Love In An Elevator
1. Melanie
Chapter One
MELANIE
“Hold the elevator!” I call out as I scurry through the lobby of my building. I see a hand come out and grab the door. The elevator makes a sound of warning as I slide inside, the doors closing behind me.
“Phew. Thanks,” I mumble as I try to situate my purse, work bag, and the two grocery bags I acquired on my walk home. I hit the button for the fourth floor.
It’s Thanksgiving week and I almost forgot the key ingredient to my mom’s sweet potato casserole. That would have been an epic disaster. I have a full day of work tomorrow and then I need to get up bright and early to make this casserole before catching the train out to my parents’ home. They are hosting as normal. My two siblings, all their kids, spouses, my cousins, aunts, and uncles are going to descend upon my parents’ quaint Cape Cod home for twelve hours of food debauchery. It’s overwhelming, but it’ll be nice to see my family. I haven’t been home in weeks because of work, and I miss my mom’s cooking and watching football with my dad.
I manage to get my bag situation sorted out as the elevator begins its slow and questionable ascent to the fourth floor. Every day I consider walking up the three flights of stairs, and normally the stairs win, but I have way too many bags today.
I glance over and freeze. It’s the man from 8C. I swallow, but my mouth is dry. He glances my way, his dark eyes scanning over me, causing goose bumps to form on my skin. I want to say something cool. Hell, I want to say…anything, but my mind goes blank. I quickly look forward as if the elevator doors are the most interesting thing in the world.
Why does this happen every time? This man moved in last year. I have seen him exactly 203 times. Yeah, I may have begun counting after the seventh time when my friend, Bailey, asked how many times I’d seen him because she wanted me to figure out if he lived here or was just visiting.
I can feel his intense stare. I start to open my mouth and close it and open it again. Just as I’m about to say something brilliant, I hope, the elevator stops at my floor. It gives a small shudder and the doors open. I swear this thing is a death trap. But right now, I’m more concerned with possible death from embarrassment. My cheeks turn pink as I grow anxious.
I step forward and the doors start to close.
“Careful,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly. I internally groan. Even his voice is sexy! His hand flies out again and holds the door open. His muscled forearm and bulging bicep take up all of my peripheral vision on my right. Dear God, I need to get laid.
“You’re welcome,” I squeak out as I step through the door. Wait? What? Did I just say, "you’re welcome”? It’s official, my death will be from mortification and not the elevator. I hear a chuckle behind me as the door closes. I just stand there, staring at the hallway wall in front of me, wondering exactly how I ended up here. In this hallway. Single and in need of dick. In this apartment building that has antique charm but is also antiquated.
“Fuck,” I grumble. “Fuck, fuckity, fuck!” I grit out as my legs finally decide to start moving again, leading me down the hall to my door.
My neighbor’s door flies open. “You OK out here?” Barkley asks, giving me a once-over.
“Nope, definitely not. When the ambulance arrives, just tell them I have a DNR.”
Barkley laughs. “Wow, uh, that bad?” I lean against the wall.
Barkley is the greatest neighbor ever. He moved in after breaking up with his husband. He’s twice my age, drinks twice as much as I can, and is the best listener ever. I had just moved in next door to him after I caught my fiancé sleeping with his assistant. It was bad and I was broke, having spent all my savings on a perfect wedding venue. As luck would have it, I walked in on him pounding this woman on our dining room table exactly five days before we were supposed to get married. I couldn’t get all my money back on the venue or most of the other services we had booked. So there I was broke, single, and angry as fuck. On my third night here, Barkley knocked on my door with a bottle of wine.
“Based on the amount of wailing I’m hearing, I’m thinking you need this, all of this,” he had said. And I had proceeded to open my door, letting him inside where we shared the bottle and exchanged all the sordid details of our failed love affairs. That night cemented our friendship.
“You have no idea,” I start as I drop my bags. He picks them up and ushers me inside.
“Come in, let’s drink a bottle, eat a pint of ice cream, and you can tell me what horrific thing has occurred since we texted at lunch.” Picking up my bags, he takes my arm and leads me inside.