Page 67 of Host for the Holidays
“Absolutely not. We are going to FLC.” She starts walking toward the doors. “I will not be the one to discourage your love of America. Good gravy, it’s crowded here!”
* * *
When we finally walk up tothe apartment an hour later, Madi’s got a hand on her stomach. She ate alotof chicken. It gave me way too much satisfaction—and it gave her a sideache. Though, to be fair, that could have also been from all of our laughter.
Whatever willpower I had to resist Madi before, tonight obliterated it. I’ve learned so much about her today, and it’s only grown the pull I feel.
But now we’re almost home, and it’s starting to set in what kind of an idiot I am to do this to myself. My only consolation is that Madi had a great time, too. And that was what I wanted in the first place, so there’s that.
When we get inside, I see the exact moment Madi realizes how many flights of stairs we have to go up. My legs and feet are aching, so I can only assume hers are too. The thought of going up stairs is not a happy one, but I’ll do it. She stands in the entry hall, staring at the staircase for about ten seconds. Then she turns around, walks over, and presses the elevator call button.
She looks at me like we’re on some action movie about to storm into a room with twenty bad guys and just the two of us to fight them. “Let’s do this.”
The intensity of her words and the determination on her face is sapped a bit by the time the elevator clambers down to us. When I open the door for her and she sees how small it is inside, there’s another moment of hesitation, but she steps in determinedly.
The elevator bounces a bit when she does, and I wait for her to change her mind.
But she just looks mildly annoyed. “More puddle iron?”
“You know, the Burj Khalifa in Dubai—”
She hits me as I step in as gently as I can. When the doors shut, it becomes apparent just how small this elevator is. It’s really only a one-person machine, and the camera bag at Madi’s hip takes up a serious portion of the limited space, which means we are in very close quarters as we inch our way up.
Every point of contact between us hums—her shoulder and my arm, her hip and the top of my leg. Even the breath from my nose is ruffling the hair on top of her head, so I try to stop breathing.
I consider turning around so that my back is to her, but that feels way weirder, so I focus my eyes on a spot above her head and pretend the mechanical certificate posted there saysShe’s got a boyfriend. Don’t be weird.I’d say it was just me imagining a tense atmosphere in here, but Madi is completely still, and the way her eyes flit up to me and then immediately away tells me she feels it too. Whateveritis.
All I know is we held hands in the other two elevators we went in today, and the fact that wearen’tholding hands right now feels significant—like the other two times could be classified as a friend supporting another friend in a difficult moment, but now it would be . . . something else. Which makes me want to hold her hand more than ever.
But I’m not entirely lost to any sense of human decency. Again,she’s got a boyfriend. Don’t be weird.I definitely don’t want to put Madi in an awkward place.
Finally, we come to a jolting stop, and the door opens painfully slowly. I let out a long, controlled breath as I step out.
“You did it,” I say. And I did it too. She conquered a fear of 150-year-old elevators, and I, well . . . what’s my accomplishment in this situation? Keeping my hands to myself? Pretty pathetic win.
I unlock the door and let Madi pass through. It’s completely dark inside, but when I flip the switch, Madi stops, looking around.
“Oh my gosh,” she says, walking in farther and surveying the work Élise and I did earlier. She turns to me. “It looks incredible! And it’s going to photograph so well. André isn’t even going to recognize the place compared to the old photos. He’ll have more booking requests than he can accept in no time.”
I try to keep smiling, even though her words are a reminder of what I’ve been purposely ignoring: in order for André to get more guests, Madi has to leave.
It’s almost 10 (where is Josh?!), and even though I’m tempted to suggest we watchTwilightright now and then start our French lessons immediately thereafter, I’m trying to use my brain. More time and more proximity with Madi would be, to use a word I learned last week, gratuitous.
“Well,” I say, “I should probably get to bed.”
“Yeah, me too.” She smiles and meets my gaze. “Thanks for hanging out with me.”
“Anytime.” By which I mean probably never again because there’s no way any man is dumb enough to let me spend that much time with his girlfriend a second time. Not even Josh could be that much of an idiot.
We both stand there for another few seconds, then I smile and turn to walk to my room. I’ve only taken two steps when Madi says, “Hey.”
I stop way too quickly, way too willingly.
“I feel like I need to apologize,” she says.
“Apologize?” My heart starts running amok. Madi is going to draw a line right now. This is the glass door moment, and my body is bracing for impact.
“I put you in a tough position back at the Eiffel Tower. By holding your hand in the elevator.” She rubs her lips together. “Both times. I don’t know what exactly the situation between you and Élise is, and it’s none of my business, but . . . well, I shouldn’t have made you feel like you had to do that to help me.”
