Page 7 of Some Like It Hot

“I’m fine,” I say, even as my hip throbs incessantly and I’m mentally calculating how long we can survive without fresh oxygen. “Though I just had to wear the fuck-me cage heels, didn’t I?” I add, lightly.

Blake chuckles, his deep voice rolling over me like warm honey. “Huge fan. And it’s New Year’s Eve. What else would you wear?”

“Precisely. Though I wouldn’t have moved an inch if I was in sneakers. My balance is amazing.” Normally it is even in heels. I live in them because I love the way they show off my calves and give me a height advantage. Doing the pinup model pageant circuit has made me stumble-proof for the most part.

But Blake had broken my concentration when he bent down to kiss me, something I’ve not-so-secretly been wishing he’d do for months. We’ve only met a few times, but there was a sizzle between us. We flirted a little, he fished for a compliment, I refused to give it to him.

That’s all it’s been. I had assumed he was the type of guy who would have pursued me if he was interested, but he hadn’t and I’m not a woman who chases men. That was that. A missed connection, nothing more, nothing less.

So yes, I was distracted by his sudden insistence we talk and his very direct compliments.

And no one can anticipate an elevator screeching to a halt without warning.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

His hands start to wander up my sides and over my arms, making me shiver in the dark. My eyes are adjusting to the lack of light, and I can see his long hair brushing his shoulders, his strong jaw and his thick beard, his firm lips, and the curve of his nose. I can’t read his expression but I can read his body language. He’s planning to pick right back up where we left off.

“I’m not hurt.” Except for the bruise on my hip that’s probably forming as we speak.

I press my back against the wall and grip his forearms for balance as much as to stop him. Because while I do want to make out with him and show him what he’s been missing, he’s not grasping the obvious.

“We’re stuck in an elevator,” I point out. “We should call someone.”

“You don’t think it will just start back up?”

I give a huff of impatience. “Why would it do that?”

I sense his shrug more than I see it. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly. Let’s be proactive here. Isn’t there an emergency call button?”

“I don’t think this is an emergency.”

The hell it isn’t.

I lift my ridiculously tiny clutch purse and unclick it to retrieve my phone. I command it to turn on the flashlight.

“Ow, fuck,” Blake complains as the light hits him directly in the eyes. His hand lifts to cover his dark brown eyes, and he hisses a little. “Damn, girl.”

I’m unmoved.

I need to see the elevator panel to push the button and get the hell out of here.

I was diagnosed with ADHD and anxiety as a child and while I’ve learned to manage both, accepting that certain things like my inability to maintain a clutter-free apartment will never change, panic can still pop up at random times. It’s why I quit my corporate job as an executive assistant’s assistant over a year ago. Well, that and the British billionaire boss that I had a huge crush on and happened to kiss one night when we were working late alone. But the main reason I quit was because I learned I couldn’t force myself to be organized when I’m not and that it’s better to embrace being a creative, while minimizing stressful situations.

This is an obviously stressful situation.

“Move your big body,” I tell Blake, pushing around him, flashlight bouncing erratically as I search for the panel.

There it is. The red button. I push it triumphantly, half-expecting the elevator to light up and start descending immediately. Maybe some confetti to drop. A bass beat to start thumping in celebration.

Nothing happens except Blake moves in right behind me on the pretense of squinting at the panel. His thighs brush my ass.

“I don’t think that was necessary,” he says.

I try to glance back at him, but all I can see is his dark suit covering his massive shoulder. “Are you aware we’re trapped and no one knows it?”

I’m already late to this party. No one is going to send out a search party for me. In fact, I wasn’t even on the invitation list. Dani Larkin Armstrong Hughes McNeill, or whatever her actual name is now that she’s married to three men, just had a baby a few days ago, so she clearly forgot to add me to the attending guests list after she invited me. Which is totally understandable and wouldn’t have been an issue, aside from a sour-faced security guard who did the whole you’re-not-on-the-list thing.

---