Page 33 of Sin Bin

Uh-oh.

With aping!the elevator doors split open, and a group of businessmen in classy suitsspillout.

One of them stutters to a stop at the sight of Andre, his mouth gaping open. “Holy shit, man!” He nudges his buddy in the side. “Holy shit, it’s KingSinBin.”

Andre tugs his left earagain.

The man’s friend reacts appropriately, and echoes, “Holyshit.Dude.”

I’m not sure to whom the “dude” is directed, but Andre apparently seems to think it’s for him because his face adopts what I would consider a “scary” expression—lip curling and everything—and the men scurry off, their proverbial tails tucked betweentheirlegs.

“Seriously?” I demand, pointing to their retreating backs. “See?That’swhat gets you in trouble, Andre. You can’t just go terrifying people like that and expect for it all to be justpeach—”

“Get in theelevator.”

At his high-handed tone, I arch a brow and fold my arms over my chest. “Excuseme?”

His dark eyes flirt over me. “Zoe, get in theelevator.”

Noway ishe pulling this sort of stunt. I stare at himunwaveringly. “No.”

His big shoulders jolt with surprise, and I actually see the moment he decides to flip the script. The harsh lines of his mouth relax, and the creases fanning out from his eyes ease. In a cajoling tone that wouldtotallymanipulate a weaker person, he murmurs, “Please,honey. Get in theelevator.”

My ears twitch at the endearment. It was one thing to say it in front of the receptionist. It’s another thing entirely to say it away from other people, when it’sjustus. . .

The elevatorpingsagain, and this time I step through. I don’t do it for him; I do it for me. Because whatever showdown that’s about to happen has been a long time coming, and it’s probably for the best if we don’t havewitnesses.

Andre followsbehindme.

We take our respective sides at either end of thesmallbox.

Slowly, like in a bad B-rated horror movie, the doors slide closed until theyclickand shut us in. I spare Andre a single glance, then release a breath as I jab at the button for floortwenty-six.

The elevatorsurgesup.

I hear, rather than see, Andre set my purse on the ground. My chin tips his way, my eyes narrowing on his muscularframe.

“Are you over being a high-handed jerk?” I ask, shifting slightly so my back presses against the elevator wall. My hands find purchase on either side of my hips on the wooden railing. “Because I can tell you right now that it is going to be alongway home if you keep up the Mr.Testosteroneact.”

The elevatorpings,pings, pingsquietly with each floorwehit.

“I think we have aproblem.”

At Andre’s confession, I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly and say, “It’s called ‘ego.’ I’m sure you’re familiarwithit.”

Andre comes closer. There’s not much room in this elevator, especially not for someone of his size, but that doesn’t stop me from staring at him and shoving my butt up againstthewall.

“Andre,” I say, “you’re kind of freakingmeout.”

His tongue touches the center of his full bottom lip, and that one caress sends heat down to places I wish it wouldn’t. “I’m freaking myself out,” heanswers.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

“Is this where I pretend that you took a crazy pill when I wasn’t looking? Just so you know, there’s nowhere for you to store my body in here. You can’t get away with murder.” My breath hitches at his intense expression. Iknowthat look. The last time I saw that look, my pencil skirt ended up on the ground, and my panties landed inconspicuously on the doorknob to the Red Wings’ laundry roomfacility.

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