Page 3 of You Rock My World
My guard goes up—automatic reaction with strangers—but as the intruder, a young woman, steps inside, the annoyance fades. She’s… adorable. Soft, wavy light-brown hair frames her face, half pulled back to reveal a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that makes her seem approachable in a way most people in my life aren’t. Her flowing, boho dress flatters her slender curves despite the many ruffles, drawing my attention more than I expected.
Okay, correction: she’s not cute. She’s stunning. But as her warm amber eyes widen in recognition, I still brace myself. No one was supposed to be around this late—it’s the only reason I’m moving without bodyguards. Amateur mistake. I curse my carelessness as I wait for the inevitable fangirl meltdown. Will she burst into tears? Beg for a selfie? Flash me for an autograph on her chest?
None of the above.
Her reaction is a demure, “Good evening,” followed by a fierce blush and a fast retreat to the opposite corner, eyes fixed on the carpet.
Most people in this situation would make conversation. Or sneak a not-so-subtle photo. I fight not to smirk as I study her. Curiosity piqued, I return her formal greeting, “Good evening to you, too.”
Her blush deepens—impressive, spreading down the elegant column of her neck. I’m oddly captivated by its progress.
“Running late for something?” I ask.
“Oh, no, I…” She stumbles over her words, glancing at me before those mesmerizing eyes dart away again. “The elevator takes forever, and I didn’t want to wait for the next one. Long day.”
“Fair. But you get extra points for the dramatic entrance.” I lean against the wall, angling my body toward her. “The doors are still recovering.”
She offers a tiny, close-lipped smile before her gaze skitters away again. I can’t decide if she’s a nervous fan or just shy. Either way, I’m intrigued.
The elevator begins its slow descent. I’m about to make another attempt at conversation when the car lurches to an abrupt halt. Then the lights go out.
“Shit,” I mutter, reaching for my phone. Before I can flick on the flashlight, the emergency lights kick in.
My companion is wide-eyed in her corner.
“You okay?”
“Yeah?” She sounds unsure.
“Let’s give it a minute. I’m sure it’ll start up again.”
She nods, still looking uncertain. When five minutes go by, and the elevator doesn’t budge, I press the emergency button. A chime sounds, but no one responds.
I try again. Still no answer.
I unlock my phone to call for help. But the bars are flat.
I hold up the screen. “No reception. You?”
She fishes her phone out of her bag and shakes her head.
I crack my neck, try the button again. Nothing. “Well, I’m wiped. Mind if I…?” I motion to the floor. When she doesn’t object, I slide down the wall to sit, legs bent in front of me, the oldish but clean carpet cushioning my butt.
After a beat, she joins me, fanning out her skirt.
For someone who constantly complains about how noisy my life is, I can’t stand the silence and debate what to say to put her at ease. I hate small talk, but also being personal with strangers.
Before I can think of something, the speaker crackles. A technician asks us routine questions: how many inside, any panic attacks or medical issues? I tell him we’re fine, and he explains a wildfire took out a power plant and half the grid went dark. We’re in a safe zone, but the city’s a mess. Emergency services are swamped, and we’re a low priority. We could be stuck here for hours. Maybe all night.
I turn to the woman, glad she kicked her ridiculously tiny foot between the doors earlier and that I’m not trapped in here alone.
She shrugs as if to say, “What can we do?”
“Well, at least the elevator is carpeted. We won’t freeze our butts.”
She finally cracks a smile.
“I’m Dorian, by the way. Figure if we’re going to be elevator buddies, we should learn each other’s names.”
