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“No problem.” He stands to his full height, my gaze traveling up with him what would seem to be about seven feet, judging from the spot I’m currently frozen in on the carpet. Okay, maybe not that tall, but the man could be a Viking from where I’m crouched down.

The very definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Cliché or not, he’s a sight to behold in a navy suit with a crisp white shirt sans tie. Staring down at me with his green eyes twinkling, he holds out his hand to help me up. His wrist is adorned with a gold watch that probably costs more than I make in a year. Saving myself from further embarrassment of needing to climb to my feet, I place my palm in his. It’s not until I feel the scratch of black lace trapped between our fingers that I realize I reached for him with the hand holding the panties!

He watches me with amused eyes, and the way he’s smiling at me knowingly, I bet he has this sort of reaction from women all the time. I snatch my hand back and stuff the thankfully unused lingerie into my bag.

“Thanks again,” I tell the handsome stranger and turn to slide my credit card to the clerk, who seems to be fighting back a grin of his own. Can’t say I blame him.

After what feels like forever, my card is returned, along with my fancy purple hotel key card.

“Room 1126. Please enjoy your stay, miss.”

“Thanks.” I swallow my pride, or what’s left of it, and smile.

My heart races as I rush toward the elevators across the lobby, not just from the panic of the moment but also from the unexpected encounter with the mystery man that replays in my mind. His eyes are on me—I can feel them burning into my skin.

Slipping into the elevator, relief washes over me. Finally, a moment to myself. Today has been a whirlwind of emotions, and I’m barely hanging on by a thread. Just as the doors begin to close, a hand shoots out, and in he strides—the handsome stranger from the lobby who had a front-row seat to my humiliating moment.

The silence that envelops us is awkward, suffocating almost. But I’m too busy smelling his intoxicating cologne to worry about breathing.

I’m usually one to make small talk, never really meeting a stranger. But there is something not right about discussing the weather with someone you just accidentally launched your lacey undergarments at. I mean, talk about heat wave!

Desperate to get to my room, I frantically press the button for my floor, but it stubbornly refuses to light up.

Clearing his throat, he extends his hand.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing for my key card. After I hand it over, he proceeds to lean around me to insert the card into a slot in the brass.

“Now press the button,” he instructs. “Any floor above the tenth requires a key to access for safety and privacy. It keeps people from wandering the halls and ending up in places they shouldn’t.”

Like my underwear.

I comply, pressing the button for the eleventh floor, and it lights up—along with my flaming cheeks for not realizing.

He then removes my card and uses his own. I look down and notice his is gold. After inserting it, he presses the button with a P and a crown, lighting it up before stepping back to his side of what is starting to feel like the world’s smallest elevator. The elevator car lurches upward on a slow climb.

“Penthouse,” I snort. “Of course.”

“Pardon me?” Mr. Penthouse says.

Shit! I just said that out loud.

“Oh, nothing. Just… P is for penthouse.” I chance a glance at him, hoping he really didn’t hear me.

He definitely did.

“Yeah, P is for penthouse.” But when he says it, it almost sounds scandalous. The corner of his mouth tips up in a smile.

For the first time, I really look at him—dark chocolate-brown hair shaved close on the sides, a bit longer on top and messy from a hand raking through it. The stubble covering his strong, square jawline does nothing to hide the handsome features beneath. He’s at least six inches taller than me, so not seven feet but easily six three, forcing me to look up to meet his intense green gaze. It feels like something straight out of one of Emma’s romance novels.

But all thoughts of pushing the gorgeous stranger up against the wall vanish the moment the elevator jolts with a squeal. I instinctively reach out to grab the brass bar to steady myself. My diamond engagement ring digs into my palm, where I twisted it around, a painful reminder that my life is not a fairy tale.

And as sexy as it sounds in a story, the reality of being trapped in an elevator seems far more terrifying. Even with gorgeous Mr. Penthouse here.

“Gotta love these old elevators,” he says, breaking the awkward silence.

“Yeah” is the only reply I can muster, feeling off-kilter with him so close.

He carries on talking about the architecture and how the Wisteria is the perfect blend of history and luxury, despite some of the inconveniences that came with historic buildings. I listen and try to focus on his words rather than the unsettling yet exciting proximity of his nearness or the fact that we still aren’t moving.