Page 52 of Elevator Pitch

Only, the door closes with a sharp snick and Ross remains inside my rental.

“What are you doing?”

“We need to talk.” He spins to face me.

“Oh? Now you want to talk? I’m sorry I heard you loud and clear. With your silence,” I bark. “For nearly four fucking days.”

I don’t know why I’m angry. Because he ignored me? Because he avoided me? Because he kissed me, and it rocked my world when it didn’t even ruffle his?

Stalking away from him, I carry my dinner to the kitchen and hastily open and close cabinet doors, slamming them after I’ve found plates. The cutlery rattles as I tug open the drawer and I fiddle through the forks and knives, removing what I need before slamming it closed as well.

Next, I grab the bottle of wine I’d purchased the other day. The same kind Ross had brought to my place, which was darn expensive and probably explains why it tastes so good. The flavor surely couldn’t have been enriched by the company who skipped out on me because of a kiss.

And all the while, I’m having this self-induced tantrum. Because who am I really mad at, me or Ross? Okay, Ross mainly, who stands opposite the counter that divides the living room and kitchen while I work myself into a lather.

I struggle with the corkscrew until Ross reaches over and takes both the bottle and the opener from me.

“Let me.” His voice lowers, sand sifting through an hourglass. His gaze drops as well as he efficiently works the opener into the bottle and pops the cork before sliding the bottle back toward me and sets down the wine opener.

Because I’m wound up, I pick up the wine and take a hearty sip right out of the bottle.

Ross watches me, eyes bright and wide. His arms are stretched outward, hands braced on the countertop that works as a wall between us.

“Damn, you’re fucking pretty when you’re on fire.”

I snort with the bottle too close to my lips and I choke on the contents inside my mouth. Setting the bottle down with force, I bend forward, trying to catch my breath as I swallow hard and fight a cough that wins. As I gasp for air because I’m gagging on wine and anger, Ross rounds the countertop to the kitchen and wraps his arms around my middle from behind me.

With his head lowered, face tucked into my neck, he mutters. “I’m sorry. I’m an ass.” I feel him swallow against my shoulder. “And I missed you.”

Dammit.

I could argue that he isn’t an ass, or that he has a fine one, but neither feels appropriate. He can own his error.

Common courtesy counts.

And the fact he admitted he missed me, well . . . I’d be a butt if I didn’t admit that made me tingle everywhere.

As the choking subsides, a tickle remains in my throat, and I don’t respond to his apology or confession. Instead, a few moments pass with him holding me, squeezing me tighter to him with his chin on my shoulder until he kisses the side of my neck and stands to his full height behind me.

“I’ll go,” he mutters, defeated.

Sighing, I close my eyes a second before opening them. With my back to him, I quietly say, “Or you could stay and tell me about the game.”

Ross spins me so fast to face him I stumble over my own feet. He looks me directly in the eyes, a world of relief in his own, while still surprised by my suggestion.

“How do you feel about brisket?”

+ + +

[Ross]

I fucking love smoked, salty meats, and I think I love her for not kicking me out.

Of course, I don’t say that second part.

The past three nights without her have been hell.

The torture started with that kiss. While I shouldn’t have done it, I don’t regret it.