Page 58 of Host for the Holidays
I gather my courage, remind myself what I’m doing here, and let out a breath. “I wanna go up.”
He looks at me for a second, as if he’s checking whether I’m sincere.
“Really,” I say with a shaky smile.
He returns his own smile, and this terror is already worth it for that. “You won’t regret it.” He turns back to the lady and nods at her.
And then we’re off.
The feeling of the elevator going up does a number on my stomach, and then the guy next to us tells his wife to look up.
Those dumb, dumb words. They’re the north pole of a magnet, and my eyes are the south pole. I lift my chin, and my gaze travels up until it finds the windows on the elevator roof.
I shut my eyes immediately and bring my head back down, but it’s too late. I saw us barreling upward, and I can’t unsee it. The rocket has left the launchpad, though, and there is no getting off at this point. Everywhere I look, there is iron latticework rushing by windows, reminding me that we are headed up to nearly a thousand feet above the ground.A thousand feet.
I look down, hoping for a safe place to direct my gaze, but the first thing I see is Rémy’s hand. I don’t even think twice before grabbing it. I can see him look at me from the corner of my eye, and then I realize how crazy I’m being.
It’s still entirely possible that Rémy has a girlfriend—Élise being a serious contender for that position. They could be engaged. Married!
Okay, probably not married, but still. Even ifIdon’t have a boyfriend anymore, I can’t just go around grabbing people’s hands.
I loosen my grip to let go, feeling like an idiot, but Rémy’s fingers tighten around mine.
I look over at him, and he meets my gaze, giving me a small but reassuring smile that saysYou’ve got this.
And for the rest of the ride to the top, I’m not even thinking about how many feet high we are or how many inches to the side we’re swaying. All I’m thinking about is that Rémy and I are holding hands again.
Is this what Siena meant byjust have fun?
My heart settles in at a steady pace of a million beats per minute. Who knew holding hands was a workout? My body is full of that heady, intoxicated feeling that I haven’t felt since the early days with Josh.
I need to tamp it down because Rémy is holding my hand to be nice, just like he did in the metro station. He’s trying to keep me calm, which is working in some ways but having the opposite effect in other ways.
The elevator jolts a bit as it comes to a stop, and my hand tightens instinctively around his. He returns the pressure and leans into me. “We made it.”
I let out a huge breath as people file out of the elevator in front of us. “Easy peasy,” I say in a shaky voice, letting go of Rémy’s hand reluctantly.
He shakes it out, making a face like I squeezed the life out of it. I give him a little push, and he laughs as we follow the crowd I catch a little glimpse of the windows ahead—and the tiny city lights spread out in front of them.
And then it hits me for real. We are a thousand feet up. What type of iron did the man in the elevator say this thing was made out of? Puddle iron?Puddleiron?! What does that even mean? Isn’t it an oxymoron?
I want to be brave so badly, to keep that spirit I had earlier today, but all I can picture right now is this entire structure melting into a puddle of iron under my feet.
The crowds in front of us start to disperse, some people going left, some going right, others going up the stairs (more stairs?!). Pretty soon, there will be no heads in front of me to shield me from the view of just how tiny the city is beneath us.
“Rémy?” I say hesitantly.
He looks at me, and it’s like he knows immediately what I’m about to ask. He puts out his hand again, and I take it with a guilty face. But he just smiles and jerks his head toward the windows. “Let’s go see Paris.”
I take in a deep breath and nod. At least if the Eiffel Tower melts into a puddle, Rémy and I will experience it together. We head toward the windows hand in hand, and somewhere between the elevator and those windows, the photographer in me gags and blindfolds the acrophobe.
The nearer we get, the more of Paris spreads out before us, lit up like the Lite Brite toy I used to play with as a kid. Headlights, street lamps, Christmas lights, river boats—they all make the city glimmer and shine in an entrancing grid.
Rémy takes me around by the hand, pointing out the landmarks—the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, Sacré Coeur Basilica, the opera house, Notre Dame—and I’m a kid at a candy store. A really tall candy store.
Seeing the city like this, everything within my view at once, is indescribably cool. And holding Rémy’s hand has nothing to do with it. I don’t think.
“The views are even better from upstairs,” he says as we come back to the point we started at. “There are no windows up there.” There’s a definite invitation in his voice.
