“Of course you do. Probably thread count in the thousands.”
“Twelve hundred, actually.”
“You know your thread count off the top of your head?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No, Bastian. Normal people do not memorize their sheet specifications. Honestly, that explains a lot about you.”
And yet not nearly enough. Because, like I’ve been doing way too often lately, I keep wondering about who made Bastian Hale tick the way he does.
To say I’ve never met anyone like him before is the understatement of the year. Perhaps the century. But my mind simply cannot fathom how his mind works. It’s completely incoherent for someone so snarly and growly and generally inhospitable to be capable of tenderness at the most random moments.
Like now, for instance.
“Are you going to press the emergency button or are we just going to stand here discussing your bedding choices?” I ask.
“Right. Yes.” More rustling. I hear him move, feel the air shift as he reaches past me. His wintergreen scent fills my nostrils, and I have to physically restrain myself from leaning into it.
Get it together, Hunter. This is not the time.
There’s a click, then a long, sustained buzz. We wait. We wait. We wait…
And a grand total of nothing happens.
Bastian presses it again. Buzz. Still nothing.
“Maybe it’s broken,” I suggest.
“The building is less than ten years old. Everything is up to code.”
“Well, clearly not the HVAC systems at Olympus…”
“Hunter.”
“Too soon? Yeah, probably too soon.” I scoot around him and try pressing the button myself, just in case I happen to have some magical command over electrical components that Bastian lacks.
But I’m no luckier than he was. Fourth and fifth mashes fail to summon a reassuring voice to tell us help is on the way.
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “So the emergency button is broken, we have no cell signal, and we’re stuck in a dark elevator. On the bright side, at least we’re not arguing anymore?”
Bastian’s phone flashlight swings toward me again. “This isn’t funny.”
“I’m aware. But the alternative to laughing is screaming, and I’m trying to keep things professional here.”
“Because we’ve been so professional up until now,” he drawls.
“Well, one of us has been trying.”
“And which one is that, exactly?”
I open my mouth to fire back, but then the elevator shudders again. Just a small tremor, barely noticeable, but enough to make my stomach drop.
Bastian’s hand shoots out and grabs my arm. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Good. Just—stay still.”
