“They left you there by yourself?” His voice holds a sharp edge to it, and I wonder if he’s as tired as I am from sprinting. He hides it well.
“Isabel, my boss, needed me to bring something from her office. And I thought it was just another fire drill.”
His warm hand squeezes mine. I’m conscious of how dry his hand is. He must not have nervous sweat glands like I do. I wonder if, under that jacket, there’s even a hint of perspiration.
Pretty sure even my back is dripping at this point.
“Remind me, what business is on the eighth floor?” he asks.
His conversation helps me forget why we’re running down the stairs, and his easygoing attitude and broad shoulders make me feel safe. I could burrow into a hug from him. Lay my head on his chest.
“The cuddling office,” I say as I jerk my gaze away from him.
He stops abruptly, my hand still connected to his by that firm grip. “Cuddling?”
“Did I say cuddling?” I ask as I stare at his angular jaw. “I meant the Burlinson Restaurant Supply.”
“Ah, Burlinson.” He smirks and continues forward.
And now we’re on our way down the stairs once again, and I’m left with no doubt who’s leading our journey.
Hint: it’s not the restaurant supply assistant, who just thoroughly embarrassed herself.
I decide to take back a little of our power dynamic. “What office do you belong to? I don’t think I’ve been to the tenth floor.”
He doesn’t turn around, but he does answer clearly. “Maintenance.”
I stare at his suit, wondering if that’s why there’s no tie.
Brilliant. Maintenance staff who wear business suits make an office seem like it’s always running smoothly. It seems a little strange that it would be on the tenth floor, but I’ve never worked in that type of job before.
“Plumbing?” I guess.
His arms fill out that suit so nicely.
“Infrastructure.”
Infrastructure.What kind of job is that? It sounds made up. Or maybe this fire is his fault…He could have been messing with wires he shouldn’t have.
Missing a step, I catch myself, thanks to my bare feet, but manage to stub my toe in the process.
“You okay?” he asks, but doesn’t slow, tugging me after him as I gasp in pain. “Do you want me to carry you?”
“I’ll power through,” I manage to wheeze.
We finally reach the bottom floor,and he pushes open the exit that leads tothe alley.There’s a tall gray fence in front of us, blocking the view of the street.To our right, there’s a loading dock, but if we turn left, we can follow the pavement to the front of the building.He releases my hand and tucks the manila folderinside his jacket.And nowI’mespecially jealous of men’s clothing.First,they have actual pockets on their jeans, and second, they haveeven bigger pockets that can hold papers inside their coats?
There’s something inherently unfair about all of this.
I take the time to tuck all the loose Very Important Papers back into the folder, then slip my shoes back on. They still pinch terribly. But because the city sidewalks often have bits of shattered glass, I don’t dare keep walking barefoot. The only blood-red I like is my nail polish.
My hands shake as I attempt to buckle my shoes, and I nearly topple over. But the man catches me with a steadying hand on my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I say as I look up at the person who nearly killed me only a few minutes ago.
Now that we’re outside, out of danger, I can appreciate the full picture in daylight.
His eyes are blue—a light cerulean shade. I wonder how a label that color would look against the backdrop of the bourbon we just distilled. Too bad that batch won’t be ready for another four years. And something tells me that this man with the gorgeous eyes isn’t available either. Because who would ever let him go?
