Page 2 of Babies for the Big Shot
We wander through the lounge, dodging conversations about “portfolio diversification” and “last season’s Milan show,” until I need air or sanity… whichever comes first.
“Bathroom,” I lie.
“Don’t fall into a hedge this time!” Laura calls.
I need air. Or at least five minutes without being judged by people whose napkins are probably monogrammed.
I spot a side door tucked between two towering floral arrangements, slightly ajar, with a brass push bar and the faint promise of moonlight leaking through the frame. It has to lead outside.
I slip through it, heels clicking as I step onto what I assume will be some fancy terrace.
But nope. No patio. No breeze.
I’m in… an elevator?
And I’m not alone.
He’s the kind of man who should come with a cinematic score and a five-second warning.
Dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples. A suit that definitely costs more than my rent. Green eyes, sharp jaw, and the aura of someone who’s permanently five seconds from firing someone.
He looks at me as if I’m a bug in his champagne.
“Wrong elevator,” he says, voice low and clipped.
“I was looking for the bathroom,” I say, backing toward the door.
“Is it usually located on the penthouse floor?”
I narrow my eyes. “Do you always greet women with passive-aggressive geography questions?”
His brows lift slightly. “Are you always this dramatic?”
“I’m just lost.”
“You’re in a private elevator.”
“You’re in my personal space.”
The doors slide shut with a soft ding.
Crap.
I reach for the panel. “I’ll just get off at the next floor.”
The elevator jerks. We both stumble.
Then… stillness.
I press a button. Nothing.
He sighs the deep, world-weary sigh of a man who can’t believe the universe has done this to him.
“I think we’re stuck,” I say.
“Brilliant deduction.”
I turn to face him, trying not to notice the way his shirt pulls at his chest or how good he smells… woodsmoke thick in my throat, spiced with leather and control.
