5. The Elevator Scene
5
The Elevator Scene
Rose
A nton abruptly leaves, and the rest of us sit in silence for a few seconds. Scott and Roger have matching bewildered looks on their faces. Ned is eyeing me with curiosity, and the guy seems about two pieces away from putting together the puzzle that is my history with Anton. He must be the perceptive one in the group. As for me, I’m trying not to take it personally that Anton was so intent on getting out of my presence that he tripped over a mini trash can on his way out the door.
Add that to the fact that he rammed his bike into a snow pile when I saw him outside, and it’s obvious I have a terrible influence on the guy. He avoids three-hundred-pound linemen and angry linebackers for a living, and yet one glance from me, and he’s a bumbling, stumbling oaf.
“Sorry about that, Ms. Kasper.” Scott draws me from my thoughts. “He must be having a bad day. I’m sure he’ll come around. Do you have any questions for us about the assignment? It seems like Babette got you taken care of.”
I spend the next ten minutes chatting with the River Foxes’ head honchos before leaving.
Scott asks me to close the door on my way out, so I swing it shut behind me and grab my cell phone from my pocket. I’m scrolling through emails as I wait for the elevator, trying not to dwell on how good Anton looks these days. I need to get over that—and quickly. I’m going to be spending a lot of time with him, and I can’t have his appearance do funny things to my head .
Not just his physical appearance, either, though the mesmerizing eyes, broad shoulders, and amazing hair would be enough to slay me. Seriously, that curly lock that falls over his forehead nearly ends me every time I see it.
But it’s more than his good looks.
Anton is and always has been so…so… cool . I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s like he has an intangible aura of confidence and swagger. Case in point: he made plowing into a snow bank on a bike and tripping over a trash can look sexy.
I’ve stayed up to date on his career, read the articles written about him, and watched his interviews. They all land on one point over and over again: Anton is a leader, and he makes everyone around him feel like they matter and they’re cool too. By association to him, sure. But also because of who they are. I don’t know how he does it. He’s a prince and a professional athlete. He shouldn’t come across as relatable. But he does. He is.
Everyone loves Anton Bates.
The elevator dings, and I step inside, nose in my phone, trying not to think about how I could have loved him forever.
Until a throat clears.
I whip my head up to see Anton standing along the side wall with his impressive arms crossed and his eyes narrowed at me. The open, welcoming expression that once drew me to this man like a moth to a flame is long gone. He is not happy to see me.
I immediately take a step backward, my fight-or-flight response kicking in at being in such close quarters. But I bonk my head into the door of the elevator, which has already slid shut. Unfortunately for me, I lack Anton’s coolness. Instead of looking sexy or graceful, I stumble forward at the unforeseen contact, and Anton reaches out and grabs me around my upper arms, steadying me as the elevator begins to make its descent. His closeness—the feel of his strong grip on my biceps—triggers a total body reaction. It’s like biting into an ice cream cone and having an instant brain freeze. It’s painful and all-absorbing, and I want to whimper against the unfairness of it all. Something that should be, could be, so good it hurts.
I glance up into his eyes and am immediately transfixed by the green ring around his irises that morphs into blue, like a tie-dye swirl. I smell the wintergreen gum he’s chewing, and my brain short-circuits. I swallow and open my mouth to say…something. I don’t know what, but he beats me to the punch.
“What are you doing here?”
His voice is a bulldozer, and the rumble of it nearly knocks me back again. Goosebumps break out over my entire body. Like I can feel them pop up on the tips of my ears, which is absolutely ridiculous. I allow myself one shaky breath, and then I let a mask of indifferent superiority fall into place. I may not be inherently cool like Anton, but I can pretend with the best of them.
Fake it ‘til you make it, babe.
“Um, my job.” I force myself to sound condescending. It’s a defense mechanism. “I thought Scott made it pretty clear. Or were you too busy coming up with an exit strategy to listen?”
“I heard enough, and you know it. This”—he steps away from me and motions between us—“is not going to work.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” I lift an uninterested shoulder, as if my body isn’t having a full-blown, meltdown reaction to standing this close to him. “I was hired to write this article, and I intend to do what I’m being paid to do.”
