I felt the current the moment we shook hands—and the sizzle in my bloodstream now is the same jolt I got when she was waltzing in my arms. Different setting, same lightning.
It’s almost funny—almost—that she’s cataloguing me as ordinary crew when I’m the same man who pressed her against marble three nights ago. Hoodies, ball gowns, spotlights, darkness: none of it matters. My body recognizes her on a cellular level, like a chorus hook buried so deep it plays on loop beneath every song.
Yet there’s a crooked thrill in the secrecy. She’s meeting the stripped-down version of me first—the man who can fix afaulty panel, who knows the smell of machine oil better than aftershave endorsements. If she likes that guy, maybe she’ll survive the glare of the other one. In the meantime I’ll savor every oblivious glance she throws my way, every spark that jumps between us, and pretend I’m just another roadie lucky enough to share an elevator with the woman who’s been haunting my pulses since the masquerade.
Today, without a mask, she is even more beautiful to me. She isn’t the runway-perfect kind of gorgeous that gets air-brushed onto magazine covers; she’s the kind that sneaks up on you and brands itself under your skin.
Chestnut-brown hair—thick, shiny, refusing to stay tucked in the sensible knot she tries to corral it into—keeps spilling wisps around her ears, framing a face all soft cheekbones and wicked, book-ish eyes. Those eyes are a curious gray-green, the color of sea glass when the sun breaks through storm clouds, and they sharpen whenever she’s making a point—as though cataloguing my every micro-expression for future reference.
Today she’s wearing a gray cardigan and a modest pencil skirt skims her hips, but there’s nothing modest about the effect; every step sets an understated sway that makes it hard to remember any decent arguments against fate.
And her mouth—God, that mouth—full lower lip that still carries the faintest stain of berry gloss, corners quick to curl into a clever grin or tuck inward when she’s thinking. I remember exactly how it felt under mine, warm and tasting faintly of champagne and daring. Add the subtle cinnamon-and-vanilla scent of her shampoo and the way she worries her pen between her teeth when she’s concentrating, and I’m done for.
Nora shifts beside me in the elevator, cardigan wrapped tight, eyes huge in the emergency glow. She’s masking it well, but the lift of hershoulders tells me fear is tap-dancing along her spine. I remember that first glance at the ball—how curiosity lit her face before desire crashed in. Same spark now, rimmed with anxiety she’s trying to sandbag.
Somewhere above us a relay clicks, like the building is thinking about rescuing us and then deciding we can fend for ourselves.
“Dispatch must be taking a lunch break,” I say, keeping my tone mild. “They’ll ping us when they reboot the system.”
“Let’s hope the rescue crew isn’t off enjoying a five-course meal,” she replies, but her laugh is thin.
I want to fold her into my arms, tell her I know exactly how this ends and it involves us walking out under our own steam. Instead I tap the intercom once more, shrug theatrically at the silence, and pivot to distraction mode.
“Okay,” I say, bracing one boot on the rail, “time for Plan B: Elevator Truth-or-Dare. It’s patented. Works every time systems fail.”
Her brow arches. “Patented, huh? What kind of dare can you do in a six-by-six box?”
“You’d be surprised,” I deadpan, pleased when a blush climbs her throat. “But we’ll start tame. Truth first: favorite pizza topping. Go.”
She exhales, the tension easing by a hair. “Easy. Roasted garlic. Yours?”
“Pineapple. Judge me later.”
“Consider yourself judged already.” The tease lands; relief flickers behind her eyes. Good. Keep it light, Donovan.
“Worst first date?” I toss next.
She thinks. “Guy who spent the whole night explaining Bitcoin to the waiter. Yours?”
“I once took a model to a punk show; she left after two songs because the bathroom lacked a ring-light.” Not a lie, just missing the part where paparazzi documented my humiliation.
Nora giggles, actually giggles, and the sound sparks heat low in my gut. She tucks hair behind her ear, cardigan slipping off one shoulder before she catches it.
Silence stretches, warm now, almost humming.
Part of me aches to tell her who I really am. See me, please, remember that kiss—but the stakes are too high and the timing all wrong.
“Truth or dare?” she asks.
“Truth.”
“Why logistics? Big, loud concerts don’t seem quiet-corner friendly.”
I pause, weighing my reply; logistics isn’t truly my world, but I still want to give her something honest.
Spotlights, screaming crowds, paparazzi following me—none of it quiet, ever. I exhale.
“Being on stage… up there is this crazy energy. But it’s a restless type of energy. Euphoric. Anxious. Driven. But never content. Lately I’ve found I enjoy the quieter moments backstage more.”
