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No!
“Knock it off.” I ducked beneath his arm and stood between him and the panel—and much too close to Calvin’s smolder. “Ahem. I have to get to the seventh floor sometime this week.”
He leaned nearer. Our noses practically touched. He smelled better than he looked, and he looked too good to be true. Which, duh, he was. Totally. Everything about Calvin Turner was an act. Big hat, no cattle. SolutionX’s finest show-pony-turned-executive.
Whereas, I was their workhorse.
Workhorse status meant they’d never recognized my potential as a creative contributor—at least not yet. This meeting on the seventh floor could open doors for me, creatively.
“What’s the fire to get upstairs, Starkey? You think your hairy-footed true love is waiting for you up there?” His breath feathered past my cheek.
I closed my eyes to shut out the intensity of Calvin’s gaze. “Let’s leave the hobbits out of this. What did they ever do to you?”
“Oh, lots. By being plastered to your cubicle wall, they kept your attention off me, for instance.”
“Does every woman have to fall at your feet for you to be happy? Is that it?” A Tolkien quote about potatoes came to mind, but I applied it to Calvin: boil ’im, mash ’im, stick ’im in a stew. “All the girls on the third floor have been through your revolving door. Isn’t that enough?”
A frown flickered across his face. “Not all the girls on the third floor.” He inched his face a little closer to mine.
I swallowed hard. Why was my body chemistry reacting to this … play-actor? I would’ve moved out of his path but I was guarding the panel.
Bessemer clunked to a halt. “Finally. I’m getting off here.”
“Between floors four and five?”
What? I jerked my head upward, and the dial pointed—sure enough—between the two floors. “This is your fault.” I whipped my face back toward Calvin, who still stood over me, when—“Ouch.” Something tugged mightily at my ponytail.
“I think you’re stuck.” Calvin moved his arm, which pulled my hair even harder.
“Don’t you mean we’re stuck? Between floors?”
“Yep, and your—whatever that thing is in your hair—horsefly swatter?”
“My ponytail?” Ouch. It stung when yanked.
“Whatever. It’s stuck on the buttons of my jacket.” He edged into my personal space and put his other arm around my neck, working his wrist near the back of my head.
I’d never been this close to Calvin Turner. Never wanted to be. Unless that recurring dream counted—the one where he got too close and I woke up in a cold sweat. But my conscious self had never wanted Calvin this near to me.
“It’s really stuck.” He pulled me closer, his hands moving behind me slowly, almost a caress. “Hang on there, Mandy.”
“Uh-huh,” I said in a reflexive swoon. Apparently, my hormones were on board with Dream-life Amanda, instead of Conscious Daytime Amanda. Chances were, after a long winter’s nap they were buzzing to life with his nearness. The clean shave, the ridge of his jaw line, the dark lashes fringing his blue eyes all were near enough to kiss collectively and individually.
Kiss? No! I would not be kissing any portion of Calvin Turner.
Bessemer lurched upward. I thrust my arms around Calvin’s torso for balance. “Whoa, Bessemer!”
“Whoa, Amanda.” His smolder deepened into glowing embers.
Great. I was now embracing Calvin Turner, consummate player, and chewing out an elevator at the same time.
My life had come to this.
Calvin’s phone chimed a text. He left off working on my hair and reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand.
It’s not that I’m sneaky, it’s that he held it where I couldn’t help but see.
Are you bringing a Serious Girlfriend to my wedding, or are you losing our bet?
