Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Paisley
S omething very important slipped my mind. There is one vital piece of information that I should have shared with Tom before he planned a whole day of activities around me.
In my defence, I’ve been pretty preoccupied, what with freaking out about my impulsive decision to spend the day with a stranger and my despair about the lack of suitable wardrobe options in my luggage. I’m definitely overdressed for whatever this date/non-date is, but it was this black cocktail dress or mum-chic . Although, judging by the way Tom’s dark gaze raked over me in the hotel lobby, I’m not sure he cares.
Still, in all my worry, I’ve not had the chance to tell Tom I’m scared of heights. Terrified, if I’m honest. So, it’s just my luck that our first fun-filled pitstop is forty-something floors above ground on a replica of the bloody Eiffel Tower.
My heart almost burst with happiness when our leisurely stroll along the strip led us to the stunning French-themed hotel. I would have leapt at the chance to eat in one of the charming restaurants. A glass of Bordeaux and some Camembert sounds like heaven, but Tom had other ideas.
It only dawned on me when the glass lift propelled skyward faster than a rocket that our agendas differed. I would have bolted when Tom dragged me onto the viewing deck, but my vertigo kicked in and turned me into a human statue quicker than you could say acrophobia .
Now, all I can do is stand here, cling to Tom’s arm and pray for a swift end to this ordeal. Tom hasn’t noticed. He’s embroiled in a very one-sided game of spot-the-difference between the real tower and the one we’ve found ourselves perched upon. Tom was telling the truth. He’s undoubtedly an enthusiastic tour guide. I’m sure I’d find it endearing if I weren’t clutching to life by my fingertips.
He’s just explaining how the Vegas tower uses paint to mimic the rust on the original when he attempts to pull his arm out of my vice-like grip. But it’s no use. I’m so firmly glued in place that only a rescue crew will be able to prise me away.
“Are you alright, Paisley?” he asks, concern replacing his tour guide persona. He’s probably questioning how his non-date has turned from willing participant to kidnapping victim in the space of one elevator ride.
“Please, don’t move,” I whisper, my eyes squeezed tight.
“What’s wrong? You’re as pale as a sheet. Do you feel alright?”
Oh my God, I am so embarrassed.
I suck in a deep breath. I am safe, I remind myself. I am safe. I am safe.
Heat scatters through my body as my adrenaline begins to dissipate. I repeat my mantra over and over, taking deep, steady breaths until my heart rate slows and my muscles relax.
Carefully, very carefully, I take a step back from Tom. And then another. Until I can open my eyes and let go of his arm.
Then, all my progress is derailed when a bird swoops past the window, and my eyes take in the vast emptiness between me and solid ground.
Oh, heck no! Before I can even register what I’m doing, my arms reach for Tom. Only this time, he’s reaching out to me, too. In one slick move, I find myself encased in the safety of his arms. My face finds solace against his firm chest, and I wrap my arms around his waist. I use his body as a barrier, a shield against the world so that I can come down from my momentary—and rather cringe-worthy—freak out.
“Hey, don’t worry. I’ve got you,” Tom says, his voice barely a whisper as he rests his chin on my head. “Is it the height? Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug, which would be less awkward if I weren’t plastered to his front. “I’m sorry,” I utter, my spirits sinking.
I had psyched myself up for this afternoon, riding the waves of Tom’s infectious excitement and ready to prove to Mason that I can be fun. It’s typical that when I entertain the idea of letting loose, my inner killjoy rears its ugly head. This is why I stick with boring.
“Don’t be sorry, you’re fine,” he reassures me, his hold firm. “Would it help to hear some more fun facts about Paris? Or should we fast forward to Venice?”
His hands glide slowly down my arms until he loops his fingers with mine. A tingling sensation trails in the wake of his touch, and I shudder from something other than fear.
“So, Paisley, Paris or Venice?” he asks, his voice dropping to a low rumble.
As much as I want to stay here and find out what other facts Tom has memorised, as much as I’m grounded in Tom’s hold, I need my feet on the ground.
