I press the elevator button as another hand collides with mine, sending a jolt up my arm.
“Whoa, my bad,” a deep, amused voice rumbles beside me.
I look up—wayup—into a pair of striking green eyes framed by thick, dark lashes.
Green.
My favorite.
A mischievous and dazzling smile spreads across his face, dimples on his cheeks, revealing perfectly straight teeth, and I immediately regret every life choice that led to me standing here, mildly hungover, in front of this: an Adonis sent by the gods to mock me.
My jaw drops.
I never lose my thoughts. But for a second, I do.
I take a step back, looking away as I try to scrape my dignity off the floor, then tilt my head—just enough to steal another glance.
Devastating.
Tall, so tall. Taller than Alex, even. Hair, the color of rich, dark chocolate, and long enough to be tousled. With the kind of subtle scruff that makes a man look both rugged and refined. He’s broad-shouldered, built like an absolute unit, the sign of a man who doesn’t just spend time in the gym but enjoys it.
His black button-down hugs his frame. Tight, sleeves rolled to the forearms, veins pulsing across his skin—those forearms. The kind that look like they’ve done things.
Built things.
Broken things.
Pinned someone.
Don’t.
His fitted jeans, leather belt, and black sneakers are casual yet completely unfair. Like he woke up and looked this good without even trying.
I drink him in without meaning to. I’m mid-appraisal when I realize—he’swatching me.
Watch him.
Busted.
The smirk on his lips deepens and so do those damn dimples, but before he can call me out, the elevator dings, announcing its arrival.
Saved by the bell.
I slip inside, reaching to press ‘PH3’, only for our hands to brush again.
Another jolt.
Another glance.
Slower this time.
What the fuck. Is New York full of tall hot fucking men? Or am I just repressed and horny?
Probably both.
This man is a walking problem.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” His voice fills the elevator, velvety and low, deep and completely inappropriate for this enclosed space.