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“Are you... Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer, his eyes turning to the ceiling where the light flickered again. His nostrils flared, the column of his throat moving as if he was trying to swallow a bowling ball.
“Cash?” She moved to touch him but he sliced her in two with a hard glare.
His voice a low warning, he growled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Presley didn’t hesitate answering, but whatever she was saying was coming at him like they were underwater. Or buried in wet cement.
The only sounds he could concentrate on were the whine of the elevator cables, the stacked glassware rattling away beneath his white-knuckled grip, and the concrete shaft visible through the iron-and-glass walls surrounding him. Who’s bright idea had that been?
He rode elevators never if he could help it. He’d been stuck in one with his mother when he was five years old. They’d sat sweating in that box for what had felt like days, but Dana Sutherland assured him it’d been a “mere forty minutes” before help had arrived.
There was nothing “mere” about forty minutes trapped in a vertical coffin if you asked him. The only reason he was in this godforsaken cracker box on cables was because hoofing it up flights upon flights of stairs right before he went on stage would affect his performance.
And not in a good way.
Presley hadn’t taken kindly to him asking what the hell she was doing. She was answering him, in a clipped, sharp tone and with plenty of gesticulating. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by her reaction. Seeing him for the first time since he’d left her crying in Florida likely hadn’t filled her with warm fuzzies.
He’d wondered if she’d forgiven him for leaving her. Considering the sparks that shot through her blue eyes, he guessed the answer was no.
She looked different from how he remembered her, but also the same. She had the same fire-red hair, and the same delicate freckles dotting the bridge her nose. Her black dress was more professional than party-girl, but no less tantalizing. Presley Cole had always been gorgeous. Still was.
“...not to mention I drove all the way from Tallahassee to help you,” she was saying. “You’re welcome.”
“Help me,” he repeated between clenched teeth. At least arguing took his mind off their predicament. “With what?”
“With your DUI, you idiot. There are a hundred reporters downstairs, and if you think a single one of them would give you the benefit of the doubt about your drunk driving—”
“I wasn’t drunk,” he snapped.
“Tell that to the judge.”
“I did.” The elevator jerked, Cash’s stomach along with it. Before he could do something seriously emasculating, like yip, Presley lost her balance and touched him. It was an innocent forearm grab, but her painted pink nails and the pale freckles on her arm reminded him of times not so innocent. Times he’d unhooked her bra before kissing her chest. Times he’d flicked open the stud on her jeans and slipped his hand inside...
Snap out of it.
“You’re here for an interview?” he asked.
“Yes. For Viral Pop. It’s a huge media conglomerate.”
He knew all about Viral Pop. It was a step sideways from the gossip magazines.
“No interview,” he growled, desperately trying to pull himself together.
“Oh, you’re granting me an interview.” Her laugh showcased high cheekbones, her eyes, as blue as the Gulf Stream, flickering in challenge.
“Not even if we’re trapped in this rickety tuna can for the remainder of the evening,” he told her, his stomach souring at the thought of being stuck in here. This was his worst nightmare come true.
Her arm shot out and her hand slammed the emergency stop button. The elevator lurched to a halt and a buzzy alarm began blaring.
“Listen here, Mr. Big Shot. As I have it tallied, you owe me at least a few minutes of your precious time. I’m not here uninvited, by the way. Gavin understands how a positive spin on your recent crisis could help you, and the record label.” She searched the inside of the elevator with obvious impatience. “How do I turn the alarm off?”
“You don’t.” He swiped his brow with the back of his hand, feeling woozier than before. This was just what he fucking needed. His ex-girlfriend, looking as hot as he remembered, yelling at him in an elevator stuck between floors.
“Cash, seriously. Are you okay?” Her harsh tone gentled as her other hand joined the first on his arm.
Stunning blue eyes inventoried his face, and the elevator walls faded. He recalled, with frightening clarity, the feel of her mouth on his, the way their tongues tangled as he plucked her nipple into a turgid peak. She’d orgasmed from that alone. He’d loved hearing her sweet cries in his ears while she tugged on his hair. His good girl, shirt rucked up, bra on the floor.
Yeah, his minor bout of claustrophobia was competing with another sensation entirely. Like the semi stirring to life behind his fly. She’d been polite and careful and as sweet as saltwater taffy back when they’d dated. Now, he sensed that same sweetness, but she’d added pure fire to the mix. Concern mingled with curiosity in her eyes. She was still touching him. Her black dress hugged demure curves, making him remember all he’d seen—and tasted—underneath.
The speaker crackled and a voice announced itself as “Rod from Maintenance.” Presley looked over her shoulder at the panel, then turned back to Cash, a question forming on her pursed lips.
He didn’t let her ask it. Instead, he leaned down and captured her plush mouth with a firm, unyielding kiss.
