Page 86 of Host for the Holidays
I hesitate, looking at her for clarification. “Good news?”
“You look like you’ve got bad news, but bad news should always be prefaced with good news.”
“Right . . . um, okay. Good news, good news . . .” The kettle starts making a racket behind me. “We may not have hot water for the radiators, but we’ve got hot water in the kettle.”
“Can’t we just pour it into the radiators?”
“Um, no.”
“Ugh. So this is still bad news. Do we at least have hot chocolate mix?”
I nod, and she smiles. “Okay, I’m ready for the bad news now.”
“Bad news is they say it’s probably the boiler, but they can’t get anyone out here until late tomorrow morning to look at it. Apparently, we are not the only ones dealing with this issue tonight. Old pipes love to crack in the cold.”
She sighs, and the end of it turns into a teeth chatter.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s get some hot chocolate in you,mademoiselle. I’ll mix it for you while you go snuggle up on the couch under that new blanket we bought.”
“Rémy Scott. You are the best.” She starts moving toward the couch. “Make it with a lot of chocolate, okay?”
“I know how to make a hot chocolate, Madi.”
“Okay,” she says doubtfully as she disappears from view, “but if I take a sip and it tastes like the hot chocolate version of LaCroix”—she says it with an overdramatized French accent—“I’m not gonna be happy.”
“You know LaCroix isn’t a French company, right?”
Silence.
“Right, Madi?”
She still doesn’t bother answering, but when I peek my head around the corner of the kitchen, she’s smiling like a sly little fox who loves pushing my buttons.
Once I’ve made two cups of hot cocoa, I find Madi cocooned in the blanket. She has no arms, no legs. She’s a mound of blanket with a hooded head sticking out.
She looks at me with brows raised. “What? You think you’re getting some blanket too?”
I set the mugs and a couple of napkins down. “No, no, it’s fine. Takeallthe clothes andallthe blankets.” I put a hand to the bottom hem of my hooded sweatshirt. “Did you want this too?”
She glances at my stomach and hesitates before responding. “Yes. I mean no. I mean—line.”
I laugh and take a seat next to her as she unwraps herself from her blanket fortress.
She shivers and shakes her head. “The things I do for you . . .”
I accept the end of the blanket she offers me. It reaches about two-thirds of the way across me.
She stares at me like she’s waiting. “You’re gonna have to scoot closer than that.”
“I’ll be fine with this much.” Any closer and I’ll be in trouble.
“I’m not worried aboutyou.You’ve compromised the integrity of the heating system.” She points to three gaps where the blanket is letting cold air through.
I scoot closer, muttering in French under my breath like I’m mad about it.
“What was that?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say with false innocence as she helps drape the blanket over me. “Nothing at all.”
