Page 1 of Elf-ish

chapter 1

[Angelica]

“Possible heart attack. Ashford’s. Eighth floor.”

When the call came through from dispatch, I was eager to take the ride. Alongside my ambulance driving partner, Maddix, I wiggle in my seat at the prospect of entering Ashford’s iconic department store located in the middle of the pulsing beat of retail in downtown Chicago. Shopping at Ashford’s is an experience, and I have fond memories of visiting the seven floors of retail heaven.

However, I understand my assignment.

I’ll be entering the building to save the owner’s life.

Jude Ashford is a bit of a novelty. At twenty-something, he inherited his great-grandfather’s retail mecca, which had been reduced to one flagship store after decades of being a major department store chain with multiple locations throughout the world. Everyone knows how the old man left the family’s heritage—the original store—out of any buyout arrangements and willed the place to his grandson, who by thirty-something had turned this historical landmark into a glorious shopping destination.

Not that the place hadn’t been great prior to Jude’s rule. As a child, my grandmother would make the entire family dress up in our church-going clothes for a special dinner in the Oak Room, where we’d sit underneath a two-story tree that sparkled and glittered beneath the low lights of the dark-paneled dining space. On other occasions, she’d take us to a formal breakfast with Santa, often themed with holiday bears or popular children’s stories. A highlight of any visit was viewing the windows along State Street that told a story with automatons.

For me, I loved just standing on the bright red carpet on the first floor, staring up the middle of the store, where six higher floors were surrounded by shiny gilded railings, and the ceiling seven stories up offers a dream-like glass canopy.

Today, I wouldn’t have time to stop and gaze.

Again—job to do—which was a job I loved. I wasn’t some adrenaline junky or danger seeker, but more like an I-want-to-help-others kind of person.

Once parked beside the store, Maddix and I raced through the main floor, guiding a stretcher through the Black Friday doorbuster crowds, until we reached the elevator bank that would take us to the executive level.

A small group of employees is gathered outside the owner’s office.

“Let us through,” Maddix hollers, forcing people to part like the Red Sea.

Inside the office, we find a man, slumped in a high-backed office chair behind a massive wooden desk. With his white dress shirt unbuttoned to his waist, suit coat still on, and pants slung low at his hip, unbuttoned and unzipped, the hint of a tattoo along his side peeks out from the parted clothing.

His face is ashen and his eyes wide as his gaze pings from me to Maddix. “I’m having a heart attack.”

His speech is slurred but still strong, which is a good sign.

“Can you tell me what your symptoms are?” I address the store’s owner, who continues to ignore me and stares at Maddix.

Unfortunately, this kind of behavior comes with the job. Older gents can be bitter that women hold positions once predominantly held by men, such as first responders. Some men are threatened by the strength and confidence of a female in such roles. I might be average height, but I am solid and curvy. My uniform isn’t flattering to my body, but it isn’t meant to be.

“My chest. My heart is racing.” Jude weakly slaps his hand over a firm looking pec, while still looking at Maddix. “I feel like a vise is squeezing my ribs. I can’t take a deep breath.”

Sounds like a panic attack, but I don’t mention it.

“Any other symptoms?” I question.

The patient keeps his focus on Maddix as if I haven’t spoken.

“Don’t look at me. I’m just here for the muscle,” Maddix teases.

I snort, knowing my partner is kidding.

With a glove-covered hand, I check Jude’s pulse at his wrist. He flinches beneath my touch, and our gazes clash a second before he yanks his eyes away from me. Then tugs his wrist free from my fingers.

Maddix stands behind the large, leather office chair while I move to Jude’s ankles.

“On three,” Maddix states before counting down, and we lift Jude onto the stretcher.

With a quick glance at a woman standing just off the corner of the oversized desk, my earlier suspicions about what caused his heart palpitations appear confirmed. Being an EMT, we encounter the strangest things. Heart attacks induced by sex are not a novelty.

A mix of guilt and concern dust the sharp cheekbones of the lithe raven-haired beauty while she chews a polished fingernail.