Page 5 of Claim Her

God, I love these two. It never fails to amuse me that they always make it a point to celebrate my birthday, which is technically not the actual date I was born.

In fact, it’s the day they decided to adopt me. They always tell me how lucky they are to have me, but I disagree. I’m the one who’s lucky. Finding parents as loving and kind as them? It’s like winning the lottery ten times over.

* * *

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I groan and release a huge breath, unable to believe I’m coming home to this. With half a dozen paperbacks inside a bag in my arm and a tote on one shoulder, I stand in front of the elevators with a huge “DO NOT USE. FOR REPAIR. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE” in big, bold letters.

The only reason I chose this apartment in the first place was because of the elevator. Walking up and down five flights of stairs every day may sound exciting to my fitness-crazy mom but not to me. I’d rather peel off my nails. Okay, that’s a bit too much, but the point is, I’m too exhausted to even walk to the second floor.

My unit is on the fifth. Just the thought of walking all the way there has me half-convinced that I should check into a hotel instead.

“Why is this happening to me? First, my grocery. Now, no elevator. Is it too late to move? Should I go to the second building on my list? It doesn’t have an elevator, but at least I’ll be on the ground floor. God, I’m so tired. Kill me now, please. Or at least make the elevator work.”

Talking to myself is a weird habit. I know. Dad likes to joke about how unaware I can be of my surroundings, and if he sees someone talking to themselves, he’d run the opposite way.

Yeah, well, this is me. Sometimes I need to voice out my thoughts just to hear how stupid I sound.

“Here let me help you.” The deep voice shocks me enough that I trip backward, my heart pounding.

“Oh, God. Jesus. You scared me.” My hand flies to my chest, trying to calm myself.

It’s the guy from the other day. The one who didn’t introduce himself. The one whose name I still don’t know.

Without waiting for permission, he grabs the books from me, my nerves crackling with sparks when his fingers brush mine, and starts walking upstairs. I’m so surprised to see him that he’s almost on the second floor when I finally recover and sprint to catch up to him. I’ve never been so fast in my life.

He doesn’t say anything, just carries the books in his huge, veiny hands. His biceps and forearm flex, and I have to check whether I’m drooling or not. The first time I met him, I thought him handsome. Now, this up close, he’s actually a whole lot sexier and more good-looking, especially with those piercing blue eyes that make me feel like I’m standing naked in front of him. Or that he’s stripping me naked.

Get a grip, Zara. Not now.

We walk side by side without talking, and I struggle to breathe normally because the most exercise I have is pacing the entire length of the emergency room.

My nostrils flare while I pretend that there’s no invisible weight pressing against my lungs and my legs aren’t burning.

As if on its own volition, my head spins toward him. He’s a good deal taller than me, and the shoulder-length hair covers the sides of his face. This way, it’s not easy to tell he has a scar. He’s also wearing another collared shirt.

Yet another weird thought, but his hair looks shinier and softer than mine. I just want to run my fingers through them.

I’m well aware I’m staring, but I can’t help it. I may not get this chance again. He already has a low opinion of me—based on our previous interaction—so why not play to his first impression?

His ear pokes between the strands, and I see a silver helix piercing and another piercing below it. Damn. Why do I find it sexy? Why do I find everything about him sexy?

When my gaze lands back on his face, his forehead scrunches, and he clenches his jaw. Ah, yes. The rigid jaw, which is not only defined but looks so sharp I feel like it will cut me if I run a finger along it.

All of a sudden, the air in the stairwell feels hot and stifling. Has it always been like this here? Or is it just because I’m close to someone who looks like he should be on the billboard?

When we reach the third floor, I decide to push my luck a bit. We still have two more floors to go, and I may never get another shot at being this close to him.

“I’m Zara, by the way.”

“Yes, you told me the other day.” His baritone voice feels like a caress on my skin, and my core clenches unexpectedly.

Really, girl? Are we now getting aroused by this?

“I’m on the fifth floor,” I tell him, feeling like someone desperate for attention. Which I am, to be honest.

He doesn’t respond. It’s starting to feel like I’m talking to a wall, but I’m nothing if not persistent.

“You know, common courtesy dictates that when someone offers you their name, you tell them yours.” I give him the stink eye. “Unless maybe your name is either difficult to pronounce like Ermenigildo or something you’re embarrassed to say, like maybe Horatio or Archibald or Wilbur.”

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