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Or I can take the executives’ elevator. Us mere drones aren’t allowed in there, but it’s so late, no one will even know.
I turn around and sprint around the corner, then down the short hallway hosting the few managerial offices on this floor. Most higher-ups don’t spend significant time with lowly customer service agents. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure the only reason we’re as high up as the tenth floor is that by the time the first-floor office where the other half of the team works outgrew their space, this was the only available office in the building.
When I hit the button for the executives’ elevator, it flashes blue with a merry bing, and a soft whirring from behind the doors makes me sigh with relief. If I run all the way from McCain Tower to Central, I’ll make my train.
When the doors open, I do a double-take. The interior is lined with polished mahogany and brass accents, and each wall is clad in gilded mirrors. Apparently the fancy people running the place can’t possibly travel in anything but luxury—not even between floors.
I step into the small car having never felt more like a Medieval peasant. Someone’s even decorated it for the holidays with a lush branch of mistletoe dangling from the ceiling. Meanwhile, a few days ago, my office manager tore one of the newbies a new one for daring to decorate his monitor with a bit of tinsel.
Apparently, holiday cheer is reserved for our betters.
Quietly seething, I hit the button for the ground floor. I’m not paid to get in the festive spirit, but it was easier to swallow when I thought the Grinch-like approach to Christmas was a company-wide policy.
I’m barely done glaring at the mistletoe when the elevator slows to a stop and the doors roll open with another merry tune. At the ninth floor.
Oh, shit.I have a moment’s worth of panic at the realization that I’m about to get busted for riding the executives’ elevator, but the enormous, suit-clad man who steps through doesn’t even glance at me. His focus is glued to the stapled stack of papers in his hands. Ninth floor is accounting, so I’m guessing he’s absorbed by what’s likely to be the staggering projections for our Christmas revenue.
He hits the button for the ground floor without so much as acknowledging my presence, even though I have to squeeze up against the wall to ensure no parts of us touch. It’s not a tiny elevator, but it’s not huge either, and this man takes upa lotof space.
I sneak a closer look at my ride-buddy. Only alphas get that big, andyup—his wide-set shoulders and square jaw confirm my suspicions. Even his fancy suit can’t fully hide the thick muscles cording his biceps.
It’s not surprising, I guess. We rarely see any alphas on my floor, but a lot of the executive positions are filled by them. Bossy jerks like the power, though I am surprised to see one in accounting—they tend to be more about barking orders and taking charge of mergers than fiddling with numbers.
He does seem oddly familiar, though. He looks young—only a faint salt-and-pepper touch to his dark hair suggests he might be a bit older than first glance would suggest. Thirties, perhaps? There’s a bit of scruff on his cheeks—he probably shaved this morning, but alpha testosterone is no joke.
And this guy’s definitely loaded with it. I can sense it in the air, his alpha musk, even though my nose only picks up on his expensive cologne. It’s making my heart thud behind my ribs, an awareness washing over me that I can only liken to being in the presence of a hopefully-docile predator. My entire body is alert and hyper-focused on the giant male trapped in the confined space with me.
Who the heck is this guy?
I narrow my eyes as I study him. High cheekbones, soft lips with a haughty tilt, and—ohshit, no!
I suck in a sharp breath before I can stop myself.
Adam McCain finally looks up from his report and glances at me, alerted by my gasp.
Yeah. Adam McCain—as in the CEO of McCain Enterprises. On the list of Forbes’ 500 most powerful business moguls. And known around my office as a grade-A prick.
I’ve never had the displeasure of meeting him in person before—I’ve only seen him in passing twice during my past four years working here—but my last manager had the misfortune to be called into a meeting with him right before she cleared her desk and left a shaking, snotty mess, never to be seen again. No one knows what the hell happened to make the almighty CEO obliterate a lowly office manager like that, but through October, we all had a betting pool centered around who could tell the most terrifying Halloween story featuring McCain as the Bogeyman.
An especially vivid retelling of a sexy psycho killer flashes before my mind’s eye when McCain frowns at me and says, “You’re not an executive.”
TWO
OF ELEVATORS & MISTLETOE
It’s a very simple statement, but said in his deep, rumbling alpha bass, and with his intense, dark stare focused entirely on me, it makes an unholy mix of shame and fear claw its way up my spine.
“I, uh… No?” The words squeak out of me like a question. “I’m—I’m sorry, the other elevator wasn’t working, and I need to catch my train.”
He opens his mouth, undoubtedly to tell me I’m fired and he’ll be billing me to have the elevator professionally cleaned of my peasant germs, but before he can eviscerate me, the elevator gives an odd sort oflurch—and then the lights flicker out.
I don’t have claustrophobia, and I’m not afraid of the dark. Not separately, at least.
However, combine an enclosed space with pitch blackness? Turns out I definitely have a phobia ofthat.
“Oh my God!Oh my God!”I’m not even aware of the high-pitched nature of my squeals. All I sense is that I’mtrapped,and I can’tsee.I flail for purchase and smack something solid that promptly goes flying and hits the floor with athunk.
“Fuck,”McCain grumbles, then huffs a breath when my scrambling hands reach his shirt sleeves, and I yank on them in mindless search for safety.
