Page 72 of Elevator Pitch

I step out from behind the door at the same time Ross leans back to check the numbers beside the door frame. As his gaze drifts back to the open doorway, his eyes catch on me, and he fights a smile. Standing before me, he wears snug jeans and a dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing the colorful ink on his forearm, and looking sinfully hot, while holding a bottle of wine and a large bouquet of wildflowers.

“Vee.” Whispered like a breath of fresh air on a warm day, I hate how the sound of my name in his rough voice clogs with relief.

“Ross.” My responding call is more like someone has a chokehold on my throat.

He clears his. “I got your message.”

“What message?” I hadn’t called or texted him, not wanting to look desperate or dejected. After the three-day threshold on phone calls had passed, I didn’t think there was any way of appearing one way or the other if I’d reached out to him. Needy or hurt versus flirty and wanton. I was struggling to find the medium ground labeled indifferent.

Ross doesn’t take his eyes off me, but he smirks while tilting his head. “Nightlight.”

I stare back at him, completely confused. “Nightlight?”

“Yeah, nightlight.” His smile grows larger, not a hint of remorse or uncertainty or caution.

I turn toward Cassandra, my brows severely pinched, like can you believe this guy? Maybe he got hit in the head with a ball today.

“So,” Cassandra drags out. “I’m the best friend.” She extends her hand and Ross awkwardly shifts the wine bottle to the hand holding flowers to shake. “Cassandra Culpére.” When their hands clasp, she holds a little longer than necessary and leans toward him. “Don’t make me hurt you because you hurt her. Here’s your second chance and only warning.”

“Cassandra!” I croak.

She turns toward me. “Using my full name doesn’t scare me, Vee-Vee.” Then she wiggles her fingers in a wave and brushes past Ross.

“Cee-Cee?” My voice drops, confusion etched in the cry as I watch her descend the inner staircase.

“Keep the light on, Vee-Vee.” She laughs to herself while Ross and I watch her disappear.

Like a lightbulb flickering on, the situation illuminates.

“Cassandra,” I groan louder. What did she do?

“She’s . . . fierce,” Ross interjects, still focused on where Cassandra descended.

“You have no idea,” I whisper, standing in my apartment while Ross remains in the hallway.

“So, your message . . .” He turns toward me.

“Was not from me.” I glance toward the flowers in his hand which he holds upside down by the stems, wine bottle wedged between his fingers on the same hand. “I’m not sure what nightlight means, but it’s evident Cassandra did something.”

Ross softly chuckles before rubbing his knuckles underneath his chin, the move an anxious one. “So, you didn’t send a message to tell me you were at the game or give me your address.” He pulls a scrap of paper from his back pocket which I rip from between his fingers and scan.

My address is written in Cassandra’s scribbled handwriting.

My mouth falls open. Speaking of killing people and turning them into ghosts, I’m going to unalive my best friend. What the hell was she thinking?

“No. I think this falls to my former best friend.” I huff and lean against the open door while Ross and I stare at one another. The seconds tick by. I can smell his spicy cologne and freshly showered scent despite the distance between us.

“So, you weren’t at the game?”

“No, I was at the game.”

“And you saw what happened?”

“Who didn’t see it?” I remind him.

Between the attendees at the game, plus the streaming service’s live coverage, and all the sports news channels sharing the scene, not to mention it’s making the clock app where Cassandra had been watching the replay in various meme forms, I’m not certain there is anyone left who hasn’t seen what happened at Anchor Field today.

Ross hangs his head and swipes his hand over his short hair. “Vee, can I please come in?”