Anton shakes his head, and that delicious lock of hair falls over his forehead. I squeeze my fingers together, willing away the urge to reach up and brush it out of his eyes.
“I want you out of here,” he growls. “I told you to stay away from me. It’s the least you can do,” he adds more softly, and the rasp in his voice feels like a gut punch.
I tell myself not to feel it. Not to acknowledge it. I’m here for his own good. He doesn’t know that. He might think I’m out to cause him more pain, but it’s the total opposite—even if being around him maims me too .
“Get on board with this, Anton. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”
“Harder than it has to be?” He gapes at me. “It doesn’t have to be anything. It won’t be anything. I’ll talk to Scott and Roger after I get back from California. I’ll get out of the article. You may as well return your stadium lanyard and passes to Babs. This”—he waves his hand between us again—“is over. It’s been over for years. Now get out of my life, and get out of here.”
It’s cute that he thinks he actually has a say in this. Also, he’s going to California? I need to read Lennox and the team in on that.
I put my hands on my hips. “No.”
He takes a step toward me and glares down. Our gazes lock in—blue collides with blue. The stuffy air in the elevator crackles. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, I need this job. I’m not going to let you boss me around. So, no. I’m not going anywhere. You can be juvenile about it, but I’m going to stick around. I’ll be like a pesky little mosquito, buzzing in your ear, Bates. You can swat me away, try to squash me, but I’ll keep coming back for more.”
“Really? A mosquito?” Anton’s gaze searches my face. “That’s the analogy you’re going with? An annoying, bloodsucking insect that everyone hates?”
I admit I didn’t really think that one through, but I’m in too far to let him see me sweat—at least not visibly. Underneath my jacket is another story. It’s like a waterfall is pouring down my back. I’ve got to get some better deodorant for all the time I’ll be spending around Anton. My sweat glands cannot handle this man.
“The point stands.” I keep my tone bored, like I’m completely unaffected and unbothered by this elevator confrontation, even though we’re chest to chest and my lungs are heaving. Why is he standing so close to me? Doesn’t he realize I can’t function like this?
“Huh.” Anton searches my eyes, and then his lips quirk.
I know what those lips taste like. I know how they feel. I want his mouth on mine.
No .
Not. For. Me.
“What?” I say on a breath, silently cursing my vocal cords for giving out on me and sounding all wheezy.
“Just wondering if you know that mosquitos only bite the people they’re attracted to.” He clicks his tongue. “They smell the type of blood they like and lap it all up. What, exactly, does that say about you?”
I narrow my eyes at him. I can’t tell if he’s telling me the truth about this weird fact or what. Either way, I’m not going to answer that question. Instead, I counter with one of my own. “Why do you know that?”
He slips his hands into the pockets of his River Foxes joggers and leans away from me, suddenly looking more like the unflappable and cool star quarterback he’s known for being. Dang it.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He smirks.
The elevator door opens behind me, and I look back to see a group of people waiting to get on. I shuffle to the side and out the doors, grateful to put a little space between myself and Anton but somehow feeling colder in the process. The electric charge flowing between us was serving as a warming current, and now that it’s gone, the waterfall on my back is turning to ice.
Anton greets everyone who enters the elevator by name, stopping to hold the doors open so people can get on. My senses fire, and my whole body goes from gooey pile of Anton-induced mush to work-mode Rose. I’m watching his interactions with these people using all the skills I’ve acquired over the years as a trained security specialist. Any one of them could be someone who is going to attempt to hurt him, and I won’t let that happen.
The reminder that I have a job to do—a real one, not this bogus article—retrains my focus and gives me a much-needed reminder that I’m in this for the long haul. Anton does a few practiced handshake combinations with a couple guys, and then the doors close, and it’s him and me again.
I tap aimlessly on my phone in an attempt to look like a legit reporter. “Want to tell me about the people here? You’re obviously invested in the River Foxes organization.”
The easy smile Anton wore for the folks getting on the elevator falls, and his face turns stony, completely closed off. I could cry. “Good try. But no. I’m not doing this. Go find someone else’s blood to suck.”
He spins on his heel and strides off, leaving me in the deserted hallway with my galloping heart and drenched back. But more than that, with a firm resolve to keep him safe…whether I tick him off in the process or not.