Chapter 21
The next morning, on the way to work, Elliot kept glancing in my direction.
Probably to make sure I wasn’t getting lost in the bustle of New York City’s morning crowd, but I couldn’t help the fuzzy feeling in my stomach regardless.
I was watching him too; noticed every twitch of his lip, raise of his brows, and suppressed chuckle.
At the coffee shop around the corner from the office, I didn’t even have a chance to order my usual because Elliot had done it for me. His credit cards were still frozen, and Barista Robbie looked at his cash like he was seeing real money for the first time.
When Elliot handed me my cup and our fingers accidentally brushed, I couldn’t help the way my skin tingled, either. He rushed to add a “Sorry” at the accidental touch, but I waved him off like he shouldn’t be.
He should.
There were things happening that I had no control over. My body was having reactions it never had before, and he was the reason for them. He should be sorry, and he should make sure it never happened again.
This needed to stop. Now. “I think I’ll take the stairs today,” I said as soon as we entered the lobby. “Didn’t have a chance to go running this morning, so that’s at least some cardio.”
Elliot huffed from behind me, caught up, and . . . steered toward the stairs too. “You know you don’t need to prove you’re better than us mortal folk with everything that you do, right?”
Fuck. The reason I didn’t want to take the elevator was to get away from him.
Not to spend more time with him walking up to our respective offices.
“You’re right,” I quipped. Screeched to a halt by the elevator just in time.
“Why don’t you take the stairs, I’ll—” I pressed the button. Three times. “Ride up.”
But now that I’d stopped, doors beside me finally open, so did Elliot. He blinked at me, and I couldn’t even blame him for his confusion. I was acting like I’d lost my mind somewhere between last night and this morning. In a way, I had. At least the part crucial for critical thinking.
“Okay . . .” Elliot trailed off, looked around like I’d set up a hidden camera somewhere. How long does it take Elliot to realize something is seriously wrong with Maeve Peterson?
Twenty minutes, apparently.
“Why would I take the stairs? That was your idea.” He ushered me into the elevator, and I had no other choice but to comply because he added, “Get in there, Lucky. You’re being weird.”
And weird was the last thing I wanted to be. Cool, calm, and collected, that was my MO. Professional. So, after an unsuccessful attempt to get away from Elliot, the doors of the elevator slid closed behind us. Leaving us once again alone in a small, confined space.
Why does this keep happening?
With a single jolt, we started moving. In thirty seconds, I’d be free. Of my eyes unwillingly finding him on the other side of the shoebox-sized elevator. Of the way my heart rate picked up just slightly when he looked my way, too. Of everything in me chanting, Just once.
I wanted to let my hands disappear in his hair, feel his lips on mine without any guilt, and experience his fingers tracing lines down my bare skin. Just to know what it felt like. To realize that it wasn’t actually that big of a deal.
He was just another man who probably didn’t floss and left his clothes scattered across his room. Almost certainly.
My head fell back in another exhale, a futile attempt to get my mind out of the gutter and then Elliot out of my mind. My foot tapped against the floor, willing this ride to go faster when it felt like we’d been in this elevator for hours. I didn’t want my gaze to search for his again.
But we realized at the same time. That the ride was taking way longer than it should’ve. Our heads shot up in sync, and both of our eyes were a little wider. Okay, fine, mine were about to pop out of their sockets.
“No,” I warned, like he could do anything about it.
We weren’t moving. The button for the second floor wasn’t glowing a soft orange anymore, and then, as if on cue, the lights flickered and went off.
I guess the darkness had one benefit: I couldn’t see him.
“Okay,” Elliot conceded from somewhere. I was too busy hammering against the doors to locate his voice. “Maybe we should’ve taken the stairs.”
“This isn’t funny.” I could hear the grin in his voice. “I need to finish that dress and apologize to Camila. Plus, we’ve got a meeting in ten. I don’t have time to be stuck in this thing—”
“But you are.”
“—with you,” I added for good measure.
“Okay, ouch.” But the amusement in his tone hadn’t wavered, and it was starting to piss me off. Technically, nothing had happened between us. But it was a lot of nothing, and he couldn’t just act like everything was normal.
I whirled around to point at him. Or, at least, in the direction I assumed he’d be in. “Don’t even start. You’re the reason we’re in this situation in the first place.”
With his looks and flirting and desire to kiss me, apparently. If he hadn’t looked at me that way, if I hadn’t felt his breath on my lips and his touch on my cheek, the only problem right now would be the stuck elevator.
Now him, inside of it, was another one.
“Oh!” He laughed. “This is my fault, is it?”
“Yes.” I’d just listed every single reason for it in my head, and they were all logical. “Of course it is.”
“Of course it is,” he repeated teasingly.
The emergency lights flickered on in sync with his next words, casting a low, red glow.
He pushed off the wall, stepped into the middle of the elevator, and stood directly over the Ashwood logo.
His arms, of course, crossed. “And what exactly makes this my fault, Maeve? Did I tell you not to take the stairs? Did I force you into the elevator? Did I cut the power?”
No, but yes.
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” I said.
“And what would that be?” He took another step toward me. “Because I’m not sure I do.”
“You’re doing it right now.” My back hit the elevator wall, and the tiny step did nothing to ease whatever hung in the air between us. Possibilities. Want. Need. Elliot followed, and I wasn’t sure if he meant to do it.
“Huh.” He huffed innocently. “Am I?”
As if he hadn’t placed his hand on the closed doors, right beside my head. With the other, he started playing with my ponytail.
“I’m serious, Elliot. You need to stop.” But my words were barely above a whisper, no conviction at all in what should’ve been pure willpower and certainty. Maybe because a part of me didn’t want him to stop. Maybe because that same part of me almost started screaming at him to do it. Just once.
