Page 85 of Host for the Holidays
Madi juggles her camera bag as she takes off her coat while I unlock the door. “Home sweet home,” she says with unveiled relief. I love that she thinks of this place that we’ve been sharing as home.
She steps inside, and I follow behind. She hasn’t taken more than five steps when she stops, shudders, drops her camera bag, and throws her coat back on.
I haven’t taken my coat off yet, but by the way my skin prickles, I know Madi’s not just being dramatic. Far from being the cozy sanctuary we were hoping for, it’s frigid in here.
I go over to the nearest radiator and put a hand to it. The metal is cold to the touch. I check the dial on the bottom, which is set to about the middle. I turn it all the way to the highest setting.
I make my way to the one in my room, and Madi follows behind me. The radiator in here is ice cold too. In fact, it’s even colder than the one in the living room. I just don’t understand how, even if the radiators aren’t working, it could be THIS cold inside. It’s like they’ve gone rogue and transformed into air conditioners. Or icebergs.
“Um, Rémy?”
I glance up at Madi. She’s got her lips tucked in as she points above my head.
Wow. My window is open. I must have forgotten to shut it properly after Madi retrieved her bra this morning.
I swear in French and hurry to shut it. “On the coldest day of the year!”
“In history,” Madi says, folding her arms tightly and hunching her shoulders. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault for not shutting the window.”
“I’m the one who opened it.”
“And I’m the one whose bra started all this.” She shivers again. “I’m going to put more clothes on.”
Ah, the seven words every guy loves to hear a woman say.
While she’s upstairs, I compose and then delete a text to André. I don’t want to bother him with this stuff. It’s the last thing he needs right now. It’ll just stress him out.
When Madi comes downstairs five minutes later, she’s still wearing her coat, but she looks like a sad puppy. “I did my laundry this morning. None of it’s dry yet.”
I bust up laughing. I can’t help it. “I’m sorry. It’s just so ridiculous.”
“Nowdo you believe your city hates me?”
“No, and neither should you. Maybe you just have Paris Syndrome.”
“Come again?”
“Paris Syndrome. It’s when foreigners come here and are so overwhelmed by disappointment—the gap between expectation and reality—that it affects them physically.”
Madi stares at me. “You’re joking.”
“Nope. Look it up. People are hospitalized for it and everything.” I head to my dresser and open the top drawer. “You can wear some of my clothes. I don’t have many clean ones—most of my stuff is still at home—but you’re welcome to whatever strikes your fancy.”
“A blazer and slacks?”
“Sure. Slip on three blazers under that coat, and you’ll be set.”
Madi opts for my gray sweats, though—the ones she wore the first night here—and it’s all I can do not to call outlinewhen she comes down in them a few minutes later while I’m heating up water in the kettle.
She chafes at her arms. “Isn’t heat supposed to rise?”
“That’s assuming there’s any heattorise. Also, that room is probably the worst insulated one in the entire building.”
“It’s cute, though,” she says with that smile that gets me every time.
“True. A fair trade.” I turn and lean against the counter, folding my arms and clenching my teeth. “So . . . I called the heating company, and—”
She puts up a hand to stop me, then tucks it right back into its spot under her arm. “Good news first.”
