Page 9 of Host for the Holidays
“Hey, it wasnotfull. But yes. I’m sorry about that. I had one too many people mentionTakenbefore I left, and I didn’t know anyone else would be staying here.”
I wave my hand, dismissing the attempted knockout and reaching for the scrubber to clean my cup. “You’re safe here. I gave up my career as an assassin a couple years ago.”
There’s silence, and I steal a glance at her while rinsing my cup. She’s staring at me, not sure whether to take me seriously. The look of relief that passes over her face when she sees my expression is hilarious—but also mildly offensive. I thought that joke would be a home run, not a tense moment.
“You’re teasing,” she says with a laugh.
“Glad you picked up on that,” I say with a smile. “Contrary to what Hollywood tells you, we aren’t all out for young American tourists.” I set the cup on the rack and dry my hands with the nearest towel. “There are far too many of you.”
She laughs again, showing that straight, white smile that I thought was nothing but a Hollywood fiction.
“We are a force to be reckoned with, aren’t we?” she says, entirely unoffended by my dig at her fellow countrymen. “Well, anyway, I was thinking . . . if we’re going to be roommates for the next three weeks, I should probably know your name.”
“It’s Rémy Scott,” I say, folding my arms and turning toward her.
Her brows rise and her eyes light up. “Rémy. Like the mouse onRatatouille?”
I give a reluctant nod, not thrilled that she’s associated me with vermin. “Technically, I came first.”
“Fair enough.” She straightens her shoulders and puts out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Rémy Scott. I’m Madi.”
I look at her outstretched hand and smile slightly—in my life, handshakes are reserved for the work environment, which makes this feel very businessy. I take her hand with mine and give it a single, firm shake just as her expression falters.
“What?” she asks, her gaze scanning my face.
I shrug. “Nothing.”
“Am I a bad handshaker?” Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh my gosh, was it limp and cold?”
I chuckle. “Your handshake is just fine.”
She tilts her head to the side, dissatisfied with my answer. “Rémy, I feel like I just walked out of the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to my shoe and you’re smiling instead of telling me about it. I did something weird, and I don’t want to do it again. Is shaking hands not a thing here? Should we have hugged?”
I smile. “Your stars and stripes are showing.”
She pulls her lips between her teeth to stop a smile. “Okay. No hugging. No shaking hands.”
“We don’t do hugs. Wedoshake hands. It’s just a bit more formal as a greeting.” I make my way toward the homework on the coffee table. “It reminded me of being at work for a second. That’s all. You didn’t do anything wrong.” I shoot her a reassuring look over my shoulder as she follows me from the kitchen.
“What’s theinformalway of greeting, then? What do roommates do?”
“Les bises,” I say as I bend over and tidy the stack of papers.
There’s silence, and I glance up. She’s looking at me blankly, waiting for me to expound.
I straighten. “They’re kisses on the cheeks.”
“The face cheeks,” she clarifies.
I cover my smile with a hand. “Yes. The face cheeks. We may seem crazy to you, but we’re notthatcrazy.”
She lifts her shoulders. “Hey, I’m trying to keep an open mind! Nothing here has been what I’ve expected so far. All right, so kisses on the cheeks.” She smiles slightly. “You guys just go right for the gold, don’t you?”
I raise my brows. “Kisses on the cheek are the gold?”
She levels me with an unamused expression. “You know what I mean. It’s just a little . . . intimate.”
“More intimate than pressing your entire body up against a stranger when you meet?”
