Bastian is doing his own version of damage control—tucking in his shirt, running fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to tame the chaos I created.
“Your lipstick,” he says, gesturing at his own mouth.
“I’m not wearing lipstick.”
“Oh.” He swipes at his lips anyway. “Well, you should probably—” He makes another circular motion around his face.
“What does that mean?”
“You look like you’ve been—” He stops. Clears his throat. “Disheveled.”
“I’d say you’re at least partially to blame.”
“You were hyperventilating.”
“So your solution was to strip me?!”
The elevator continues its happy little descent. Tenth floor. Ninth floor.
“Your hair,” I tell him.
He rakes his fingers through it again. “Better?”
“Worse, actually. You look like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket.”
“Fantastic.” He tries again, this time slicking it back. The result is somehow even more obvious—now, he looks like he’s been making out in an elevator, buttryingto hide it.
Fifth floor. Fourth floor.
“Okay, new plan,” I say, my brain finally kicking into gear. “We pretend nothing happened.”
Bastian lets out a sharp laugh. “Nothing happened? Eliana, I had my tongue in your mouth thirty seconds ago.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I’m aware. I was there.”
“Then you know we can’t just pretend?—”
“Watch me.” I square my shoulders, channeling every ounce of fake confidence I’ve ever possessed. “We got stuck in an elevator. The lights went out. It was scary. We’re both a little shaken up. End of story.”
“Your shirt is torn.”
“Because I was hot.”
“And you have goosebumps.”
“Well, then I got cold.”
“That quickly?”
“It’s a—I dunno, a medical condition!”
“What medical condition?”
“I don’t know that, either! Pretend I haven’t diagnosed it yet! The point is?—”
We’ll never find out what the point is, because just then, the elevatordingsone final time.
Ground floor.
