Above me, the light clicks on, which means someone’s probably just come in through the main door. Huh. Okay. Not alone, I guess. It’s a relief until I look down at myself.
What kind of dingdong heads out like this?
A cold one. That’s what kind.
A huge gust of wind blows down into the courtyard and I scurry back toward the elevator and the stairs, which might not be fully enclosed, but also aren’t out here in the frigid, wet outside. Whoever just came in will have to deal with the sight of me in my silly PJs.
If I’m lucky, it’s a first-floor neighbor who’s already halfway up the steps and I can avoid them entirely. Wrapping my arms around myself, I traipse over the cobbled stones and reenter the lobby just in time to see the elevator door swing closed.
“Tenez la porte!” I yell, hoping they’ll hear me and hold the door. I really don’t want to trudge up all six flights in these shoes. “J’arrive!”
Is that someone pressing a button in there? No. No way would anyone be so cruel as to refuse to hold the elevator, right?
I stretch for the door, my fingers graze the handle and, just when I think I won’t make it, I latch on, twist, and…the door gives.
“Oh, merci,” I gasp, so thankful, whether whoever’s in here helped me or not, that I’m smiling hugely when I shove open the interior doors, and go stock still. “Crap.”
It’s my grumpy-ass neighbor, obviously. I mean, who else would pull that kind of Grinch move on someone who’s begging to get in?
And worst of all, he looks put out by my presence.
Well, whatever. I’m cold and my feet hurt and it’s Christmas Eve, dammit. So just this once, he can deal with my presence.
I step inside, quickly turning to shut the folding doors as the outer one slams, enclosing me and Ebenezer in a space so small you can touch every wall while standing in the middle. With his hulking shape taking up more than half of the space, it’s uncomfortably tight.
Please go. Just go, I silently beg the world’s slowest elevator, while behind me, Le Jerk exudes his own special brand of silent malevolence.
If I just ignore him, maybe he won’t find anything to complain about.
CHAPTERFOUR
Colin
My brain shuts down the moment she steps inside, a voluptuous goddess dressed for the hottest of summer days. Good God. “What the hell are you wearing?” I spit out, unable to peel my gaze from those dainty little feet.
“Excuse me?” She turns, positively affronted.
But really, look at her. Her hair’s a wild red bush sprouting from a knot at the top of her head and her body’s encased in nothing but a pair of shorts in soft-looking, light blue fabric that’s stretchy and skin-tight and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. She’s wearing a hoodie that’s got that ridiculous cartoon cat on it and, the crux of this whole look is thoseshoes. They’re a light, rusty-looking pink with pointy toes and bows and heels about a meter high, which, though she’s dressed casually, does something to her body. Makes her stand up straight, perhaps? Forces that round, ample chest forward, arches her back and thrusts that wide, plump arse in my direction.
“Fuck,” I mutter, shutting my eyes against this unbearably bold display of American excess.
“What is wrong with you, Ebenezer? Seriously, just push the button and let me—”
“Close the doors,” I order, my voice much too harsh, each word a sharply bitten-off demand. “There’s a gap. We can’t move if they’re open.”
What I really want to tell her is to get out and wait for me to send it back. Or, if she likes, she can take this one and I’ll walk. I could use the exercise. My brain could use the oxygenated blood now that she’s wedged herself into this narrow space and it’s all flowed south.
“Oh. Oh, sorry.” She turns back, her hip skimming my thigh in the process, and slams the two folding doors more tightly shut, which sets the elevator off on what is usually a slow climb. Right now, in such close quarters with this loud, living sex doll of a woman, it’s a torturous slog.
She remains facing the door. Thank God. Slowly, I let the air out of my lungs, plaster my backside to the mirror, and shut my eyes against the sight of her.
Not that it’s a bad sight. Just the opposite. My eyes slit open of their own volition. The way she looks hits me in places I’ve never before noticed. That arse, for example, with its deep dimples, makes my thighs clench with the desire to feel her weight on them. Her waist, little in comparison to the rest, but still thick, makes my fingers itch to sink in, knead, shape. And her nape—fuck, I want to put my mouth there and bite down right at the hairline. Just to see her reaction. Just to feel the beating of her pulse, the thump of her heart beneath those luscious breasts. Maybe to get her to scream. See if she’s as loud when she comes as she is when she laughs.
“What are you doing?” she asks over her shoulder.
I jolt. “What do you mean?”
“You’re, I don’t know, whispering or something? Muttering.”
