“Drunk on the Eiffel Tower,” I said. “This night is looking up.”
“Attagirl,” he said. He glanced out the window, tracking our progress.
I could see the tower in the distance; we were getting closer. I felt my nerves wind up and my anxiety spike. I’d never been very good at cutting appointments close. What if we didn’t make it? It would be a waste of tickets. We’d miss out. I’d never wanted to be on top of the tower, drinking champagne, as much as I did right now.
“Hey.” Jason grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry—we’ve got this.”
There he was. The guy who never worried about anything and was totally cool with winging it. He always assumed everything was going to work out okay, and even if it didn’t, he could manage it. This was the complete and total opposite of how I lived my life, but for once, just this once, I was going to chill out and turn my penchant for punctuality over to the universe. If we were meant to go up in the tower, we would, and if we weren’t, we wouldn’t.
When our cab driver pulled to a stop near the tower, Jason settled up with him while I climbed out of the car. The night had gotten cold, and I wished I’d thought to bring a coat. I was going to freeze my butt off at the top. Oh well, what did the French say? C’est la vie. It was totally worth it.
“Come on.” Jason grabbed my hand again. “We have to run for it!”
I was not exactly in running footwear, but at least I wasn’t in stilettos. I let him pull me through the crowd, past the carousel, and across the street, toward the entrance. Dashing into the park, we hurried through the darkness and passed the tchotchke sellers with their blankets spread on the ground displaying tiny Eiffel Towers flashing in all colors.
Our time-stamped tickets put us in the fast lane, and we blitzed through security and the metal detectors. Up the stairs we went, pausing to show our tickets to a man at a desk. He gestured for us to go on, and we crossed a small room and got in line with a bunch of other overdressed people for the elevator that would take us to the second floor. The elevator came swiftly, and Jason hustled me into the car. Although we were level, the car moved on a slant up the leg and into the belly of the tower. I noticed that Jason was still holding my hand. I would have pulled away, but my fingers were cold and his were warm.
We climbed out at the second floor, but there was no time to look at the view, as we had to catch the lift to the summit. Up some more stairs and into the queue, which snaked around the platform. The line moved swiftly, as it was near the end of the evening, and we stepped into the narrow hallway to catch the elevator.
There were four elevators in operation, two red and two yellow, and they worked in pairs as a counterweight for each other. When one elevator emptied, Jason hustled me inside. I was pressed up against the glass with him standing behind me, making a cage out of his body to protect me from the swarm of people who pushed into the lift with us.
They could have crushed me, and I wouldn’t have cared. Now, after all this time, I understood why Paris was called the City of Light. It wasn’t just because of its prominence during the Age of Enlightenment. As we rose up into the sky in a slow glide, I stared out the glass, past the intricate ironwork, at the beautiful golden lights of the city laid out before me. It was breathtaking.
“Wow, it’s beautiful,” Jason whispered in my ear.
I turned my head and found him staring at me, our faces just inches apart. I studied his long-lashed, pretty eyes and square jaw with just the right amount of scruff and said, “Yes, it is.”
An awareness passed between us, and he smiled at me before he looked back out at the city. “When we reach the top, we’ll have just a few minutes to wait before the light show. I read that they only illuminate the tower with sparkling lights for five minutes at the top of every hour.”
“Good timing,” I said. The words were stilted, as I was now excruciatingly aware of the man standing at my back. I wanted to lean into his warmth, but that would be weird, right? I’d started the night on a date with one man, and now I was here, at the most romantic place in the world, with a guy that up until quite recently I had loathed with every molecule I possessed. The whole situation was most definitely bad form, or was it Paris? I had no idea.
The lift stopped and we stepped out. We were in the glassed-in part of the tower. It was crowded, but Jason took my hand and led me up the narrow stairs to outside. The wind hit me right in the face, and I shivered. My wrap was utterly useless. Without a word, Jason shrugged out of his jacket and put it around my shoulders, pulling me close and keeping me protected within the circle of his arm. Well, how about that. Knightley was a gentleman.
