We both freeze as the doors begin to slide open.
Through the widening gap, I can see the lobby. The marble floors. The reception desk. And approximately fifteen people milling around, including—oh, God—Patricia.
Bastian’s assistant takes one look at us and her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Mr. Hale,” she says slowly. “Ms. Hunter. Are you both alright?”
“Fine,” Bastian and I say in unison, which is probably the least convincing thing either of us has ever said.
Patricia’s gaze travels from Bastian’s disaster hair to my raggedy shirt. A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “Are you sure?”
“The elevator malfunctioned,” Bastian explains gruffly.
“How terrifying,” Patricia says, in a tone that suggests she finds it anything but.
“It was fine,” I chime in. “Just a minor inconvenience.”
“Is that why your shirt is torn?”
I look down. Despite my hands folded over my chest, a scrap of ripped fabric is clearly visible. “I, uh, caught it on something.”
“In the elevator.”
“Yes. In the elevator. There was a… sharp edge. Very sharp. Quite dangerous, really. Someone should file a complaint.”
Patricia nods slowly. “I’ll make sure maintenance is notified.”
“Great. Wonderful. Thank you.” My voice dies out and, gee, it sure would be nice if someone else could fill in this nauseating silence, please and thank you.
Bastian clears his throat. “We should go. To our… appointment.”
“Yes,” I agree with way too much enthusiasm. “Absolutely. Going now.”
We step through the lobby with casual nonchalance. I’m sure we look guilty as hell.
I keep my hand plastered over the torn fabric of my blouse as we cross the lobby. Behind the reception desk, I can feel Security Guard Kyle’s eyes boring into my back. He’s a nice guy, but I’d bet dollars to donuts that he’s gonna start fertilizing the gossip grapevine the millisecond we leave the building.
I can’t even blame him. I’d do the same if I was in his shoes.
The automatic doors can’t open fast enough. When we finally burst through into the frigid February air, I suck in a breath so deep it makes my lungs ache.
“My car’s in the garage,” Bastian says without looking at me.
“Lead the way.”
We walk in silence through the underground parking structure. Our footsteps echo endlessly.
Bastian’s Range Rover chirps as he unlocks it. I reach for the passenger door handle at the same moment he does. Our fingers brush.
We both jerk back.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s fine.”
He finishes opening the door for me. I slide into the leather seat and do my best to remember how breathing works. Is it inhale, then exhale? I think I’m on the right track, but I can’t be sure.
My lips are still buzzing, swollen, and tender. I touch a finger to them like I need the reminder that what just happened did indeed actually happen.
He climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine without a word. But he doesn’t pull out yet. We just sit there, the Range Rover idling, heat slowly beginning to seep from the vents.
