Page 2 of Elevator Pitch

Dear God, I’m going to die. In an elevator. With Ross Davis.

There could be worse ways to go but plummeting to my death still wasn’t on my bingo card. As we rapidly descend to the end of our lives, I’m going to scream like I’m watching a horror flick, pee myself, and then die in a pool of urine at the feet of Ross Davis.

Graphic. I get it. My overactive imagination is what makes me a great writer.

And the thought of peeing sparks the urge.

No. Just no, no, no. My weak bladder is not allowed to kick in right now.

I. Do. Not. Need. To. Pee.

The mental command only stirs more urgency. My palms sweat on the railing. I can smell the tainted mixture of metal and perspiration. Or maybe that’s me, as my pits are beginning to moisten as if I hadn’t already been a little damp from my race to the elevator.

My pajamas, a lush bed, and a good romance novel were calling my name.

Trapped in an elevator would make a great meet-cute, but this was not romantic.

Peeing myself in front of Ross Davis is not the fluff of fantasies.

Lifting a hand, I fan my face, which has no effect but I’m internally telling myself it helps.

“Are you alright?” Ross asks, finally acknowledging my presence.

“Is it hot in here?” Mother of baseball, this can’t be happening. On top of the sudden need to pee, panic is setting in, triggering a hot flash. Not that the scorching-curse can be called forth. The devilish hormones inside me have a mind of their own and they’ve chosen this moment to strike, adding to my discomfort. Starting at my shins, heat rises up my body like the vines of the ivy wall in the iconic Chicago Anchor stadium. My skin goes up in flames. Steam is probably wafting off my flesh.

Ross stares at me as I frantically wave one hand in front of my face while clinging to the railing with my other hand. The restrictive, uncomfortable, possibly size-too-small spandex I’m wearing is making everything worse. My stomach is tight, pressing down on my bladder. Once I shed these control-top panties, I plan to never wear them again. I bend a little at the knees, clenching my thighs together. Any second now, the full-on I’ve-got-to-potty dance will commence. Momentarily, the hot flash is distracting me. I’m certain the additional heat turns my face Anchor red.

“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

Now that he’s mentioned it . . . “Maybe a little bit.” Are the walls getting closer in here? Is the oxygen lessening?

“Fuck.” He tips back his head and glares at the ceiling for a second before tugging off his baseball cap and rubbing his thick hand over his head. I have never in my life had a thing for tattooed or nearly bald men until this man. And with that silvery beard and the winning smile I’ve seen him give a crowd of cameras, he’s panty-melting.

Only I don’t need my panties to melt. I need them to stay intact.

“It will probably only be a few minutes.”

“Yep.” I dig my teeth into my lower lip as I continue the hand-fanning, knee-bending, thigh-clenching dance.

“Rough game tonight,” I add, then mentally curse myself. Now isn’t the time for small talk. In fact, it might be best if he goes back to ignoring my existence and I peacefully die a slow death unacknowledged by him.

“You a baseball fan?” He resettles the cap on his head.

“Go Anchors,” I muster.

“Shit,” he mutters, lowering his head again. He played for our team for six seasons before that record breaking one. We were sad to see him go when he’d announced his retirement after a personal tragedy. He was a worthy coach, though. Players adored him. Front offices respected him.

He lifts his head again, tipping it back to stare at the ceiling. “I miss Chicago.”

“Oh, yeah?” I grasp for something more intelligent to say. “What do you miss?”

His shoulders lift as he inhales deeply. He removes his cap again, scrubs over his head, and replaces the covering once more. “I miss the fans.”

“For baseball,” I interject, dropping my gaze to the Philadelphia logo on his shirt. Of course, he means baseball. Isn’t that the topic?

He tilts his head, confusion scored in his expression. “Yeah.”

“What else do you miss?” Maybe small talk won’t be so bad. Keep him chatting. Then maybe he’ll ignore the perspiration dampening my neck and the excessive wetness at my pits as I fight through the hot flash, the need to pee, and the onset of my height-phobia which involves additional sweating on my palms and feet.