We took in the view: the blue beam shining from the top, the bright city lights rolling all the way to the horizon, and just below, the tour boats and dinner cruises on the Seine. It was stunning. Jason excused himself and went to the small window of the Bar à Champagne to fetch our drinks. He returned with two glasses and a big smile.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t Aidan be proud of us spending time together like this? We haven’t even argued.”
“I think shock would be a more likely reaction,” I said.
“To Aidan,” Jason said. He lifted his glass, and I tapped mine against his.
“To Aidan.”
We took hearty sips. I wasn’t sure whether it was to calm my nerves at being over nine hundred feet in the air with the wind whipping around me or in the hope that the alcohol would warm me up. I just knew that this champagne was the best I’d ever tasted. Maybe it was the altitude; possibly it was the company. All I knew for certain was that I felt, quite literally, on top of the world. People moved around us, but we didn’t give up our little patch of real estate.
Jason shivered. He was obviously getting cold in just his dress shirt. I moved close to him and put my arm around his back, pressing myself into his side. When he glanced down in surprise, I said, “Body heat.”
He grunted and pulled me in closer. “You keep surprising me, Martin.”
“Do I?” I asked. I knew I probably shouldn’t be pleased by this, but I found that I liked that I could surprise him. Honestly, it was nice to surprise myself as well.
“Yeah, in the best possible way.” His voice sounded gruff, and he finished his champagne and waited for me to do the same. When I did, he returned our glasses to the bar. Then he took his cell phone and his wireless AirPods out of his pocket. “Tell me, Martin, have you ever danced on the top of the Eiffel Tower?”
“Nope, I can’t say that I have,” I said.
“Cool.”
He handed me one of the earpieces, and I tucked it into my ear. He did the same and then tapped the display on his phone before putting it back into his pants pocket. He held out his arms, and as the distinctive orchestral opening to “La vie en rose” began to play, I slipped into his embrace, and Edith Piaf began to belt out the lyrics, casting a spell around us with her voice singing about her special man whose love made her see life as rosy.
There wasn’t much room to move, but that didn’t stop Jason from leading me around in a tight circle and then twirling me within his arms, making my dress flare out. I felt like a 1940s film star, beautiful, glamorous, and oh so sexy. It was a balm to my battered soul.
Together we moved as the wind tugged at our clothes and the conversations of the people around us fell away. Jason pulled me in close, and I could feel the heat of him wrap around me as strongly as his arms. I felt my heart soar up in my chest as the scent of him, a low note of amber dusted with cardamom and mint, filled my senses. I wanted to curl up in the smell of him, as if he were my favorite cow pajamas. It was a comforting scent that made me feel . . . at home.
Edith hit a sweet high note just as I pulled back to glance up at his face. My heels gave me an extra two inches of height, making my gaze level with his mouth, and I couldn’t help but notice the g
enerous curve of his lips.
“Hey, eyes up here, Martin,” he teased.
I glanced up, and the laughter in his gaze made me smile, but the heat in his eyes caused my breath to stutter stop in my lungs. That look. It was the sort that went to a girl’s head, making her think a man was consumed by her. It was an impossible look to resist. Throwing common sense and caution off the tower like confetti, I slid my arms around his neck and pulled him down so that I could kiss him.
When my mouth met the warmth of his and tasted the champagne on his lips, the only thought in my head was More. I parted my lips and deepened the kiss, vaguely aware that Jason had slid one hand under his jacket and up the middle of my bare back, anchoring me close while his other hand cupped the back of my head as he returned my kiss with equal fervor.
The feel of his mouth against mine was everything. He sipped my lower lip, ran his tongue across my upper lip, and pressed my mouth gently open with his. The rough rub of his closely shaved scruff made my skin tingle. The kiss was hot, smooth, wet, and delicious, and it made my head spin faster than the champagne had. I felt as if I was free-falling into a desire so thick and rich that my entire body was vibrating with want.
