Chapter 23
ASHA
Twenty minutes? That’s not going to be enough time to get over the emotional impact of waking up in Callum’s arms, after he took care of me the past few days. It’s not enough time to get over the embarrassment of getting my snot on him.
And it’s not going to be near enough time to decide if he’s actually into me, or if he felt bad I didn’t have anyone else to help me.
Because after last night, I know I’m into him. He’s grumpy, but it’s kind of charming when he does sweet things while complaining about doing them. It’s such a fascinating contrast. Why are you doing them if you’re so unhappy to be doing them? Why not just stop? He wasn’t paid to take care of me.
The only explanation is that he is happy about doing them. So why hide it? I don’t know, but it’s adorable and I want to find out more about it.
It’s not against any rules. We’re not each other’s boss. There’s nothing stopping us from dating. Even if it was against company policy, it’s not like we’d be the first. There are plenty of people eating where they shit in this particular job.
It’s actually perfect. He’ll understand my inconvenient schedule, and our tours will intersect occasionally, so we’ll have dates all over Europe.
A dream couple. And if it doesn’t work out, it wouldn’t be hard to avoid him.
We may be coworkers, but aside from this one-time joint tour, we usually work alone.
And the cities we go to are big enough to avoid each other when the tours overlap.
Why haven’t I thought of this before?
Oh, right. Because no other tour leader affects me as much as Callum does.
Even before he begrudgingly showed that he cared for me, in his recalcitrant way, he was making me react to him.
There’s something about him that makes me want to smother him in glitter to lighten him up.
Or at least do the metaphorical equivalent of that.
It’s a strange, contrary reaction to have, but I can’t deny it.
Like I predicted, twenty minutes was not enough time to deal with all those emotional complications and get ready for this not-date, maybe-date, Schrodinger’s date.
And I’m not going to kill the date by asking what it is.
But I don’t have time to worry about all that, because Callum knocks on my door while I still have an unzipped dress and a makeup-free face that looks like I’m recovering from an illness. Which I am, but I don’t want to look like it.
“I’m coming,” I yell at the door. I try to think about what I can do in the next thirty seconds to make this better, but I can’t think of anything. Might as well face the music.
“Hi,” I say with a smile once Callum’s face is revealed.
“Do you always answer the door undressed?” Callum’s face is fierce as he pushes his way into the room and closes the door behind him. Apparently before anyone else can see my shame.
I roll my eyes. “No. I was pretty sure I knew who it was. The same person who did not give me enough time to get ready when he told me he was coming back in twenty minutes then ran away before I could negotiate those terms. So he gets what he gets.” I turn and present my back.
“Since you’re here.” I tug at the top of the dress so he gets what I need.
He sighs deeply and then I don’t hear anything for a while. It’s so quiet I wonder if he turned himself into vapor and slid out under my door. But then I turn my head back and see him moving slowly behind me.
So slowly that even the tortoise would tell him to get a move on already.
I turn back around so as not to seem too eager, which means I have no idea where he is or when he’s going to touch me. All I can do is stand here, waiting in anticipation for his touch, and how it’s going to make me feel.
If it’s anything like when he kissed me, it’s going to go straight to my head faster than the cold medication I’ve been pounding for the last day and a half.
It’ll make me feel just as happy, like I’m floating on a magical cloud of…
whatever they put in cold medication to make me not care that I haven’t brushed my hair in days.
Oh, shit. My hand goes to my hair, and I sag in relief to find that I did indeed brush it. Take that, meds.
Callum finally touches me. Even though he just grabs the zipper of the dress I’m almost wearing, he can’t avoid brushing against exposed skin of my back. Thanks, dress. What a wingwoman.
Initially, I jerk forward a bit, even though I knew the touch was coming.
But even expecting it, there’s no way to adequately prepare for it.
No way to stop the shiver that involuntarily arises as his fingers slowly drag up from my lower back to the base of my neck.
By the end of the ordeal by flesh, my back is leaning into the touch.
Before I can faint from the lust, Callum’s magic fingers leave me, and I stumble a bit, chasing after his hands.
But it’s a fortuitous—if embarrassing—stumble, because his hands are back on me. My shoulders this time, and with a lot more pressure than when he was zipping me up. And I didn’t even have to beg, which was the next plan of action.
“Are you all right? We don’t have to go if you’re still feeling a wee bit sick.”
I have two choices here. I can stay where I am and blame being ill, which means he’ll probably leave and I’ll spend the day alone watching French television.
But he won’t wonder about my motives. Or I can move away and say I’m fine, which will probably make him wonder why I stumbled, but we go gallivanting around Paris for the rest of the day.
As much as I want to save face, I want to spend the day with him more. And in a place that has fresh air, not this hotel room that I haven’t left in too long.
So I step away. “I’m fine.”
“If you’re still sick—”
“No. Remember the thermometer? It said I was green. Green means I can live my life. I’ve just been in the bed too long; I must have sea legs for the horizontal…bed legs. Have to get used to walking again.”
“Just because you aren’t feverish, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still take it easy so you can fully recover. I don’t think it means you can go out and run a marathon.”
“We aren’t going to run a marathon. Nor would I run a marathon even if I was in the best health.
Because running is the devil and a runner’s high is propaganda made by the shoe companies to sell more shoes and perpetuated by runners who don’t want to admit they bought the shoes for nothing.
