Page 72 of Host for the Holidays
Rémy and I agreed while texting last night that he would decide on today’s itinerary, and I feel like a kid who’s been promised Disneyland. I’m not sure how much of it is the prospect of seeing more of Paris and how much has to do with the time with Rémy. The combination of those two things is something else.
We spend the morning finishing up the decorating process, most of which needs to happen in my room. It’s a small space, which makes for a lot of bumping and touching and apologetic glances that end in smiles that make my breath hitch. We switch out the duvet cover and pillowcase, hang new curtains on the window, and change out the old, red velvet curtains for the black and white ones we chose.
I don’t remember the last time I did something so satisfying. Once everything is in place and the bed has a couple throw pillows, the room actually lookscute. Better even than I had imagined it would.
“What do you think?” Rémy asks as we survey the tiny room, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Did we manage to make itaesthetically pleasing?”
“Heck yes, we did. Tourists will eat this up. André should absolutely putmaid’s quartersin the room description. If we can find some lurid history associated with the families who lived here, that would be the cherry on top.”
Rémy chuckles. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”
* * *
Rémyand I go our separate ways, taking turns in the shower and bathroom. I have no idea where he’s taking us, which is very abnormal; I’m a planner. In the beginning, Josh planned our dates, and they were pretty amazing. But over time, things shifted, and I learned that, if I wanted to do anything more exciting than Netflix-and-chilling together, it was up to me to make it happen. Suffice it to say, it’s been a while since I faced a whole day ahead where I have no idea what I’ll be eating or seeing.
As I’m pulling my hair half-up, my phone buzzes.
Josh:Hey, Madi. Can we talk today? I’m free anytime, and I’m happy to meet you anywhere.
Wow. Siena’s prediction ability is uncanny.
I take in a deep breath and finish fixing my hair, reminding myself I don’t owe Josh anything. I’m already busy today. All day. And I’m looking forward to it way too much to change my plans for him. I’ve already decided what I want with us—ordon’twant—so there’s no point anyway.
Madi:I don’t think that’s necessary. I just need space, Josh. I hope you can understand that.
Josh:Yeah, of course.
I let out a breath. It feels good to set a boundary like that.
I come down from my room with my camera bag over my shoulder just as Rémy emerges from his room.
“Nice timing,” he says.
It’s fine, Madi. He’s just a normal human boy. There’s no need to ogle him.It’s harder than it sounds. He’s wearing a double-breasted shawl-neck sweater that hugs his shoulders and chest. Who knew I could be jealous of clothing?
By now, I’ve realized that Rémy looks magazine-worthy no matter what he wears or how his hair is styled. But since I’m being super breezy, I will take a Doctor Seuss vow not to admire him right now. Or ever.
I would not, could not in a sweater.
I will not, shall not in cold weather.
I’ve been running under the assumption that we’ll be walking or maybe taking the metro wherever we’re going, but once we’re out of the building, Rémy leads us to a set of bike racks.
He watches me as I look them over. “Don’t worry. Just follow me, and I promise to keep you safe. Ring the bell if you want me to stop, whether it’s for a site you want to see or because you don’t feel comfortable on the bike.”
I take in a deep breath and nod, my chest buzzing with excitement and nerves. But Rémy’s given me every reason to trust him, so I’m going to do just that. Plus, yesterday was a great lesson in how much there is to gain living life right up against those fears of mine.
It’s warm enough today that there’s no ice on the ground and sunny enough to heat my back as we cruise through the chill December air. At first, I’m a bundle of nerves, but once it becomes clear that the cars are aware of us and that Rémy is going at a leisurely pace, I begin to relax more and more. We follow the main road until we take a left behind the Hôtel de Ville and a right once we pass it.
And then, it’s bliss. There’s a trail along the Seine, which means we don’t have to worry about cars at all. All I have to do is avoid clipping the pedestrians. Rémy uses his bell liberally, though, alerting them of our approach. My mouth is stretched in a huge smile, and it’s only partially voluntary, since the air rushing into my face has dried my teeth so that my lips refuse to close over them. I embrace it, knowing my cheeks will likely be as sore tomorrow as my thighs are today.
Rémy takes us past the Obelisk and up the Champs-Elysées, both of which are decked out for the holidays. We saw the line of bright red and white lights from the Eiffel Tower last night. In the light of day, it’s almost as spectacular. We take a slow pace uphill, distracting ourselves from the complaints of our thighs with the shop windows, full of lavish Christmas displays.
We drop off our bikes on one of the streets that intersects with the Champs-Elysées, leaving a quarter of a mile of the street to do on foot. At the top stands the massive Arc de Triomphe in all its glory.
“What do you say?” Rémy asks as we lock the bikes up alongside the two dozen others. “Are you ready for a snack?”
“Psht. Am I ready?” I say dismissively. “Americansinventedsnacking.”
