Page 5 of Elevator Pitch

“Uh . . .” I turn to face him.

Ross stands with both hands raised in the air, emphasizing his innocence. “I just noticed the zipper is only partially undone and thought . . .”

He isn’t wrong. I do need help. “I was trying to do the contortionist thing.” I lift one arm, showing him how I bend it over my shoulder, attempting to unzip my dress.

What the heck am I doing?

Lowering my arm, I clutch the clothing to my chest again. “Anyway, I’m not as flexible as I used to be.”

Somehow that sounds as dirty as him asking if he can help with my dress. I clear my throat, and he inches closer. Unconsciously, I step back, and he lifts both his hands again.

“Just offering my services.” There isn’t a drop of seduction or innuendo in his rugged voice. He looks beat down, and he doesn’t need the ridiculousness of me imagining he’s making an advance.

Why would he do that? He’s Ross Freakin’ Davis. Hot manager of a major league baseball team who can get any woman he wants, and he has. According to the snippets I’ve seen online, his latest conquest is Chandler Bressler, a reality TV diva, roughly fifteen years younger than him.

We lock eyes a second before I slowly turn and give him my back.

“Thank you,” I whisper over my shoulder as his fingers come to the zipper and he smoothly lowers it. I ignore the chill rippling down my spine and the tingle between my thighs. Don’t even think about the pulse thrumming at my bare core.

Holding the front of my dress pressed to my chest along with my change of clothes, I head to the bathroom with the back of my bra exposed. I don’t give Ross another glance. I couldn’t stand to witness him turning away from me while I walk away from him.

Which is as bizarre a thought as this entire evening so far.

Once inside the bathroom again, I decide against slipping into my jeans.

He’s casually dressed. I’ll dress comfortably.

I put on my plaid flannel pajama shorts and a graphic T-shirt which I’d left hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

Stepping back into the main room, Ross has taken a seat on the edge of the king-sized bed. A glass of amber liquid awaits me on the nightstand between the bed and an over-stuffed chair with a matching ottoman. Picking up the container, I take a seat on the ottoman and face him.

“What should we drink to?”

“Not losing,” he huffs, before lifting his glass without clinking against mine and draining it.

I sniff the alcohol in my glass and risk a sip. Instantly, I sputter on the sharpness and struggle with the burn scorching down my throat. Holy hellfire, it’s been a long time since I’ve drank the strong stuff.

Glancing up, I catch Ross watching me.

Can there be anyone less impressive than me? I nearly peed myself, had a hot flash, panicked about plummeting, and now I’m gagging on alcohol while dressed like a college co-ed, age advanced by twenty-five years.

“I’m Ross Davis, by the way.” He tilts his head. “But somehow I think you know that.”

“I do,” I admit but remind myself of a few things that tamp down the stalker-effect. He came to my door. He asked to enter said room.

“And you are?”

“Verona Huxley. My friends call me Vee.” I smile, like we are old acquaintances when we are not.

Ross observes me as he takes another sip of his drink, eyes watching me over the rim of his glass. He starts at my bare toes, which I dig into the lush carpeting, and he travels up my exposed legs, lingering on my knees a second. Then his gaze leaps to my hair, before dropping to my chin, mouth, nose and eyes. His slow perusal is so intense. Not sexual, just focused. His gaze is almost tangible, sending goosebumps over my skin.

“Why do you look familiar?”

The question startles me, and I realize he isn’t checking me out so much as trying to figure out who I am. If he knows me, how does he know me. But there is no way I am familiar to him.

“Maybe because we just shared ten minutes together in an elevator.”

His thick strained chuckle sounds like sandpaper on wood. “Why does that sound dirty?”