Page 3

She walks right up beside me, close enough for the faintest drift of vanilla to slip past my guard, and presses the call button herself—even though it’s already lit.

My eyes betray me before I can reel them back—dragging down the slope of her nose, the sweep of her lashes, the few freckles scattered soft across her skin. Fuck. She’s so pretty it’s painful. Then I look lower, lower… Down the length of her legs, the snug denim hinting at the shape underneath, the strap of her bag hooking against her hip, the curve it presses into…

Jesus, get a grip.

“Can I help you?”

Her voice snaps my attention like a rubber band, and my head jerks up, heat flooding my face so fast it makes me lightheaded.

Fuck. Say something. Anything. Move before it gets weird.

I clear my throat, shifting the takeout bag in my grip. “No, sorry. I just…” My tongue fails, words trailing off into nothing before I settle for a useless shrug.

The corner of her mouth twitches up into a smile. Oh, she’s definitely already filing me under ‘another idiot in the building.’

I fix my sight on the crawl of glowing red numbers above the doors. Anything to stop myself from watching her watch me. But each one’s taking its sweet time, stubborn as wet cement, and I can feel my pulse kicking harder.

Jesus, is it always this slow?

The warmth in my face spills down into my chest in a slow, suffocating flush that makes my shirt feel two sizes too small.

If those doors don’t open soon, I’m going to combust.

I catch her tipping her head in my periphery, eyes narrowing slightly like she’s studying me. “You new here?” she asks, voice smooth enough to run right down my spine.

“Yeah.” My grip on the bag tightens. “Uh… moved in on Thursday.”

The elevator dings, doors sliding open with a hiss of brushed steel. I step in first, reaching for the panel, but she’s right there beside me, her knuckle knocking against mine, pressing the exact same button.

“Sorry—sorry,” I mutter, hand jerking back like I’ve touched a live wire. My heart thumps hard as I back into the corner too fast, shoulder clipping the rail with a dull clang.

Great. Subtle.

The purr of the elevator hums through the space as it begins to climb. I fix my vision on the panel to distract myself—but I can feel her studying me, and when I glance over, I see it too.

She’s leaning against the opposite rail, eyes burning into me as she toys with the strap of her bag. “So… are you always this nervous, or is it just me?” she says.

I shift my weight enough to break the eye contact.

Nervous? No, don’t admit that. Anything but that.

I force my mouth to move, fumbling out a half-swallowed answer that won’t make me seem so pathetic. “Not nervous, no. I’m… quiet, and better at keeping to myself.”

The mechanical chime rings through the space, and the doors slide open to the hush of the hallway. I step back, palm up in an ‘after-you’ gesture. She doesn’t move at first, just raises a brow and smirks, dragging her gaze down my chest and back up before finally stepping out, leaving the faint scent of vanilla in her wake.

I follow a little too quickly, the toe of my boot catching the metal lip at the threshold. She glances over at the sound as I right myself, the corner of her mouth twitching up as we fall into step together.

She looks up at me as we round the corner. “Quiet’s not so bad. Usually means you’re paying attention to things most don’t. Kind of makes me wonder what’s running through your head right now.”

The handle of the takeout bag twists in my grip, the bottle of wine knocking lightly against my thigh. Does she really want to know? Because what’s actually in my head right now is borderline embarrassing— ‘there are three freckles on your collarbone, your eyeliner is slightly smudged under your left eye, and the shampoo you use is clouding my head and making my mouth water.’

“Nothing special,” I lie, swallowing hard. “Just thinking about getting back and eating my takeout.”

Her eyes flick down to the bag in my hand. “Ah. Looks like we’ve got something in common.”

“We have?” My brow lifts, curiosity edging out my caution.

“I’m heading back to Pad Thai and half a bottle of red I didn’t finish last night,” she says, her grin tugging wider as she looks back up at me. “Be a shame to drink it alone—unless you really are attached to the whole ‘keeping to yourself’ thing.”