Page 71 of Host for the Holidays
I have no idea what time it is. It could be 3 a.m., or it could be 7 a.m., but based on how I feel, I’m thinking it’s closer to the latter. I make my way down the ladder, wincing as the muscles in my legs protest, then use my hand as a charger detector since it’s too dark to see things clearly.
It takes a minute for my phone to turn on once it’s plugged in. 7:09. Not bad, Madi. A text rolls in. It’s Siena, but it was sent almost half an hour ago based on the time stamp.
Siena:This is your friendly BFF morning reminder to just. have. fun.
Siena:*Treat yo self GIF*
Siena:Don’t be weird. Don’t stress.
I’m not sure if she’s still awake, but given that it’s Saturday night, the possibility is pretty high.
Madi:*GIF of Monica Geller saying “I’m breezy!”*
Siena:Oh dear heavens.
Siena:I was just about to go to sleep, but I’m wide awake now, imagining all the terrible things you must be about to do.
I laugh and head downstairs, wondering if my legs will ever not hurt again. Rémy’s door is still closed—he probably likes to sleep in on Sundays like most of civilization. But some of us are feeling a little too antsy—I mean breezy—about the day ahead to sleep more. Rémy and I are planning to spend it together.
Not likethat. This is for the city guide. Strictly business. But also fun.
Fun business. But no funny business.
I go to the kitchen and start making breakfast, grabbing as many slices of bread as my hand can grasp from the pre-sliced bread I bought my first night here. Not because I’m making enough French toast for Rémy, because that might be weird. It’s just because I’m so breezy I can’t be bothered to count the eight slices. And I’m hungry.
I’ve only managed to make two slices—the stove is tiny, and so is the pan—when Rémy’s door opens. He’s got on black sweats and a shirt that’s still mussed, like his hair, from sleep. It’s a very good look on him. So good that I start to smell the toast burning.
I hurry and flip it over. It’s probably salvageable with enough syrup. Maybe.
“Did I wake you up with my clattering in here?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his hair as he shakes his head. “I was summoned by the smell.” He comes up next to me and looks in the pan.
“It’s an American classic,” I say, glancing up at him to see what he thinks.
“An American classic calledFrenchtoast.”
“Ugh. Is there anything you don’t know about American culture? Also, for the record, Americans just call things French when they want to make them more appealing to people—French fries, French toast, French dressing, French kissi—” I stop. A breezy stop. Not a weird one.
Okay, so it’s really weird. Would have been much less weird if I had just said the whole word.
“French kissing?” Rémy supplies. “We’re flattered by the thought that something labeled French is instantly more appealing to you. But French toast reallyisFrench. We call itpain perdu.”
My brows draw together as I slip the piece that’s done cooking onto the plate with the other two slices. “Lost bread?” I’ve been practicing my French on DuoLingo for a few minutes every day, and I’ve been surprised how much is coming back to me.I’ve wronged you, Madame Wilson. You did real good.
Rémy nods and picks up the package of sliced bread, turning it in his hand to inspect it and gently squishing it. He looks at me with a smile. “‘Lost’ because we make it from old, stale bread.”
“Very environmentally conscious of you. But not feasible for me, since I would never evenconsiderletting bread go uneaten long enough to go stale. But now that I know that French toast reallyisFrench, this breakfast is even better. It’s France meets America. It’s basically you.”
Rémy reluctantly concedes during breakfast that the American version ofpain perduis a force to be reckoned with.
“Admit it,” I say. “You have an American palette. Finger Lickin’ Chicken, American French toast . . .”
“I thought you said no self-respecting American would eat FLC.”
I stab another piece of toast to put on my plate. “I guess that just means you’re part of the dregs of American society.”
“Based on how much chicken we atetogetherlast night, I’m confident that I’m in good company. Speaking of which, leave some room in your stomach. We’ll be eating quite a bit today.”
