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“Of course you are.”
There’s a buzz from the intercom and the voice says, “Mr. Harris, I forgot to ask about the woman in the car with you. Does she need me to notify her office that’s she’s delayed.”
“She’s a visitor to the building.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Why would you assume I’m a visitor?”
Martin looks pointedly at my chest. It takes a second to follow his gaze and see the bright red visitor’s badge.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Visitor to the building.” I mutter in a nasally tone. “Like I don’t have just as much right to be here as you.”
“I didn’t say it like that. You’re delusional.”
But his lips are twitching, like I’m “delusional” in a cute way or something. Which makes me feel even more like a child.
“Okaayyy…” the voice from the intercom says. “Well, it sounds like you two have some things to talk about while we work on getting the elevators moving again. And don’t forget that we have cameras in the elevators.”
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” But the intercom has gone silent again, so I look at Martin. “What did he mean by that?”
He snorts, clearly amused. “No idea. Maybe he was worried you were planning on stabbing me.”
“I wish.”
Martin tips his head back again and closes his eyes.
Suddenly, it feels like he’s taking up even more of the elevator. The elevator that already smells faintly of bergamot and soap. I catch myself staring at him. Studying him. Taking in his perfectly straight nose and full lips. Men should not have lips like that. But it’s more than just his good looks and obvious wealth that I find disconcerting. It’s the easy confidence.
I am a jittery bundle of nerves pretty much always. But this is man is just … himself. Relaxed and confident enough to lounge while trapped in an elevator.
“Seriously?” I ask, my feelings of inferiority bubbling over. “Are you napping?”
“I’m closing my eyes. It’s not the same thing.”
“Hmm …” I pace some more, but his long legs eat up most of the space in the elevator, limiting my range.
“You might as well sit down, since he said it could be a while,” Martin says without opening his eyes.
“I’m not a sit down and rest in stressful situations kind of person.”
“I never would have guessed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I glance over at him.
His eyes are open now and he’s watching me.
“Nothing.” He swallows and lets his eyes drift closed again. “You just seem … high strung.”
“I’m not high strung. I’m perfectly strung.” But the pacing isn’t helping, so I lean down and do a quick forward bend before stepping back into downward dog.
“What are you doing?” he demands, his tone horrified.
“Sun salutations. They help me relax.”
“Jesus.”
