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My heart lurches. Because I know that voice.
Praying I’m wrong, I follow the shoes up to the pants, past the rumpled shirt, the askew tie, and smirking, full lips, to meet the gaze of … you guessed it, Martin Harris.
I can practically feel an inhuman snarl gurgling in my chest as I narrow my gaze at him.
What are the odds that I would run into him again ever, let alone anywhere other than the memory care center where we first met two weeks ago?
Seriously?
Who did I piss off in a past life to have luck this bad?
A beat passes while we just stare at one another, him still blocking the elevator doors, me instinctively straightening into a slightly more defensive posture, until the elevator doors beep, protesting the delay. His gaze seems to take in every detail of my appearance with what I can only assume is pure disgust.
I half expect him to step back out, to let the doors close and the car to move on without him.
Instead, he steps fully in, turning to press the button for the below-ground parking. Even though there’s a panel on both sides of the doors, he reaches for the panel on my side of the car. And then, instead of adhering to basic human decency, he doesn’t retreat to the farthest corner of the elevator. He stands in the dead center of the elevator and turns to face me.
I jerk my gaze from him, to glare wordlessly at the corner.
“You’re the therapist who works with my grandmother.”
I nod, trying not to look at him, even though he’s the kind of man that people automatically look at. He’s tall and bulky enough to take up space. Not huge, but definitely the kind of man you notice. Handsome, without being pretty. The kind of man who probably has women scampering to get closer to him.
Not me, obviously. But other women.
“I didn’t catch your full name at the memory care center when we met.” He gives me a beat to respond, an opportunity I don’t take, before adding, “It’s Trinity, right? That’s what Margaret said.”
He’s being polite? Is he kidding?
After our bizarre, embarrassing, awkward first meeting at the memory care center, he doesn’t even have the common decency to ride the elevator in silence like a civilized human? How dare he?
I give him the side eye, only to realize he’s holding out a hand to me.
“Martin,” he says. “Harris.”
The instinct to shake someone’s hand when they hold it out is so deeply engrained, that I take his hand, only to be immediately annoyed with myself, because something about touching this man is startling. His hand is warm. His grip firm but not bruising or dominant. Just … steady.
The handshake doesn’t last long—certainly no longer than would be polite—but somehow the ghost of his touch lingers. It’s all I can do not to wipe my palm off on the denim of my skirt. Instead, I push my hand into my jacket pocket and fist my hand.
“And you are?” he asks, his tone gently chiding, as though he’s dealing with a child.
“Trinity. As you already know.”
“Trinity what?”
I drag my gaze back to his. “Is this necessary? Why the polite conversation? We had one very awkward meeting before now and once we get off this elevator, chances are we’ll never meet again because you’ll go back to wherever?—”
I’m mid-crazed-rant when the elevator jerks to a halt. The lights flicker and then come back on, but dimmer.
I break off in horror, my panicked gaze darting around the elevator car.
“What the?—?”
Martin is looking at me with that arrogant smirk of his. “I think you tempted fate by suggesting we’d never see each other again once we got off this elevator.”
“I did not … this isn’t my fault.”
He chuckles. “Of course not. The elevators in this building are—” He seems to search for the right word. “Temperamental.”
