Page 3 of Elevator Pitch

“Walks along the lakefront in the summer. Hell, even the frigid temps of winter. Although my bones appreciate springtime in Florida.” The Flash’s spring training takes place in the sunshine state.

“Summer in the city is the best.” Still not the most conversational statement but the truth. Chicago has this strange dichotomy of beachfront town and major metropolis divided by a famous highway, still affectionately called Lake Shore Drive.

“Ever done the polar plunge, though?” Ross shivers.

The idea of throwing myself into the frigid winter lake isn’t helping with my need-to-pee emergency.

I cross my legs and bounce once. Ross notices. His brows cinch tight. He rubs his forefinger and thumb around his mouth, circling his lush-looking lips before drawing them together along the thick edge of his chin. His eyes are blue which I’ve only ever seen on a screen. Up close, they are the same royal shade as my beloved baseball team.

“Hello?” A scratchy voice projects through the emergency call speaker.

“Yes. Hello.” Ross quickly turns toward the box and bellows louder than necessary for such a small space. “We’re stuck.” He glances at the floor numbers, none of which are lit to tell us where we’ve stalled.

“Sir, it should only be another minute.”

“Someone in here is on the verge of a panic attack. If she goes into cardiac arrest, it will be on your conscience.”

Oh my. “Was that necessary?” I demand, surprised by the sharpness of his tone and the terse insult to someone only trying to help us remain calm. Not to mention, he’s calling out my verge-of-hysteria. The only heart attack I’ll have is if my bladder gives out.

The elevator thuds, rumbling the lift before a loud clacking occurs, and we move again. I drop my fanning hand to my lower belly and squeeze my thighs tighter together. Knowing I’m this close to exiting this thing and reaching the safety of my room has the urge to pee ratcheting sky-high.

The sweat lingering on my skin is no longer related to the hot flash but to the potential mortification of not making it off this elevator and into my room in time.

Suddenly, the doors whoosh open.

Without a word to my former celebrity crush because he’d just lost all his points by reprimanding the elevator attendant, I rush toward my room. I have a vague sense of him turning in the same direction as me but I’m hyper-focused as I fumble with my room key. My hands tremble as the plastic card swipes over the electronic lock.

Red.

Red.

I flip the card over.

Red.

What the hell?

My hips rock. My knees knock. My thighs are pressed together tighter than a ballpark hotdog in a bun.

“That’s my room.” The masculine voice, embodied by the man standing beside me, watching me struggle to enter a hotel room, only irritates me further.

Glancing at the marker beside the door, I read the number. 1113.

Shit. I step to my left, forcing Ross Davis out of my way, and swipe my card over the keypad for my room. 1111.

Green. Click.

Without a glance backward, I step inside, allow the door to slam behind me and enter the bathroom. The potty dance continues as I struggle to roll down my nude-colored shaper briefs and settle on the toilet. Relief hits instantly and I bow my head, resting my forehead in my hand with my elbow on my thigh.

Holy cow, that was close.

Taking a deep breath, I linger on the porcelain throne as sweat cools on my skin. Pushing the body-contouring torture garment over my knees, I let it fall to my ankles. After kicking off my heels, I jiggle my feet for the final stage of removing the underwear.

With another deep exhale, freedom comes for my once constricted belly while I wiggle my toes, now released from my pinching shoes.

Placing both hands on my thighs, I lean forward, shaking my head back and forth.

No one else. To no one else would such a moment happen. I nearly peed myself in an elevator in front of Ross Davis.