Free Hotelles by Emma Mars Page A

hovered a few feet above the canopy . . . above our heads. A drone!
    It sounded like the seagulls that made it here from the ocean, fluttering and flapping. Who was piloting the machine? It was getting really close, but I could tell it was being driven with extreme precision. When it was about three feet from the table, a metallic claw shot out from the rigid plastic structure and opened with a dry snap. A little package tied in a ribbon dropped onto the tablecloth, making a light and hollow sound.
    â€œPeople always say things like this don’t fall from the sky,” David repeated. “But I wanted it to for you. Really: from the sky.”
    Dumbfounded, I stared at the package. Then, obeying a look in his eyes, I got ahold of myself, though I was still mute from disbelief. The boat trip had already exceeded all expectations. David had already more than fulfilled the kinds of princess dreams I had always disdained.
    â€œGo ahead, Elle . . . ,” he cooed, his voice sounding like it could have come out of a Christian-Jaque or Marcel Carné film. “Open it.”
    So this is what he had been hiding from me these past few weeks.
    How to measure the ironclad inviolability of our biggest secrets? By the surprised expression on the face of the person to whom we reveal them. Let’s not kid ourselves. At that moment, mine was curled into a foolish grin.
    I tore off the gold paper and opened the velour jewelry box. Inside hid a ring. Pink gold and diamonds, I noted instinctually. It was the most splendid piece of jewelry I had ever seen. It was subtle and well balanced: its size and setting were understated, the quality of its precious stones exquisite. What’s more, I could tell just by looking into its scintillating angles that this ring had a history. It did not come from a jewelry shop window. It had a memory.
    â€œIt belonged to Hortensia, my mother,” David remarked gravely. “And to my grandmother before her. And if you want, you’ll be the third generation of women in our family to wear this engagement ring. I’ve already had it resized.”
    Family. Engagement. Marriage? My mind went blank. I could only think in keywords, and they were doing some kind of bumper car version of ballet in my head. I had a strange pounding sensation in my temples. Irrationally, I thought my blushing cheeks had started flashing an alarm-signal red.
    â€œEngagement?”
    I didn’t understand.
    â€œAn engagement and wedding ring. It’s a tradition in my family. On the wedding day, we take it off and put it back on the ring finger.”
    To better illustrate his point, he took the ring out of the box and made as though to put it on my finger.
    â€œWait . . . No!”
    I hastily withdrew my hand. A hurtful gesture, I quickly realized. Still, he was the one who apologized.
    â€œForgive me . . . As usual, I’m forcing things.”
    The onlookers who had gathered near the cathedral didn’t understand the importance or uncertainty of this moment for us. Some even started to applaud. For them, our fluvial tryst was an unexpected bonus in their tour of romantic Paris.
    I broke out into hysterical laughter.
    â€œIs this a joke to you?”
    â€œNo! Not at all!”
    I controlled myself with great effort. I didn’t want to dampen the mood any further.
    â€œIt’s just that it’s so . . .”
    Unexpected. Huge. Surprising. Fantastic. And even a little cheesy. I wasn’t sure how to feel, but I knew I was grateful. Gratitude. It grew within me, warm and comforting. Life with him would be as peaceful, calm, and romantic as the river upon which we were currently floating.
    Madame Annabelle Barlet. Me, a girl from Nanterre carted into Paris every morning on the RER train.
    â€œDon’t give me your answer right away. Take your time.”
    â€œYes . . . I mean, thank you,” I said, matching his distant tone.
    Suddenly,