He shakes his head, caught in a staring contest with the beast. “Pushed three. And zero.”
“Oh my God.”
“Chouchou!” Madame Christen’s voice wails out from her cracked apartment door. “Viens, mon p’tit bichounet. Il fait froid là!”
“Jesus,” Colin whispers. And then to the dog, “Thanks, buddy. Owe you one.” After giving Chouchou a quick scratch behind the ear, he turns back to scoop up my shoes and the bottle, grabs my hand, and we make a break for the stairs.
I stifle my laughter until the fourth floor, but once I let it out, it’s awfully close to hysterical. “What the hell was that? Did I imagine it?”
“No, you did not. The devil dog saved us.”
“You don’t actually think Chouchou pushed the button, do you?”
His expression says he’s definitely not ruling the possibility out. “That dog is getting steaks for life.”
I want that, I think absurdly. Only not steak, but… What? What do I want for life? Something panicky flutters in my chest as Colin moves up the last flight to his floor at a more sedate pace. Ridiculously, I want to pull back on his hand and slow him even more.
Hey! Let’s stay out here on the stairs or, better yet, go back into our freezing, dark elevator.
“What should…” The question fizzles in my mouth.What should we do now? I’d been about to ask, but I’m suddenly afraid of the answer.
He looks hard, in the stark hallway light. His eyes are sharp, his mouth flat. The lost, soft, sensual thing we’ve just shared is gone. Was it even real?
He’s holding my hand and his coat is on my shoulders. I’m carrying my shoes and the half-finished bottle. These are all that’s left of the time we spent in that box together.
And I hate it. I want the box back, despite being desperate to pee. And I really, really need some water. And I’m starving, actually.
Although that thing eating at my insides might not be hunger so much as pain at the idea of never meeting my elevator man again. I want him back, the way he was. I want us back. I want…
We get to his floor and I put on a smile, reach for my shoes, and internally practice the right kind of friendly goodbye for the occasion.
It hurts, I’ll admit, but I’m leaving in two days. It’ll be easier to rip off the bandage if we don’t linger.
He starts. “So, uh—”
“Here.” I yank off his coat, immediately cold. “Thank you. You are—”
“Perhaps we—”
I stop, breath held.
He stops. “Go on.”
“No, it’s just that…” I shrug, feeling lame and lost and slightly embarrassed now that he’s this beautiful, intimidating man again and I’m just…me.
“You need to check your oven?” It’s the perfect out. A ready-made excuse to rush up there and hide. Quiet as a mouse.
“Yes,” I say. “Right. Better do that.”
He nods. “You got your keys?”
“Yep.” I pat my hoodie pocket, avoiding his eyes. I don’t know what makes me add, “Would you like an eggnog?”
His face wrinkles up into its usual look of annoyance. “Isn’t that the custard you Americans drink like milk?”
“I guess so. Never mind. Better go use the…the loo.” I force a smile, hating how awkward it all suddenly feels. “Thank you for, um, everything.”
Trying hard to hide the hurt at his lack of response—why would I hurt anyway, right?—I turn and race up the stairs.
