My phone buzzes in my bag, snapping me out of my thoughts. My mother’s name lights the screen again. Of course. I silence it and shove the phone deeper before turning toward the elevator. My mind chews on Cooper’s words as I jab the elevator call button harder than necessary. The golden boy skips rookie orientation, and somehow, I’m the one cleaning it up. Typical. One misstep and my entire internship tilts sideways. I can already feel the familiar knot tightening under my ribs, warning me I don’t have room to slip.
The elevator doors open with a cheerful chime thatfeels like a personal insult. I step inside, rehearsing all the ways this rookie is about to derail my month, maybe even the rest of my time here. The doors begin to close when a hand shoots out, stopping them. The metal doors slide back, and a man steps in like the space belongs to him.
He’s tall, broad across the shoulders, a frame that makes the elevator feel suddenly smaller, wearing a gray T-shirt that clings in ways that should be illegal, dark joggers, and sneakers scuffed to look intentional. His dirty blonde hair is too long in that deliberate, artfully messy way, with curls that look soft enough to curl a finger into. And his grin is pure confidence, sharp enough to feel like heat against my skin.
“Looks like I got lucky,” he says, leaning back as though the elevator is his living room.
My brain short-circuits for one stunned beat. Not because he’s gorgeous—plenty of players are—it’s his presence. There’s something sharper there, edged with a confidence that borders on arrogance. What unsettles me most is how certain he seems about knowing me. His gaze lingers, and I wonder if we’ve met before. Something about the heat in his eyes scratches at the back of my memory.
“Excuse me?” My brows lift, voice sharpen to hide the jump of my pulse.
“Sharing an elevator with you isn’t a bad end to the day.” His smile tilts, slow and unbothered, as if he’s been waiting for me to speak.
Oh, great. He’s one of those men who thinks he’sthe prize and the world is lucky to orbit him. Normally, I’d shut this down without blinking, but my pulse betrays me, thudding a little deeper each time his eyes brush mine. Professionally speaking, he’s exactly the complication I cannot afford.
“If that’s your opener, you should probably retire it.”
He laughs, and the sound lingers too long in the small space. “Feisty, I like that.”
“I wasn’t auditioning for your approval.” My voice is crisp, steady, but my breath hitches when his gaze doesn’t break. He studies me like he has all the time in the world and no intention of looking away.
The air between us shifts, charged enough to make my shoulders tighten in automatic defense. A familiar prickle crawls beneath my skin—too much eye contact, too much closeness, too many sensory signals firing at once.
My phone buzzes again. I grab it quickly, silencing my mother’s call before the sound can split me open. When I glance up, he’s watching me with a look I can’t decipher—curiosity threaded with something quieter. I press the button for the media floor. A second later, he leans forward and presses the same one.
“Seriously?”
“Great minds,” he says easily. “Or maybe fate.”
“Or maybe you’re following me.”
“Would that be the worst thing?” he asks lightly, but there’s a steady undertone in his voice that lands low in my stomach.
My phone buzzes again, sharp and persistent. I silence it harder than before, irritation prickling under my skin.
“Persistent boyfriend?” he asks.
“Persistent mother.” It comes out thinner than I’d like.
His brows lift, clearly entertained. “Then again… maybe you could use someone in your corner.”
“That’s the line you’re going with? A boyfriend audition?” I roll my eyes, but my breath stumbles again when he steps a fraction closer, enough to shift the air between us.
“I like a challenge,” he says, leaning in until his shoulder almost brushes mine. “And you strike me as someone who doesn’t make it easy.”
My grip tightens on my bag strap—my go-to grounding spot—while every sensible part of me screams that he’s a disaster waiting to happen. My body, apparently, didn’t get the memo.
My phone buzzes a third time, and I silence it again, jaw locking as though that alone will hold me together.
“That’s your mom, isn’t it?” His voice loses its teasing edge, softening in a way I don’t expect. “You should pick up. You won’t always get the chance to just… talk to her.”
The weight of his words drops into the small space, heavy and oddly intimate. Something that looks a little like loss. Then it vanishes, smoothed over by that infuriating grin before I can be sure I saw it at all.
“She can wait,” I say, even though something inside me twists.
My voice is steady, but my body betrays me with the quick stutter of my pulse and the restless shift of my stance. He watches me openly, unashamed, with a small grin that feels like it’s peeling back my layers faster than I can rebuild them. And then my phone buzzes a fourth time. Without thinking, I swipe to answer.
“Hi, Mom,” I say automatically, my eyes locked on the last person I should be looking at and the exact one I can’t seem to look away from.