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that!” I squeezed my eyes shut to escape that shade of blue still recognizable in the red sheen of the emergency lights. “Touching me like that.” Innocently, teasingly, and in a way that somehow just made me want him that much more.
He dropped his hand, but brought no distance between us.
“Maeve,” he muttered, and the sound was barely a wisp against my lips. “I can’t help my reaction when I look at you.”
“Stop saying things like that too.”
“I’m just looking at you,” he doubled down. “The rest is out of my control.”
My head fell back with a groan. Every single word coming out of his mouth made this ordeal worse. “Why?!”
He finally took that step back, let his hands slip into the pockets of his pants. Unfortunately, instead of the relief I’d expected, panic seized my body. My heart rate picked up, my breathing fastened, and a bolt of electricity shot from the tip of my toes to the top of my head in recognition.
Screaming, quite candidly, Don’t go.
Elliot sighed, eyes batting open to connect with mine. Even in the red light, I recognized the vulnerability flash across his features. The way he timidly shrugged confirmed it. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me or why. All I know is that it’s all I’m thinking about.”
He was talking about kissing me, having me. I was in the same predicament. When was the last time I’d looked at him and thought, rival, enemy first? Not cute, handsome, kiss me.
That was it. Kiss me.
Finally, his fingers brushed my skin, tucking my hair behind one ear. Something exploded. My patience, restraint, logic, maybe.
“Remember when I told you not to be honest with me?” Just two nights ago, in the light of our fridge. Back when I’d been far more convinced that what was about to happen was a bad idea.
“Of course I remember,” he said. “I think about what would’ve happened if I’d been honest with you every single night.”
It had only been two since, but the fact seemed to pain him deeply. Like those nights were torturous enough in themselves. Like he might not survive another one.
And all I wanted was to take Elliot Ashwood out of his misery.
“Okay, well.” Fuck it. “I need you to be honest with me right now.”
Something lit up behind his eyes. He straightened, and his next breath sounded relieved, above all else. Almost as relieved as I felt when he finally confirmed what I’d known all along.
Whatever distance he’d previously brought between us disappeared. One long stride, and he stood right in front of me again. “Kiss me, Maeve.”
Not kissing him would mean I was scared. Of the consequences. Of what it might do to me and my ability to work with him. Not kissing him meant there was more to it than simply his lips on mine, and there wasn’t.
A cute guy kissing a cute girl after weeks of forced proximity felt inevitable. Get it over with, realize it’s just like any other kiss, and move on. That was the plan when I finally overcame the last few inches between us.
My arms wrapped around his neck, and a second later, his hands held my face. The last thing I noticed was the way his breath hitched against my lips before all I could focus on was the feel of him. Of his hand twitching against my cheek, his body pressing me against the door, and his lips on mine.
Soft. Full. Warm.
Everything I’d dreamt up that night and more.
He was right when he muttered “I knew it” into my mouth.
I had wanted this. Now, limbs entangled and tasting him on my tongue, I realized just how much. I don’t think I’d ever been on that list of women he just worked with. I think I’d always wanted him, just a little bit.
Ever since I’d spilled my coffee on him.
That he’d known the whole time bothered me a lot less when his tongue met mine in a single delicious swipe, and his hand, holding my face, fell to my waist. Squeezed. A sound of approval left his lips at the way I arched against him.
For a second, he pulled back, looked at me like he couldn’t quite believe he was here, with me. “Do you want me to stop?”
Logically, this was where I should tell him, Yes. Stop. Until here and no further. Because I was at that point where I’d usually realize how mediocre this whole thing was. Too much tongue, sloppy pace, weird sounds.
But that wasn’t the case.
I didn’t want him to stop. Preferably, ever.
I whined at the possibility even when I knew he wasn’t serious. “Wait. Is that a yes?” He added, “I’ll need to hear you say it, Maeve. Just to be sure.”
Asshole.
If I weren’t so focused on how much I wanted this, I’d hate how much he was reveling in the fact. How much he loved being right, and how he always needed to prove it.
“Has anyone ever told you,” I began, “that you’re the most annoying, aggravating, infuriating person in the world?
” I pulled him closer by the collar of his annoyingly perfect shirt.
The one his annoyingly perfect arms looked annoyingly nice in.
So nice, he’d been wearing it in my dreams that night.
“You probably shouldn’t be kissing the most annoying, aggravating, infuriating person in the world.
” Tauntingly, he tried to take a step back, but it didn’t take much to keep him in place, right here, stomach almost pressed to mine.
A finger traced the outline of my waist down to my legs, nearly slipping below that skirt. “Say it, Maeve. Do you want this?”
No. I shouldn’t—not after realizing how good, how perfect, it felt. But he was right there, looking at me like that. So.
“Yes.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a cruel, knowing way before it finally landed on mine again. I sighed against his lips.
“Good,” he muttered, barely a sound at all. “Because knowing what you’re wearing below all this has been killing me ever since you came out of your room.”
I was wearing one of the outfits laid out on his bed when he’d moved in last week, and yes, my underwear had been on full display then. What I couldn’t quite wrap my head around was the fact that he remembered, and it was doing things to me I couldn’t find words to interpret.
Elliot played with the buttons of my shirt absentmindedly, never focused enough on actually opening them. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to. If this was the right time to . . .
“Elliot—” But my voice died down, in sync with a foreign sound. The doors rattling and the lights flickering.
We shot apart so fast, he must’ve hit his head pretty hard on the other side of the elevator. He was rubbing the spot, eyes flicking to the gap between the two doors, growing wider by the second.
Light flooded the small space, and the crowbar in between became visible. Then boots, legs.
Rescued not just from the elevator but from ourselves.