You know what a real high is? Pot. They should just do pot. ”
“Your mind is a terrifying place.”
“Hmm. Must be the cold medication. Let’s go explore.” I grab my purse, leaving the backpack since I’m not tour mom today. But I do have my phone, because even though my babies are on their own, mothers are never truly off duty. Even tour moms.
“If you start to feel knackered or sick again, we can come back. You know we’ll both be in this city again. And probably soon. There’s no need to push it today.”
“Sure, sure.” But I won’t be back in Paris with Callum. Well, I could be, if this turns into a thing. I smile at the thought and thread my arm through his.
I am recovering from an illness, after all. I could use the support, however fine I feel, just in case the tide turns. For safety purposes.
Callum is true to his word and calls a cab to take us to our first stop. It’s a luxury I don’t normally splurge for, but it’s nice to be close to him without the rest of Paris traveling with us.
The line for Sainte-Chapelle is surprisingly short for the summer, and we walk right into the space with its 1,113 stained glass windows.
“The light is perfect for this today,” I whisper to Callum.
There’s no rule against talking, but there’s something about being in this mostly dark space with spots of jeweled-toned light that makes me feel like I’m walking in a kaleidoscope that demands quiet respect.
I’m not religious, but the space itself, and all the history and people involved in it, still demands solemnity.
And the occasional picture. Pictures can be solemn. And very respectful. Even selfies, even though I doubt Callum would back me up on that.
Still, I snap some photos of Callum in the light, and then focus on the building. When I turn around again, Callum has his phone out and is taking a photo of me.
“Taking photos now? I’m such a bad influence.”
Callum’s checks turn red, even though it looks purple in this light, or more purple since everything is a little purple under the stained glass, and he extends the phone to me.
“Thought you might like some photos. Since you’re obsessed with social media and documenting moments for a posterity that probably won’t care. ” He sends it to me as we look at it.
He captured me taking a photo. Holding my phone with my face upturned, bathed in the light pouring in through the colored glass and by the screen of my own phone illuminating me. I look ethereal. More because of the magic Photoshop of this building than my face, but still.
“You’re very good at this,” I say.
“It’s not rocket science. Point, hit the button. The building did most of the work. And your face.” The words are an angry grumble. Literally the angriest compliment I’ve ever received.
“My face?” I squeak out.
“It’s…aesthetically pleasing.” He still sounds so gruff I only barely stop myself from asking if he’s the one getting sick now.
“Thank you,” I say instead, dazed and unable to handle compliments from the man while under the lingering influence of cold mediation.
“A piece of the Crown of Thorns is over there.” Callum points at something behind me.
As transitions go, it isn’t the smoothest, but as distractions go, the alleged crown that Jesus was wearing when he was crucified is a good one.
“Do you think it’s the real deal?” I ask. “Well, leaving religion out of it and looking at Jesus as a historic figure.”
“Who knows at this point. It’s been so long, and it didn’t exactly come with provenance. There are enough pieces of it floating around that not all of them can be the real thing. Unless he had the biggest head in recorded history.”
“I choose to believe it’s true. It’s the better story.” I nod, like that settles it. For me, at least.
“That’s not how history works,”
“But wouldn’t it be better if it was?”
“The truth can be interesting in and of itself. And it has the advantage of being the truth.”
“That’s definitely true.” I laugh at my own joke.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The sass I get simply trying to educate the masses.”
I point to myself. “It’s me? I’m the masses?”
“You know a good deal more than the masses.”
“So many compliments today. Did I imagine them all under the influence of cold medication? Actually, don’t answer that. I like thinking the answer is no.”
Callum shakes his head at me, which is an answer enough even though I specifically asked him not to give me an answer, as we walk past the relic. Not that I can see it through the ornate gold crown-shaped case it’s housed in.
We exit the building and Callum leads us to the entrance of the catacombs where the tour starts, my hand tucked into his elbow. He even extended his arm out to me first, before I could reach for him. What a nice Schrodinger’s date.
The catacombs are dark, the ceilings short, and the walls are lined with bones. It’s quite a contrast from the last building we were in, with its tall ceilings and patches of sparkling color.
“Did you know—” Callum starts.
“That the bodies were moved here because the Parisian cemeteries were overflowing?”
“Ah, right. Going places with another historian.”
“You’re off duty for now, Callum. Especially because we have a professional tour guide coming to take us through the site.”
“This must be what chefs feel like when they go out to eat. Do you have trouble on other people’s tours?”
“Not really. Not unless they get something wrong. But I figure what they chose to include and what they left out is what makes each individual tour special. And if they’re passionate about what they’re talking about, then it’s going to be fun for everyone.
I get madder when the tour guide gives no energy, like they don’t want to be there.
But it’s always a unique experience at the same historic sites with different guides. The tours are like snowflakes.”
“Ah. I do not feel that way.”
“I know.” I laugh at the understatement. Then my smiles fades. “Neither does Rob, apparently.”
“He doesn’t much like the by-the-book approach either, if you’ll remember.”
“But we’re both learning from each other. I’m including more boring shit in my tours.”
“Thanks for that,” he says dryly. “And I’m trying to care about guests’ needs outside of knowledge.”
“And soon, you’ll even sound happy while doing it.”
“One thing at a time,” Callum deadpans.
I laugh, then shush him (even though he wasn’t making noise) when the guide comes. Have to give respect to a peer.
Unless that peer is Callum. It’s too much fun annoying him.