Page 12 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

All of the fight drains out of me as my mind begins to whir, a strange sense of horror descending upon me. How can I get out of this while still preserving what’s left of my dignity?

I could send a telepathic message to the secretary so that she could create a diversion while I slip away unnoticed. Or I could pull aShawshank Redemptionmove and dig myself out through the wall.

Both of these seem preferable to walking out of this office and seeing Dexter Anthony’s face. Is there a spoon in here somewhere, or maybe a very small shovel?

But against my will, my mind abandons escape attempts and instead goes back to Mr. Anthony—who is obnoxiously attractive, by the way. The man has the audacity to be rocking a full-on sexy nerd vibe. He’s, like, ten feet tall, for starters. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and I wasn’t aware that I liked those thick-framed black glasses, but apparently I do—

Wait a minute. No. No way. I can’t be having these thoughts.Stop admiring the enemy!I tell myself firmly.

And all right—I can grudgingly admit that he’s notactuallythe enemy. I know he’s just doing his job. But that doesn’t mean I have to like the fact that he’s forcing me to move, and I certainly don’t need to sit here—in his storage closet—thinking about his face or muscles or anything else. He’s condescending and heartless, burying any humanity beneath layers of rules and technicalities. Not at all the kind of man I’m interested in. What’s wrong with me?

I’m going to blame this one solidly on the hormones. On the hormones and the loneliness and—

“Ah!” I yelp when there’s a sudden knock on the closet door. I stumble backward, my spine collidinghardwith some sort of shelf. “Crap on a pancake,” I say loudly, righting myself and bringing one hand up to prod tenderly at my back. That’s going to bruise.

“Miss Ellis?” comes a muffled voice from outside the closet.

I freeze. What am I supposed to do? What do I even say in this situation? Do I just walk out there?

But I must be losing my mind, because even though my brain is telling my feet to move, to run and never look back, I don’t leave the closet. Instead I say, “Yes?”

Like I live here. Like this is my bedroom, and Mr. Anthony is about to inform me dinner is ready.

His muted voice answers, “How’s it going in there?”

I clear my throat. “It’s going well,” I say in a strangled voice, andoh my goodness, why am I talking?Why am I still in the closet?Is this a mom brain thing?

“Glad to hear it,” he says, his voice…amused? “Do you think you’ll be coming out any time soon? I have just a couple more questions. There are some blanks in your tenant file.”

I frown at hearing this. “What else do you need?” I resist the urge to snark that it shouldn’t matter since he’s trying to get me to move anyway—I’ve been rude enough already.

“I’d rather not discuss it with a door in between us. Should I have some snacks brought in, or are you coming out?”

“I don’t know,” I say miserably, my cheeks heating with my embarrassment.

I hear a loud sigh from right outside, followed by a “Have it your way, then.” The closet door opens, the brief patch of light making me squint, and the next thing I know, Dexter Anthony is entering the closet. He steps neatly inside before closing the door behind him.

“Now,” he says, “I just need the name and age of your dependent.” He speaks calmly, efficiently—like this is all very normal.

But it is not very normal. It is not even a little bit normal.

There’s not a lot of space in here, for one thing. The man smellsgood, a familiar scent that I’m too frazzled to identify right now, and he’s standing very close to me. I can feel the brush of his neatly starched shirt against my arms, which I’ve folded across my chest, and he’s warm, too.

“Miss Ellis?” he prompts, and I realize with a start that I’ve just been standing here silently reeling.

“What are you doing?” I say, looking up to approximately where I guess his face is located.

I can’t see him, so I’m not certain he rolls his eyes, but his tone of voice clues me in that it probably happens.

“You wouldn’t come out of the closet, so I cameinthe closet.”

I respond before my common sense can warn me not to. “And do you often follow women into closets?”

A second later, I realize what I’ve just said, and I wish I could kick myself. What kind of question is that? It’s going to sound like I’m flirting, and I am sonot.

But his voice in the dark is calm and collected, almost conversational, as he answers, “I don’t make a habit of it, no. I prefer being able to see the woman I’m with.” There’s a second of silence before he speaks again, and when he does, his words come from much, much closer. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he adds, his voice low, his breath tickling the shell of my ear.

I shiver, goosebumps racing up my arms. I am suddenly more aware than ever that we’re all but pressed together in a tiny, dark closet. It’s warm in here, so warm, and this is the stupidest situation I’ve ever managed to get myself into.

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