By Floor 26, someone shifted, the compression increasing by a degree, and her forehead came to rest against his back. It was the slightest of contact, the lightest of pressure. It was also completely accidental because in the next second, she had jerked away as if burned, and her reaction had his hand, the one in his pocket, closing into a fist.
This was not the first time a woman had stumbled against him in a crowded elevator, whether accidental or on purpose (and more often than not it was the latter). But this was the first time that his own body had reacted, the first time that he found himself actually fighting against the urge to manufacture another accident—-
I must be losing my mind.
—-so that she would come into contact with him again.
Oblivious to how Olivio was struggling to contain his own reactions, Chelsea nearly went boneless with relief when most of the passengers stepped out of the elevator as soon as its doors opened at the 28th floor.
Note to self: 28/F is the cafeteria.
Where to find food was always a good thing to know, but right now she was just glad—-so, so glad—-that she could finally start breathing again, and it became even easier once Olivio had moved away, and there was absolutely no chance at all for her to stumble against him like earlier.
Phew.
She could feel him studying her once again, but she still couldn't make herself meet his gaze. It felt too soon, and she just wasn't ready. She would only look into his eyes once she was sure she had the courage to confront whatever she would find, and that would only happen once she figured out two things.
What did she feel about him...and what God wanted her to do moving forward.
Olivio had sufficiently regained his composure by the time the doors opened at his floor. Edgar led the girl out, and his gaze turned hooded as he followed behind them, not wanting the others to see just how closely he was studying her.
The first thing he noticed was her limp, and only because of how intently he was watching her every move. Why was she limping at her age? Was it temporary or permanent? Was it caused by an accident? Had someone harmed her? Or had she done this to herself, being governed by the same youthful impulses that had inevitably caused Russell's demise?
He watched the way she moved, with her left leg landing with a fraction less certainty than her right. Not a limp exactly. More like an ongoing negotiation between her body and the ground, as if she'd recently had to relearn the terms of their agreement. It reminded him of something he couldn't place, and then it came to him: the way his brother walked after a bad crash at Silverstone. Not injured enough to stop. Just injured enough that stopping was no longer something the body took for granted.
He also noticed how her left hand trailed the wall as she walked. Not leaning on it. Just touching, the way a person touched things when they'd learned not to trust their own balance completely.
Everyone else on his floor was staring at her...even while doing their best to hide it. Confusion and curiosity on every face, and all of them smart enough not to reveal anything negative toward any person being accompanied by the man on whom their livelihoods depended.
His "wife", however, didn't even seem to notice any of this, with her attention drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows. It offered the most panoramic views of the city in two directions, and she'd stopped walking at the sight of them with the unself-conscious arrest of someone who had forgotten, momentarily, that other people were watching. Toronto spread itself out below in the particular way it spread on clear mornings, all glass catching the sky, the lake a gray-green ribbon at the edge of everything, and she was looking at it with the expression of someone receiving a gift they hadn't expected.
It occurred to Olivio, with an unfamiliar prick of something he didn't bother to name, that he hadn't looked at that view in years, and when he glanced at his employees, he could see that many of them were realizing the same thing about themselves.
Olivio was about to signal for someone to escort her to the conference room when one of the new hires arrived from the direction of the elevator bank with a speed that was genuinely surprising for someone who spent most of his working hours looking mildly apologetic.
"Can I—-I mean—-is there anything I can help with, sir?"
Olivio looked at him, but Johnny was too busy looking at Chelsea, and Olivio found himself struggling to contain an intense blaze of irritation.
It was professional concern, he told himself. Proprietary interest. The natural response of a man who'd just discovered he had a wife to the sight of his twenty-four-year-old assistant staring at her with an expression that had absolutely no business being on an employee's face during work hours.
It had nothing to do with the elevator.
"Please take my wife to the conference room."
Johnny could feel the color draining from his face.Wife?Chelsea was married to his boss?
Olivio's irritation only grew as he noted the way Chelsea started at hearing him address her as his wife. The color that rushed to her face was immediate and total, a blush that climbed from her throat to her hairline with the speed of something that had been waiting for permission.
Why come here if she didn't want anyone to know they were married?
"Of course, sir. R-Right this way, Mrs. Cannizzaro."
Olivio's mood turned completely black as he watched the younger man act like some lovesick fool valiantly hiding his heartbreak as he escorted Chelsea to the conference room.
The hell with them.
He turned away from it, from Johnny, from the sight of Chelsea following his assistant down the hall with that careful walk of hers and one hand still holding the quilted case against herself like a small colorful armor.
