Page 80 of Host for the Holidays
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I do,in fact, manage to sleep at some point, but it’s not until I’ve edited Laura’s photos and sent them to her. When I wake up in the morning, the room is chillier than usual, and there’s a latticework of frost on my small window. I check my phone to find a teasing text from Siena and a bunch of Instagram notifications. Apparently, Laura already posted a few of the photos I sent her, which she tagged me in and added a bunch of hashtags to. That accounts for the sudden twenty new followers I have.
I smile.Thank you, Laura.
I’ve worn most of the clothes I brought, which means I need to do more laundry, so I take the little mesh bag full of my clothes downstairs. I really should wash my bra, but guess what? I only brought two, and the other one is still hanging outside Rémy’s window. I checked.
Sigh. Guess it’s time to be a big girl and bring it up.
Rémy isn’t in the living room or kitchen, so I glance at the bedroom door. It’s barely ajar, and my glance coincides with him pulling a t-shirt over his head, covering everything our kissing session hinted at last night. He looks straight ahead, at a mirror, I assume, and runs a hand through his hair.
Welp. That was one of the leastjust friendsimages I could possibly start my day with. I can hear Siena cackling right now.
I shake it off and head for the kitchen, where Rémy joins me after a few minutes. Every nerve in my body is on high alert because that’s what happens when you spend every single waking minute thinking about kissing someone.
But Rémy is better at this than I am. He just smiles and says good morning like it doesn’t dothingsto me just to be near him.
“I have a confession,” he says.
“What’s that?” I say it like my nerves aren’t fraying, and I can only do that because I’m focusing on stuffing my laundry into the washer.
“I did some research last night. Turns out the tricolor French flag cameafterthe American flag.”
My hands stop, and I look up at him, checking if he’s serious. He is, but he’s also got laughing eyes.
I cluck my tongue and stand up. “These examples of the French obsession with America are really piling up. It’s getting a bit pathetic.”
“We simplified it, though. Made it classy. Chic.”
I can’t really argue with that. But I will anyway. “You say classy. I say boring.” One of the legs of my pants is trying to escape the washer, so I push it back in and busy myself with the rest of the clothes so I don’t have to look at him for the next part. “Hey, so, um, I think my bra fell off my rack.”
I freeze.
Oh. My. Gosh. Most unfortunate word choice in history. I whirl my head around to look at Rémy as my cheeks start blistering from the raw heat they’re generating.
Rémy’s trying valiantly not to smile. UGH. Why does he have to know English well enough to know slang?
“I meant,” I say very carefully, “that I put it on the drying rack upstairs a few days ago, but it fell down ontoyourdrying rack.”
He can’t stop the smile anymore. “I knew what you meant. And yes, it’s there. I can go grab it.”
“I can do it!” I call as he turns. I don’t think it’s good for our newly reaffirmed friendship for me to see him holding my bra.
“Ihaveseen bras before, you know. I’ll help you open the window. It’s a bit tricky.”
“Of course it is,” I say bitterly.
Rémy opens the blinds and then the window, and I admire the way his muscles aid in this process. Good friends should always notice and encourage their friends’ strengths.
The gust of cold that comes in effectively puts an end to my “platonic” admiration, and I reach out and grab my bra. It’s a popsicle, and it takes self-control not to throw it onto Rémy’s bed to save my fingers from frostbite. There are literal icicles hanging in a few spots—some of them placed very unfortunately indeed—and based on the way Rémy’s covering his mouth but his eyes are crinkled at the sides, he’s noticed it too.
Looks like I’ll be wearing my current bra another day while this one goes through humiliation detox. I shove the bra into the washer and start the laundry cycle.
We talk over breakfast about the day’s plans, and I’m feeling a lot more relaxed now that the bra incident is behind me. Rémy isn’t an awkward type of guy. I kind of wish he was. Maybe that would make it easier not to see him the way I’m seeing him now.
I suggest we do a quick French lesson, take pictures of the apartment, then head out for some more work on the guide book.
“Unless you have other plans,” I say, realizing I’ve just scheduled out his entire day. Maybe Rémy’s idea of whatjust friendslooks like means spending less time together. That would make perfect sense, but I kind of hope it’s not what he had in mind. Okay, Ireallyhope it’s not what he had in mind. “Because technically this whole guide book thing was my idea, and you don’t—”
