Page 4 of Host for the Holidays
I’m haunted by the view of myself in the taxi rearview mirror, though, so a shower must come first. Once I’m clean and have an hour or so of rest, I will be ready to take on Paris and leave all the travel drama behind.
THREE
MADI
Nothing is easy here.Figuring out how to turn on the shower was like Unlocking the Door 2.0, but there were no dungeon keys, just dials, buttons, and a mysterious, dangling pull string. Whose idea was it to put an electric device in the same cage—an accurate description of this tiny shower—as a steady stream of water?
At least I’m free of the airplane and travel grime, even if the host only provided men’s body wash and shampoo. In my rush to shower, I didn’t realize until I was sopping wet that I forgot my toiletries in my carry-on. Having no conditioner means my hair will be a giant knot to comb through.
Bracing myself for electrocution, I press the button to turn off the water and reach past the shower curtain for a towel.
A loud grating noise makes me pause. That sounds way too close to be coming from anywhere but the apartment. It happens again, and I realize what it is. After how long I spent trying the key in the lock, I’d know the sound anywhere.
Sure enough, the squeak of the front door reaches me easily in the bathroom. I freeze with my hand on the towel, my heartrate kicking up toTaken-appropriate levels.
Footsteps approach. I might faint any second.
I tug the towel from the rack—if I’m going to be murdered, I’ll at least be halfway decent when I do it—and wrap it under my armpits. My hands are almost useless, they’re shaking so badly, but I manage to secure the towel in place.
There’s an imperative knock on the bathroom door, followed by a question in a foreign language.
Oh gosh! It’s a man. I reach out of the curtain, fumbling for my phone sitting on the small porcelain sink basin. The man in my life closest to a Liam Neeson figure is Siena’s dad, and I’m praying he’s awake. My wet butterfingers can’t grasp the phone, though, and it clatters to the floor, tumbling toward the door.
The man repeats his question, louder and more urgent this time. Ugh. How is it possible to take three years of a language and not be able to recognize whether that’s what’s being spoken?! Why it matters which language he’s speaking, I couldn’t tell you.
I look around and grab the only weapon within arm’s reach: a shampoo bottle. I pull the shower curtain closed just as the door opens, and I do the only thing a person can possibly do in this scenario: scream.
The unintelligible speaking begins again, and I’m pretty sure it’s French. If I die today, someone please inform Madame Wilson of my small linguistic victory.
For a second, I’m torn between the need to stay in my fortress, which is a .00005-inch-thick shower curtain, and to face my assailant. I’ll have to either squirt the shampoo in his eyes or throw the bottle at his head, and for either scenario, I’ll need to see what I’m doing.
The second option seems best. Somehow I don’t imagine a bit of eye stinging will deter this guy. Anyone who can unlock the apartment door that quickly is a foe to be reckoned with.
I cock my arm back and rip open the shower curtain, hurtling the shampoo bottle toward the door.
The man’s got lightning-quick reflexes, and he ducks, avoiding my assault like a black-ops ninja. Whatever that is. The important thing is this isnothis first rodeo, not that the bottle would have hit him anyway. I’m a photographer, people, not Jason Bourne.
He straightens again, hands up, looking at me like I’m a lunatic.Me, the lunatic! Can you believe this guy?! Also, at the risk of betraying how sheltered my life has been, I was not aware that cold-blooded killers were so young and attractive. The man has an impressive jaw covered in the perfect length of 5 o’clock shadow. Or 2:45 shadow, I guess, based on when I last checked my phone. Maybe that’s the perfect length?
“Stay away,” I say, holding the shower curtain up to me in case my towel decides to abandon me. I reach behind me for the body wash, keeping my eyes on the man. Geez. He’sreallyyoung—like mid-twenties. How did he get caught up in this life?
He’s got his hand up to protect his face, but he’s averting his gaze rather than looking at me. For some reason, it almost seems like he’s doing it to give me privacy, but more likely, he’s trying to shield his eyes in case I execute Plan B and squirt them with shower gel.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says.
Either my French abilities are way better than I gave myself or Madame Wilson credit for, or the man is speaking English. Safe to say it’s the latter option. But I mustn’t be lulled into a false sense of security.
“Here,” he says. “I’ll close the door so you can change.” True to his word, he shuts it.
Unexpected move for a man trying to kill me? A bit, yes. I’m beginning to second guess myself, but I keep hold of the body wash bottle just in case.
Changing into something more secure than this small bath towel—seriously, it barely covers the essential areas—is tempting, but the idea of him charging back in while I’m mid-change keeps me in place.
“There should be a key in the cabinet,” he says from behind the door, as though he can read my thoughts.
I step out of the shower, keeping an eye on the door as I open the cabinet. Sure enough, there’s a key there. I insert it into the keyhole, praying that these doors lock more easily than they unlock.
I let out a large sigh when clicks tells me I’ve succeeded.
