His mouth curves into a smirk—slow and devastating and entirely too confident. "Glad to know my attractiveness is still ranking on the scale of hotness."
Oh god. He's never going to let me live this down.
I realize we're still standing way too close, his arm still around my waist, and I take a hasty step back. My face feels like it's on fire. I'm probably the color of a tomato. An embarrassed, rambling tomato who apparently has no filter.
"Right, yes, so—" I bend down quickly to grab my contract folder and purse, needing to do something with my hands that isn't gesturing wildly at my own mortification. "What are you even doing here? Unless you're a plumber too and this place needs you for the leaking tap they were talking about in the elevator before I arrived here?"
A leaking tap. I'm asking if he's here to fix a leaking tap. This is going great. I'm nailing this interaction.
Nash chuckles, the sound low and warm. "I'm glad you think of me as handy, but no. I'm actually here for some lawyer business."
Oh. Right. Because he's a lawyer. I remember that from... somewhere. The self-defense class? Did someone mention it? Why can't I remember basic facts when I'm flustered?
My blush deepens, which I didn't think was possible but apparently I have untapped reserves of embarrassment. "Right! Yes! Lawyer! I knew that! I just—how many side hustles do you have?"
He leans against the elevator wall, completely relaxed, arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes his muscles shift under his shirt.Stop looking at his muscles, Reverie. Eyes up. Professional conversation. You can do this.
"A few," he says with that calm, easy confidence that probably comes from being ridiculously attractive and knowing it. "I guess we all have to do a bunch of jobs to survive in a small town. So much to do but also feels like there's so little to progress with, you know?"
I sigh, the truth of that statement hitting harder than it should. "Yeah. I know exactly what you mean."
Too well. Three part-time jobs just to make rent. Constantly hustling. Always one unexpected expense away from disaster. This town is wonderful and suffocating in equal measure.
That's when I notice we're still in the elevator. The doors closed at some point during our collision, and we haven't moved. We're just... standing here. Talking. In a stationary elevator.
I groan. "Oh my god, you probably need to leave. I'm so sorry—I'm holding you up."
Nash pushes off the wall with easy grace and reaches past me to press the ground floor button. His arm brushes mine, and I catch another whiff of that motor oil and leather scent.Why does he smell so good? Mechanics shouldn't smell that good. It's unfair.
"Ladies first," he says simply.
The elevator starts moving, and I feel a weird sense of relief wash over me. "Thanks. And thanks for, you know, catching me. Again. Even though we're basically strangers, you made things a bit easier. I really needed that today."
Why am I telling him this? Why am I being vulnerable with the hot mechanic-lawyer in an elevator? What is happening to my brain?
Nash tilts his head slightly, studying me with those amber-brown eyes. "And what do you have to figure out?"
The question catches me off guard. He actually sounds interested. Not just making polite elevator small talk, but genuinely curious.
And apparently when Nash looks at me like that—like I'm someone worth listening to—my mouth decides to just... tell him everything.
I laugh, slightly hysterical. "Well, I need to find a pack if I want to get a twenty-five-thousand-dollar brand deal that would set me up for success for the new year after my ex-pack screwed me over in every way—financially, emotionally, probably in theactual bedroom too if we're being honest—or it's going to be given to someone else. Which would be incredibly shitty because opportunities like this don't just fall into your lap."
I try to smile, to make it sound light and funny, but my voice cracks slightly on the last word. The anxiety that's been building all day is right there, bubbling under the surface, threatening to spill over.
Great. Now the hot mechanic-lawyer thinks I'm a disaster. Which, fair. I am a disaster. But he doesn't need to know that.
The elevator dings. Ground floor. The doors slide open smoothly, revealing the lobby with its judgmental receptionist and expensive carpet.
I turn back to Nash, forcing my smile to brighten. "Nice to see you again, Nash. Thanks for the quick chat and for catching me. I've been clumsy these last few days, jeez."
I step out of the elevator, but something makes me pause. I glance back at him over my shoulder, adding casually, "First the bookstore and now here, hmm. How odd."
Wait. Did I crash into him at the bookstore? No, that was the maple-honey Alpha. But I've been clumsy there too, and—why am I overthinking this? Just walk away, Reverie. Walk away with dignity.
I walk out into the lobby, feeling Nash's eyes on my back. I don't look back. I can't look back. If I look back, I'll see whatever expression he's making and my brain will spiral into seventeen different interpretations of what it means.
He probably thinks I'm weird. Rambling disaster Omega who crashes into people and overshares in elevators. Great impression, Rev. Really nailed the 'put together professional' vibe.