“Could we go back down?” I ask reluctantly. I’m sure the view is incredible, and I’ll kick myself tomorrow, but I need to get away from this vertigo-inducing, vast expanse of glass.
“Of course.” Tom walks backwards, never letting go of my hands as he guides me to the safety of the elevator. When the car arrives, we dutifully shuffle in with more people than seems advisable for such a small space.
“So, give me another fact, Mr Tour Guide,” I ask, attempting to distract myself from our death-defying downward descent.
“I’m allergic to chocolate,” Tom offers.
“I meant about Vegas,” I laugh. “But really? Are you allergic to milk or something?”
“No, just chocolate. It gives me migraines. Birthday parties were a nightmare when I was a kid.”
“I bet. So, no caterpillar cake for you?”
“Victoria sponge all the way, baby. And, as for a Vegas fact, did you know this tower is only half the height of the real one? They couldn’t make it any taller because of the airport.”
Well, thank God for that.
The only thing stopping me from kissing the ground when we finally reach terra firma is the memory of how much I embarrassed myself by simply standing at the top of a tall building. In my mortified relief, I hardly notice Tom dragging me away from the tower until we stop at a garishly loud cardboard display.
It’s one of those backgrounds you stand in front of to have your picture taken. There are glittering love hearts, dancing croissants with creepy, smiling faces, and a caricature of the tower itself, complete with a beret. It’s hideous and probably bordering on offensive.
“You’ve got to be kidding. There’s no way I’m standing in front of that monstrosity.”
Either I don’t actually say the words aloud, or Tom has chosen to ignore them because no sooner has he pulled the phone from his pocket than he’s recruiting a passerby to capture my horror.
“Smile, Paisley,” Tom sings, manoeuvring me to stand beside him. I feel the weight of his hold almost as keenly as the attention of the strangers who have stopped to stare at the spectacle.
Tom smirks at the camera, his hand tightening on my hip when he realises I’m not doing the same. I obey awkwardly, my smile twitching with effort as the elderly man Tom selected to take the photo figures out how to use a phone from this century.
“Kiss! Kiss!” a little girl from the crowd shouts excitedly.
Where the hell is her adult?
“Show us what real love looks like,” a woman who’s had one too many cocktails demands.
I look up at Tom to share the absurdity, only to find his mocha eyes shining with trouble.
“What do you say, Paisley?”
When I don’t, in fact, say anything, Tom pulls back, subtly putting some distance between us.
Oh, what the hell. I might not be able to stand at the top of a five-hundred-and-fifty-foot tower, but this? This I can do. Rising onto my toes before I lose my nerve, I quickly press my lips to Tom’s in a spontaneous, chaste kiss.
Tom’s eyes widen perceptibly, his dark irises overcome by the explosion of his pupils. I pull away and lower myself back to the ground, but he doesn’t let me go that easily. His hand tightens on my hip, chasing me until his mouth is back on mine.
He kisses like his life depends on it, demanding and uninhibited. When his tongue teases my lips, I surrender without reservation, lost in the intensity of the moment. Heat burns through my body, nerves that have laid dormant for far too long, awakening in a burst of need, want, and burgeoning lust.
A squealing giggle pierces the storm, and realisation strikes me. We have an audience. If it weren’t for Tom’s steadfast hands on the small of my back, I’d topple into the cardboard abomination in shock.
My face is on fire, embarrassment flaming hot across my cheeks. Or maybe it’s from the insanely hot kiss I shared with a near stranger. Who can tell?
Our public display has traumatised the helpless gentleman assigned to immortalise the torrid scene. He stands with his hand over his eyes, blindly extending Tom’s phone and tapping his thumb on the screen, unaware that the moment has passed.
For the second time on this ‘date’, I am mortified. Only this time, it’s coupled with a deep, wanting ache in my core, something I’ve not felt in a long time. I stare at my feet and wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole until Tom notches his fingers under my chin and lifts my face to his.
“Don’t run from me now, Paisley,” he whispers across my lips. “We’ve still so much to see.”