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Hebrokehisphone.
“Why would you do that?!” I yell before I can stop myself. “Mine’s out of battery! How are we gonna get in touch with anyone now?”
“It’s your goddamn fault!” he growls, and despite the outrageous accusation, my own temper is thoroughly cowed by his aggression. “Youreekof fear, and I can’t fuckingthink.Just…come here.”
I blink at the command, but my body obeys before my brain gets any input on the matter.
This time, he’s the one reaching for me. The second I’m close enough, he clamps his strong arms around my body and pulls me in tight.
Instant warmth floods me from where we touch, followed by immediate calm.
McCain groans softly into the darkness above my head. “God, that’s better.”
“Um…?” I don’t quite dare voice the question, partly because this is so far past embarrassing I can’t fully process it, and partly because I don’t want him to let go. For whatever stupid, primitive reason, turns out I’mallabout alphas in a crisis.Mortifying.
“That’s what happens when you decide to panic in a dark, confined space hovering God-knows-how-many yards above the ground,” he grumbles, the sting of my own words impossible to miss. “Any alpha worth his salt would lose his shit with this strong a scent of female fear.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that. “Um… thank you?”
He barks a sharp, humorless laugh. “It’s not a fucking compliment.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I’m pretty thankful the darkness is hiding what I’m very sure is the deepest blush of my lifetime.
But despite the impressive heights of awkwardness and the complete silence surrounding us yet again, I still feel infinitely better in his begrudging embrace than I did before.
I don’t know how long we stand like that, but when I move a little to ease the beginning discomfort in my calves and accidentally lean more heavily on him, he shifts his body to take more of my weight.
“Thank you,” I murmur, because it seems rude not to.
McCain grunts in response.
A few minutes later, he asks, “What’s your name?”
Alarm bells at the back of my skull stop me from blurting out the answer. If I give him my actual name, I am one hundred percent getting the sack first thing tomorrow. I briefly consider telling him Rebecca Larson—the food thief who keeps stealing my packed dinner—but my conscience wins out in the end.
“Um. Bella Grayman,” I lie.
“Hmm,” he hums, and something about the note of it makes me think he suspects I’m not telling the truth.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” I blurt. It’s such an obvious attempt at a distraction that I expect him to call me out, but before he can, the light flicks back on.
I squint against the unexpected brightness, and then lurch forward and deeper into his chest when the elevator jolts.
McCain tightens his embrace, possibly to stop me from stomping on his expensive loafers, and I gasp an embarrassed "thank you" and dart a glance up.
He’s staring at me, an unreadable expression on his stony features—but he’s not letting me go, either.
Good God, he’s handsome.
The thought comes from out of nowhere and is immediately followed by a rush of heat shooting first to my abdomen, then to my face.
That’s when I remember the mistletoe. We’re standing directly underneath it.
I’ve definitely watched one too many Christmas romances this year, because for the briefest of seconds, I actually think he’s going to kiss me.
His eyes darken, his nostrils flare, and Iswearhe grasps me just a little closer… And then he follows my wide-eyed stare to the mistletoe right above our heads.
But when he looks back at me, it’s clearly not with any sort of romance in mind. His eyebrows arc all the way to his hairline, then bunch in a frown, his soft mouth turning to a tight, angry line.
