Page 4 of Babies for the Big Shot
“You’re the one who trapped me in here.”
“I think you’re the one who pressed the button.”
I huff. “Great. So I die in a stalled elevator with a rich stranger who thinks he’s clever.”
He steps closer, slowly, eyes locked on mine. “I am clever.”
We’re barely two feet apart now, and the air between us is thick. Electric. I can feel it crackling under my skin, alive with some charged awareness that I’m pretty sure neither of us intended, but neither of us is stepping back from.
I break the silence with a huff and jab the elevator panel again. Nothing. Still stuck.
I spin toward him. “Okay, are we seriously just standing here while the air slowly turns into soup? When are we being rescued?”
He pulls his phone from his pocket again, his thumb already moving.
He’s calm, collected… infuriating.
“I already paged building security. They’ll reboot the system from their end.”
I blink. “Youpagedsecurity? Who has a pager these days?”
“It’s faster. Usually.”
“Usually?” I echo. “How long are we talking here? Minutes? Hours? The length of a full Taylor Swift album?”
His lips twitch. “Somewhere between minutes andFolklore.”
I groan. “I can’t die in here. This dress is a lie, my heels are a war crime, and I have gum in my bra.”
He quirks a brow. “You store gum… there?”
“Emergency mint access.”
He exhales sharply, almost a laugh. I catch the faintest dimple on one side and suddenly I’m too aware of everything. His suit. His scent.
His mouth.
“Is this how you usually respond to a crisis?” he asks.
“I deflect with humor and then panic internally. It’s a well-practiced trauma response.”
“I see.”
“And you? Let me guess… you stare judgmentally and wait for the peasants to scramble?”
He takes a slow step closer. “I tend to prefer precision over panic.”
“Well, I prefer freedom over elevators with emotionally repressed strangers.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just eyes me, a puzzle he didn’t mean to start solving. “You’re a lot.”
“You’re not enough.”
That does it.
The air changes.
Thicker now. Hotter.
