I peer past his shoulder, certain I pushed my desired floor when entering. I’m unable to see the panel past the broad span of his shoulders. “Fifty-three.”
“Ah, the penthouse. I should have known.”
The mirth in his tone has my brow rising. “What floor are you going to?” I nudge his hip with mine, moving him far enough away from the dashboard to see he has selected floor thirty. "The thirties aren't too shabby."
I sound as if I have a plum in my mouth. My response is accurate. Apartments in this building go for the high six figures, if not occasionally dipping into the millions.
"The west wing has nice views of the skyline at night. What section are you in?"
I bite the inside of my cheek. The only way my question could have sounded more seedy is if it were delivered with a pigeon call. I'm not striving for a date. My stance on the dating scene hasn't changed since my teen days. I'm merely intrigued at my elevator companion's inability to look at me while speaking. I know he is watching me. It isn't just the heat of his gaze; I can see his baby blue irises peering at me in the brushed stainless steel panel of the elevator dashboard.
“I can’t give an opinion on the views. I don’t live in the building. I’m just here visiting a friend,” he eventually answers.
“Oh.” I’d like to issue a more confident reply, but I’m a little lost for words. I don’t need him to be Pinocchio to know he is lying. I heard it in his tone. “What apartment number? The floors and apartment numbers are a little jumbled. They don’t always match up.”
I'm not lying. With the apartments growing in size with each floor, the numbering system is a little off. I've voiced my annoyance to Isaac many times. It isn't because I mind helping the lost residents of his building; I just don't believe in the whole Fengshui crap his latest designer is spouting. You create your own luck, not a frog with a coin shoved in its mouth.
“Ah. . . 34A?” The unease in the stranger’s tone makes his statement sound like a question.
I shuffle my feet to take in his profile more diligently. Just as the generous cut of his cheekbone comes into sight, he twists his torso away from me. Suspicion runs rife through my veins. From what I saw, he has no reason to hide his face. Just his pouty lips spiked my heart rate, much less the quickest peek at his bright blue eyes. Even seeing only half of his face, I can confidently say he isn’t ugly by any means.
“Are you sure yourfriendsaid apartment 34A?”
A beat of sweat forms on his nape as he replies, “Yep.”
Short and precise. How most lies are delivered.
“I am carrying mace in my purse and perhaps a weapon that will have bodily fluids leaking down your leg before you realize you need to pee. If that isn’t enough incentive for you to leave this elevator at the next floor, take a glance at my shoes. The heel alone is a perfect weapon to have your eye and brain becomingextremelyfriendly.”
When the pegs of his white teeth become exposed in the dashboard, I remove a stiletto. After the week I have had, I’m not in the mood for games.
His smile disappears. “Hey, whoa. Come on. There is no need for violence—”
“Push the damn button for the next floor.” My tone is brimming with heated warning.
“Maybe I was mistaken. Perhaps he said 44A?”
“There are no apartments in this building with the number four in them. The Chinese believe it is bad kosha as it represents death."
“Seriously?” He sounds more shocked than worried for his safety.
“Yes, seriously! Now push the button for the next floor. There are stairs on each side of the elevator.” After taking in an illuminated twenty-three above the brushed steel doors, I say, “You only have six floors to climb. I’m sure it won’t kill you.”
“I—”
His words stuff into his throat when I raise my heel into the air in silent warning. If I could reach the dashboard without leaning over his body, I’d push the button myself. But since he is hogging the panel like Mrs. Vermont from apartment 12B does anytime she rides with me, I have no other option but to resort to violence.
“Five. . . Four. . . Three—”
“I’m not a child; you can’t count down and expect me to jump to your command somewhere between two and one.”
I continue counting down like he never spoke, “Two. . . O—”
“Alright! Jesus Christ!” He stabs the button for floor twenty-five six hundred trillion times before spinning around to face me. “Happy?”
“Uh-huh,” I reply, my pulse quickening.
It isn't his rueful glare speeding up my heart rate. It is his deliriously handsome face.My god.Chiseled cheeks, a sculptured jaw covered by an unkempt beard, and blue eyes that are the color of the ocean. His blond locks are a little overdue for a trim, and the scruff on his chin should be immediately removed for the travesty it’s hiding, but he couldn’t be classified as anything less than perfect. This man isn’t partially handsome; he’s downright out-of-this-world gorgeous. His cocky smirk, thick arms, and Ragnar Lodbrok-inspired beard don’t just have my mouth drying up; they have my stiletto falling from my grip.
