Chapter 1
Ella
It seems my broody neighbor has made an art form out of not being alone with me in the elevator. Or at least that’s what it feels like. We just happen to get home at the same time. Usually.
Which makes sense, because we live in the same building—a low-rise, six-story condo that’s way nicer than it needs to be. The top floor is a group of luxury penthouses; the rest of us live in the normal floors below. I’m on the fourth. He’s on six. Of course he is.
My bakery is just down the street, but somehow, he still must feel like I lurk in the bushes waiting for him.
He just...exists on my timeline.
Not that I keep track or anything.
Because that would be weird.
And desperate.
He’s never said more than a handful of words to me, but he has one of those faces that feels familiar, which naturally makes me want to fill every silence with even more small talk.
Spoiler: I’m terrible at it, but only with him...
Last week, I asked him about the Mariners.
I don’t watch baseball and can’t name even one player on the team. I struggle with even remembering their mascot.
He tilted his head and said, “They didn’t play,” in the exact tone of someone wondering if I needed medical attention.
The frustrating part is that this doesn’t happen to me. Not normally.
I talk to strangers all day. I run a bakery. Holding conversations is literally my job.
But put me alone in a small metal box with him, and my brain apparently decides to take the day off.
Which is probably why he’s been avoiding the elevator. Or maybe that’s in my head. Hard to tell when you start noticing someone a little too much.
Maybe today I’ll get lucky. Maybe he won’t show up at all.
I jab the Close button and wipe my palms on my jeans. The metal doors start to slide shut—
Then a hand shoots through, stopping them.
It’s him… Dark shirt, quiet expression, broad shoulders… like silent steel wrapped in black, making the small space shrink instantly… and a tiny Yorkie tucked securely in his arms like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
The contrast, this massive man holding a six-pound dog, is so disarming that the words tumble out before my brain can vote on them.
“Your dog is so cute.”
He glances down at the dog, then at me, then back at the dog with the faintest furrow in his brow.
“Oh… He’s not mine,” he says, voice low, calm.
“Oh.” I shift in place.
“He belongs to an elderly lady in the building,” he finally explains.
He adjusts his grip on the dog, who lets out a tiny huff like he’s confirming this. “She’s too weak to walk him. So…you know.”
“Glynys?” I ask.
He offers a modest nod.
My brain short-circuits.
Glynys, the sweet elderly neighbor who always smells faintly of breakfast tea and used to wait at the bus stop every morning.
He helps her?
He walks her dog?
I did not have ‘quietly kind’ on my bingo card today.
“That’s… really nice of you,” I say softly, surprised by how sincere it comes out.
He gives a tiny shrug, like kindness is something he’d never dare acknowledge.
I look at the Yorkie again.
He’s staring at me like he knows my secrets.
“So, you’re like… a part-time dog dad,” I say lightly.
He lifts one brow. “I’m not a dad.”
The way he says it, flat but hushed, makes something twist in my chest.
Silence fills the elevator again.
I glance at the Yorkie.
He blinks.
I blink.
He reaches toward me, and my heart hammers in my ears. “You have a little something…” He waves his hand vaguely through the air. “…on your cheek.”
My hand flies to my face, and I pull it away to reveal traces of white flour. “Oh,” I whisper, recalling the smudges I meant to wipe off after I popped a batch of cupcakes into the oven. Clearly, I’d forgotten.
The elevator lurches, jerking violently before grinding to a full stop.
We freeze.
Stuck between floors.
Perfect.
Pretty sure this is how every Final Destination movie starts.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper.
He presses the emergency call button like it’s just another Tuesday. Calm. Unbothered. Probably immune to panic. Meanwhile, my heart is attempting its own jailbreak.
“Yeah, this is Nathan Reign. The elevator is stalled.”
Silence stretches between us, not cold this time, just… tight.
Nathan’s gaze flicks over to me, then drops to my sweater. “You like horses?”
I blink, thrown. Of all the questions in the world.
“What?” I look down at the little embroidered horse trotting across my chest. “Oh. Yeah. I mean… yes. I used to.”
His brow lifts a little. “Used to?”
“Yeah.” I chew my lip. Talking is better than imagining plummeting to my death. “My grandparents had a small farm growing up. Horses, chickens, and one goat with anger issues. But I loved the horses. I was around them all the time.”
He studies me like he’s trying to picture it, me, tiny, probably covered in hay and questionable decisions.
I shake my head. “They lost the farm when I was a kid. Had to sell everything. Haven’t ridden or even been around one in years.” A shuddering breath escapes me before I can stop it. “I miss it.”
Nathan nods once, slowly. “Makes sense.”
Something softens in his expression, something subtle and warm, and I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing in a metal box suspended by cables.
The speaker crackles overhead. “Maintenance is working on it.”
Nathan leans back against the wall, arms crossing casually. The Yorkie rests in his arms, steadily regarding us like a tiny, furry witness.
And for the first time since stepping into this elevator…
…I don’t completely hate being stuck here.
Moments later, the elevator jolts, then finally groans back to life, inching toward my floor.
When the doors open, Nathan shifts slightly to the side, one arm still securely around the Yorkie, giving me a small nod toward the hallway, a quiet, unmistakable after you gesture.
I step out first, my legs still a little unsteady. The air in the hallway feels cooler, less claustrophobic, and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath the entire ride.
Nathan follows a second later, the Yorkie peeking over his arm like he’s supervising.
We turn in opposite directions, me toward my apartment, him toward Glynys’s.
“Have a good evening,” I manage, still recovering from the adrenaline.
He glances back, eyes steady, voice low and polite. “You too.”
I stumble into my apartment, slam the door, and lean back against it, panting.
The top bolt sticks. Again.
I throw my full weight into it until it locks with a thunk.
Another thing for the Sup.
I mentally add it to the ever-growing list of things to fix.
My beta fish, Stuart, swims up to the glass as I step into the kitchen, fixing me with what I choose to interpret as a judgmental look.
“Hey,” I tell him, dropping my keys on the counter. “Don’t start.”
He doesn’t move. Just stares.
I glance back toward the door, then shake my head a little. “Walking Glynys’s dog for her…” I murmur. “Maybe we misjudged our brooding neighbor, Stuart.”
A meow sounds from across the room—sharp, demanding, right on cue.
“Relax, if you keep that up, I’ll have him walking you next.” I pause, then add under my breath, “A girl can wish.”
The thought lingers longer than it should. He said maybe three sentences to me. That’s it.
It was one elevator ride. One moment that should not matter as much as it does.
But it does. Because I don’t just have a crush. I have a problem.
And his name is Nathan.