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Like there was something wrong with reading romance? I nearly laughed out loud at that thought. Like I should be ashamed or embarrassed by this book?
Fat freaking chance.
Did he even know who Simona Steele was? Only the most successful author of our time, thank you very much. And not just in the romance world. No, Simona Steele had far surpassed the highest earners in fantasy and sci-fi with her latest release.
Lips in a tight line, I stared at the numbers above the doors, counting down as each number lit up on our way to the top. But with every floor we passed, my anger grew.
You know what? Forget taking the high road.
I swiveled toward him. “There’s nothing wrong with reading romance.” He probably didn’t even read. One of those arrogant men who thought fiction was beneath him, who only read Forbes or TheWall Street Journal.
And only then because he was on the toilet and bored.
The elevator stopped at the sixty-eighth floor, and the doors opened for a woman to step inside. Her face lit up at the sight of the gorgeous monster still positioned firmly in the center of the elevator as if he owned the damn thing. When he didn’t move to make room for the new passenger, she stepped to the side and sidled up to the opposite wall.
I breathed deeply through my nose, ready to let him have it as soon as we were alone again, but every breath I took was a mistake. He smelled so freaking good. What cologne was he wearing? It was so deliciously manly that each breath stirred a reaction deep in my belly.
The elevator stopped again on sixty-two, and the woman strode past him, smiling seductively over her shoulder in a feeble attempt to get this jerk’s attention. Shocking to absolutely no one, the Smirker didn’t even reciprocate her smile.
The doors closed and I could hold back no longer.
I turned toward him, ignoring the beauty of his chiseled cheekbones and those stupid, full lips that shouldn’t even belong to a man because there was no way he appreciated that gift. “As I was saying,” I nearly growled. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with reading romance novels.” I huffed my annoyance, but he still didn’t look at me. “It’s amulti-million-dollar industry, you know.”
“You don’t say.” He remained focused on the closed elevator doors, not even giving me a slight turn of his head in acknowledgement, though his lips twitched on that stupid smirk again.
Ugh.
The tops of my ears burned from how worked up I was. I shouldn’t have been so angered by the uninformed opinion of some random stranger, but you know what? I was damn tired of the reputation the romance community had to deal with when there was absolutely nothing wrong with reading, writing, or loving romance.
I met his gaze in the reflection once more.
He raised an eyebrow in challenge.
“Sales of romance novels rival those of inspirational books… and even mystery,” I said, unable to stop myself. It wasn’t only the fact that he’d mocked my Steele novel, but the combination of that with his aloofness and the way he didn’t even acknowledge the people around him… I’d bet no one had told him off in some time.
Well, Smirker, you’ve met your match today.
“While you’re busy reading Hedge Funds for Dummies or… Nepotism News,” I snarled, “romance novels are almost always at the top of the charts–at any given moment. USA Today, New York Times… you name it and romance authors dominate.”
His eyes narrowed just slightly, but that was all the indication he gave me that he was even hearing my little rant.
I looked back up at the numbers lighting up above the doors. Almost there.
I just had to stay calm for a few more seconds.
“I didn’t know books with Fabio on the covers had quite such a rabid following.”
I gasped. Literally gasped. Oh no, he didn’t. Chewing my bottom lip, I turned to face him again. I think the way he was goading me was worse than if he were to simply laugh in my face and hurry on to join the Monday morning circle jerk with whatever assholes he worked with. “You know what? A million dollar industry is nothing to mock and certainly nothing to turn your nose up at.” Narrowing my eyes, I glared at the side of his stupid, perfect face. “Not that someone like you would know anything about that.”
With a huff, I brazenly stepped in front of him, shoulders straight and head held high, ready to flee the elevator–and this frustrating man’s presence–as soon as the doors opened and allowed me enough space to fit through them.
FInally, the elevator stopped at the seventy-third floor. The doors started to open and–
“Someone like me?” He reached past me and pressed the door close button. His breath teased my neck as he leaned forward and whispered, “Should I be offended?”
The low rumble of his voice and that hint of amusement in his words were sexier than I cared to admit, and my body reacted to his closeness with a rush of warmth between my legs even as I struggled to remember why I was so annoyed.
The elevator began to move again, ascending to the higher floors.
And then it hit me.
I looked at the button panel and dread replaced everything else, cooling my body as effectively as a bucket of ice water.
The only number button still lit up was seventy-five.
Guess who worked on that floor?
All of the executives of Reed Publishing.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, what have I done?
My stomach sank down into my classic black pumps.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Um…” My voice was notably weaker now than it was just a few seconds ago. “I’m sorry, I… I meant no offense.”
He chuckled, a soft rumble that caressed my ears and sent a shiver of appreciation down my spine.
The doors opened to the seventy-fifth floor, but the man remained positioned closely behind me. Too closely. So closely I could actually feel the heat radiating off of his body. He reached past me and punched the door close button with his middle finger, then pressed the seventy-three.
After a swift descent, the elevator doors opened once again to the lowest level of Reed Publishing.
No longer fueled by anger and adrenaline, but pushed forward now by an undercurrent of fear–who had I just lectured?–I hurried forward without looking back. I didn’t need to see amusement in his dark eyes or the sexy–irritating–smirk on his lips. Or worse, annoyance.
What if I’d offended someone important?
Had I just ended my dream internship before I even started?
