nailing it.
He immediately starts looking at the menu.
“Should we wait for Dan?” I ask.
“He’ll probably be late, so we can start without him.”
He alreadyislate.“Okay.”
Josh orders for both of us. I’m pretty easy to please, so it’s fine. Plus, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than choosing between lunch options. And yet, I can’t bring myself to talk about those bigger things. Instead, I keep asking Josh about work stuff. Apparently, it’s my nervous tick.
It’s not distracting Josh as much this time, though. His leg is bouncing up and down as he waits for our salads, and he keeps sliding his phone out of his pocket just enough to turn on the screen, like he’s checking the time.
Both of us are on edge, and I’m not sure if for Josh, it’s because he doesn’t think this lunch is going to go well or because he’s nervous about . . . later. Is he hiding an engagement ring somewhere? If so, it’s definitely not in a ring box, because there’s nowhere he could conceal it in the clothes he’s wearing.
Finally, our waiter brings the salad, sliding the small bowls in front of us and leaving without a word.
Josh watches the guy walk off and scoffs a little. “Great customer service.”
I stifle a smile, remembering Rémy saying the French aren’t known for that.
I glance at the door as it opens and a man walks in. “Is that him?”
Josh follows my gaze, then turns back to me, frowning. “No. He’ll come, okay? Let’s just enjoy our food.”
Geez. He reallyison edge. Maybe he’s nervous about proposing later. Should he be? And should that nervousness make him short with me? Seems a bit off, but what do I know? I’ve never been proposed to before.
