Page 83 of Host for the Holidays
I message back and forth with Linnae a bit more, and we settle on a time to meet. She wants to do the pictures in Montmartre, and Rémy offers to take me there beforehand so we can scope out the location and find the best spots.
Once we’ve got full bellies and hot chocolates in hand, we decide to brave the elements for a river cruise.
“It’s a great way to see the city,” Rémy says. “But it’ll be . . .”
“Frigid? I know. But we can take the metro back home, right? And then we can recover in the warmth of the apartment, so I can survive until then.”
* * *
There isa reason weathermen talk about the “wind chill factor.” This is what I have learned since boarding this Seine River cruise. It’s not like we’re on a speedboat or anything, but wearemoving, and it’s fast enough that there’s a definite wind chill to add to the low temperatures. It’s probably why we are two of twelve people on this cruise. The empty seats contain the ghosts of those wiser than us, taunting us for our bad judgment.
If I didn’t have some distractions—the tour guide’s heavily accented information, for one, and the views of the city, for another—I would be shivering uncontrollably. Rémy has offered me his coat twice, but there’s no way I’m depriving him of it. It’s not likehe’sworking up a sweat. In fact, I could swear there was one point where he looked longingly at the river, like maybe it would be warmer to swim than continue on the boat, and we all know how Rémy feels about swimming in the Seine.
We settle for sitting as close as possible to one another to share some arm heat, if nothing else. I can think of a few ways to generate more heat, but not only are they in blatant violation of our rules, but I’m not big on PDA.
All I want is to sit right next to Rémy, warm from my shoulder to my elbow, but the sites are calling to me, so I reluctantly stand up and head to the side of the boat. I try to operate my camera, but my fingers are completely useless.
Rémy joins me and gives it a shot. He manages a couple of hard-won pictures that are actually really well done. Sure, I helped him get settings right—night photography is a whole different beast—but his composition ain’t too shabby.
“You’re doing me proud,” I say, teeth chattering. “A straight-A student.”
“Too bad I make a living as a teacher,” he replies, pressing the shutter again like all of our fingers aren’t about to snap off.
It’s so frigid, I feel guilty for leaving my bra outside Rémy’s window in weather like this.
“Thankfully, I can now also vouch for your teaching skills.” He hands the camera back to me, and I handle it clumsily because my fingers have the same grasping capabilities as my toes right now—if I even have toes anymore. I haven’t felt them for a while.
“After one French lesson?” he asks.
“Mais oui,” I say. “It doesn’t take long to know a good teacher.”
“I can’t just be good, though. I’ve got to be the best.”
“Rémy,” I say, leaning an elbow on the side rail and looking up at him. “Anybody who has talked to you for ten seconds couldn’t doubt you are the best person for that job at Bellevue. Have a little faith in yourself.” Look at me, giving pep talks about things I personally struggle with. Why is it so much easier to believe in others than it is to believe in myself?
He stares at me silently for a second, and the way he does it has a red, flashing LINE sign going off in my head.
“Besides,” I say, turning my gaze back to the city in an effort Hercules would appreciate, “if you don’t get the job, you can always come teach French in the States—fulfill your dream of living in America.” I shoot him a glance from the corner of my eye, and he’s got that lopsided smile it feels like my life mission to produce.
“Is that right, Stars and Stripes?”
“Firstly, majorline.You know how it makes me feel when you talk about Old Glory. Secondly, yes, itisright. You would do a much better job than a lot of the English teachers I had. And then there’s always the option of being an assistant in my rapidly growing photography empire.” I tap through the photos Rémy has taken from the riverboat.
“Oh yeah?”
I stop on a shot of Pont Neuf and stare at it for a second. “Actually, job offer retracted. You’re on pace to eclipse me, and I have a very fragile ego.”
He looks at me with eyes that twinkle more captivatingly than the Eiffel Tower. If I were confident my lips were at more than 20% functioning capacity in this cold, I would kiss him right here and now. And I could swear he’s having the same thoughts.
It’s probably for the best that I pre-fired him. If Rémy was my assistant, I don’t think we would get much photography done.
THIRTY-FIVE
RÉMY
Once the cruise ends,we hurry off the boat as fast as our frozen legs will carry us and head straight for the metro, which is surprisingly busy for a Monday night. I glance at Madi as we near the entrance to the station, where the stairs are jammed with incoming and outgoing passengers. Given that she’s making a bee-line down the stairs already, she doesn’t seem to mind.
It’s significantly warmer once we get out of the stairway, and she rubs her hands together like we’re standing in front of a fire as we line up for the machines. I’m just waiting for her to realize how crowded it is, but she slips through the turnstile like a pro. I don’t even know if she remembers I’m here behind her, honestly, and while that’s no self-esteem boost, I’m also happy for her. It’s a lot of progress in a short amount of time.
