Page 12 of Matteo

I can’t help but move closer to her. Anxiety flickers in her eyes, the pupils large, swallowing up the hazel color. “Isn’t everyone meant to be somewhere at any time?”

She seems to consider this. “I need to be on time, and I’m not going to make it.”

“I’m sure they’ll be understanding, whoever you’re meeting with.” I want to know who she’s going to meet. Where she’s going and which department she’ll soon be working for.

“Do you think they’re doing some sort of tech upgrade?” she asks, her eyes lingering on mine a little longer. Something inside me stirs. The look is brief, but it’s enough.

“Could be. This place runs on smart tech, but sometimes it just gets too smart for its own good.” I offer another smile. This isn’t me. I don’t smile, often. I’m not patient, and when it comes to strangers, I’m not nice. Nor do I give a fuck, especially about someone I barely know, but there’s a stiffness in her posture and her jaw is clenched and fear swims in her eyes. It brings out the protector in me. It’s not usually there, but a woman in distress will do it.

Always.

Growing up and seeing Mama sad always made me want to wipe away her sadness and do whatever it took to make her happy.

“You kinda look uncomfortable. It’s not so bad and like I said, you could be stuck in here with someone you really dislike.”

This makes her laugh.

“You’re trying to make me laugh,” she says, her face softening, like she appreciates the effort.

“What is it? Agoraphobia, claustrophobia, acrophobia or basophobia?” I ask, curious to find out more.

“Interesting. You know your phobias. Which one do you have?” she shoots back.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She lets out a sigh. “Being trapped isn't really my thing.”

Her reply should be enough for me, but it isn't because I can sense something deeper there. It's in her expression, more than her words.

“I just don't like being cornered.”

I observe her carefully, noting the way she's standing, her shoulders drawn in, and her fingers, which keep fluttering along the strap of her bag. It's almost as if she's trying to anchor herself, trying to look fearless, when I see the truth of her panic.

“Who cornered you?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

Her brow creases, and she shifts uneasily, her nervous gaze settling over me. Whoa. I think I’ve hit a tripwire of truth. “Who?”

The word grates out of me. My gut hardens as I brace myself, but she doesn’t answer. Instead, she blinks a few times, shutting the door in my face, and in that moment I know I’ve hit a nerve. She doesn’t want to go there. She angles away from me like she doesn't want the confrontation.

I crossed a line.

Jesus.

“Sorry.” I drag a hand through my hair again, before looking away, giving her some space. “It’s not my business. I shouldn't have asked.”

She doesn’t answer straight away, so I turn back to her, only to find her examining me.

“What’s your phobia?” she asks, steering the conversation away smoothly, like she's in charge.

She's smart.

I shrug. “I don’t have a fear. Of anything.”

“Everyone has a fear about something.”

“Not me,” I counter, proudly. I’ve dealt with too much trauma in my childhood years to ever fear anything now. I look up. We just left the seventy-second floor and now we’re stuck between that and the seventy-third floor.

Too bad. She was almost there.