I clung to him, trying to get closer. My hands dug into his hair, and I melted against him as he kissed me senseless. His mouth robbed me of reason, and his hands stroked the good sense right out of me. I was at his mercy and couldn’t have been happier to be so.
Oohs and aahs broke through my passionate haze, which seemed very appropriate given the impact of his kiss. I pulled away and blinked, expecting to see the world changed. I wasn’t disappointed. Bright lights were sparkling all around us as light beams flitted across the metal structure of the Eiffel Tower from top to bottom. The building had been beautiful before, but now it felt as if there were a touch of magic in it. I glanced at Jason, who was gazing wide eyed at the spectacle. Magic, indeed.
He tucked my back against his front and wrapped his arms around me as we stood and watched the five-minute light show. Some people were filming, but most were just taking it in, recognizing that they would most likely never be standing on the top of the Eiffel Tower again during such an extraordinary moment. Pure, undiluted joy beamed through me.
This was the beauty of Paris. When something didn’t go as expected, there was always something else to see, do, taste, or feel. I was at the top of the freaking Eiffel Tower! Did it get any better than this? I glanced behind me to see Jason watching the light show. As if he felt my gaze, he turned to look down at me. The same sense of wonder lit his eyes.
“Like I said, you keep surprising me,” he said. Then he kissed me quick, tightened his arms around me, and rested his chin on my shoulder as we watched the end of the show.
He kept my hand in his for the entire elevator ride down. When I went to return his jacket, he shook his head. He looped his arm around my waist and pulled me close. We walked to the cabstand on the street in front of the tower. The line was mercifully short, as the tower was now closed, and we were soon in a taxi.
Jason helped me into the back seat and then leaned forward and gave the driver directions. I noticed the address was not the one for our apartments above Café Zoe. When he leaned back, I sent him an inquiring look.
“We need to make one small stop on the way home,” he said. “Are you game?”
A ridiculously flirty girl who had heretofore been unknown was inside me, jumping up and down and clapping. I refused to let her out and instead gave the careless shrug that seemed to be a part of the vocabulary of the French, and said, “Mais oui.”
“Excellent.” He sat back against the seat, and as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he pulled me close and I let him. As if by unspoken agreement, we didn’t talk about the kiss on top of the Eiffel Tower. I supposed it was sort of like a New Year’s Eve kiss. The giddiness of the moment had taken over, and we’d kissed. No big deal. Really. Just because it was the most singular kiss of my life, really, no need to dwell.
The city lights moved past the car window in a blur, and I rested my head against his shoulder. I felt as if we were in our own private nest, where it was warm and quiet and safe. A few weeks ago, if someone had told me that I’d feel this way sharing a cab with Knightley in Paris, I’d have thought they were mental. I’d have imagined that any ride with Knightley would be spent with me timing my jump and roll for when the cab slowed down enough that I could escape him. I smiled.
All too soon, the taxi stopped, and we were climbing out again. The neighborhood was quiet. There were no crowds, only a small shop front with its awning still out and a handful of customers sitting at narrow tables inside.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“Le Chocolat de Lucille. I was told it is the only place in Paris to get chocolat chaud à l’ancienne,” he said.
“Old-style hot chocolate?” I asked. “Yes, please.”
Jason grinned and walked me into the tiny café. We chose a small table by the window, and then he went to the counter and ordered two hot chocolates. I watched the dark-haired woman, who looked to be in her twenties, take his order and flirt with him. Jason seemed completely oblivious to the batted lashes and come-hither smile.
Okay, so that was charming, although it shouldn’t matter to me whether he noticed her or not, since we weren’t dating. We’d shared a kiss. He was still Knightley, and I was still Martin—i.e., oil and water or fire and gas. Either way, not good. It was just that our lips now knew the shape and taste of each other . . . intimately. These things happened. True, they’d never happened to me before, but I had it on good authority—Annabelle—that they did happen to some people sometimes.
Jason returned with a tray. On it sat two mugs of the thickest, richest-looking hot chocolate I had ever seen. There were also two more plates, each with a pink and a green macaron on it. I glanced up at Jason in delight.
“I don’t want this to go to your head,” I said. “But right now, holding that tray, you are the most perfect man who ever drew breath.”
He laughed and rested the tray on the table, unloading the mugs and plates. “I’ll try not to let it swell up my ego, especially since I have the sneaking suspicion that any man carrying a tray of hot chocolate and rose and pistachio macarons would be considered worthy.”
“It would certainly weigh in their favor,” I agreed. I wrapped my hands around my mug and let the warmth seep into my cold fingers.
I watched as Jason tucked his spoon into the artistically shaped, fresh whipped cream covered in chocolate curls. He managed to get a little of the hot chocolate on his spoon as well. When he tasted it, he closed his eyes as if savoring every nuance of flavor. I had the thought that he would make love like that—he would relish every bit of it.
Oof! My face got hot, and my body temperature spiked at the mental image. This was bad. I should not be having lewd thoughts about a colleague. For that matter, I shouldn’t have kissed a coworker. Michelle in HR would have a conniption if she found out.
No fraternizing among employees was a rule she relished enforcing. The thought made me panic just a little. We were in Paris, I rationalized; it was an accident. Yeah, my lips accidently fell on his. Happened all the time. Ugh.
I needed to build some boundaries and fast. I tried to remember all the things Knightley did that drove me nuts. At the moment, I couldn’t think of one. Damn it!
Overheated, I let go of my mug and shrugged off his jacket, taking care to drape it over the back of my chair. When I glanced up, he was watching me with an intense look. He pointed to my mug.
“You have to try this. It’s . . . Well, it ain’t your grandma’s powdered hot chocolate—that’s for damn sure.”
I picked up my spoon. I noted that the hot chocolate visible beneath the dollop of whipped cream was a glossy shade of dark brown. I tucked my spoon in, and it was almost like diving into a dark chocolate mousse. I s
cooped up some chocolate and whipped cream and a couple of chocolate curls.
When I brought it to my lips, I could feel Jason staring at my mouth. It made me self-conscious, and I kept my gaze down so I wouldn’t get rattled and drop hot chocolate all over my white dress. I closed my mouth over my spoon and abruptly forgot to be self-conscious or mannerly—heck, I even forgot my name.
“Ermagawd,” I said as the silky texture of the chocolate and the whipped cream slid over my tongue and down my throat in the most exquisite explosion of bittersweet. I felt as if taste buds that had been dormant my entire life were suddenly awake and clamoring for more.
I glanced at Jason and said, “I think I’m having a religious experience here.”
He laughed. He spooned up more of his chocolat chaud and said, “I know. I love it so much I think I might marry it.”
I sipped more chocolate and then decided I was ready for a macaron. I nudged one of the plates toward him and said, “Together?”
“Agreed. Pistachio first?”
I nodded, and we each reached for a pale-green cream-filled meringue shaped like a cookie. At the same time, we took a bite. It was glorious. The crunchy, chewy meringue cookie with the creamy center melted in my mouth, leaving the delightfully delicate aftertaste of pistachio.
“So good,” he said. “I may need a box of these to go.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I said. “I don’t even want to think about how many calories we’re consuming.”
“We’re in Paris—calories don’t count here.” He glanced at me, considering. “I never would have guessed you for having a sweet tooth, Martin.”
“Oh, I don’t have one,” I said. “I have many.” Then I smiled at him, showing my teeth.
“Well, your restraint at the office is unparalleled,” he said. “Whenever the Friday doughnuts appear, I never see you crack. You don’t even have one.”
Paris Is Always a Good Idea Page 22