Page 56 of Game Misconduct
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sloane
The elevator humsas it glides down from the top floor, my phone glowing in my palm.
Emails stack faster than I can swipe them away—Dean with his clipped reminders, Sierra with color-coded itineraries, and Tessa juggling interview requests.
My thumb hovers over the reply button when the car slows to a stop too soon to be the garage.
The doors slide open, and I make the grave error of glancing up.
Maddox.
And he looks like sex on a stick.
His broad shoulders perfectly fill out the dark suit with its sharp lines. He’s decided against a tie—typical Maddox—leaving his stark white button down shirt open at the collar.
My pulse jumps so hard I nearly fumble my phone.
Crystal blue eyes meet mine, and it’s like I’ve had the air knocked out of me when I see a spark of heat in his gaze.
I straighten, my back against the wall, letting my professional armor drop into place.
At least on the outside.
On the inside, I’m more like a cat in heat.
Without a word, he steps in, jaw tight. He doesn’t look at me right away, just presses the garage button with a deliberate hand.
Then his gaze cuts sideways, slow and deliberate, and heat crawls up my neck.
We stand in silence as the doors seal us in together. Seven floors of polished steel and suffocating tension.
His reflection in the brushed metal catches my eye before I can stop myself. The jacket strains across his chest when he shifts his stance. His cufflinks catch the low light.
He smells faintly of clean soap and something darker, sharper—aftershave maybe. It’s infuriating that I notice any of it.
I force my attention back to my phone, like the tiny glowing screen holds the keys to the universe. As though the man standing close enough that the air seems to tilt doesn’t bother me at all.
It’s a damn good thing pants don’t literally catch on fire when you lie.
Unable to focus, I drop the phone into my handbag and clear my throat.
If he isn’t going to acknowledge the coincidence we live in the same place, I guess I’ll do it.
But before I can say anything, he speaks in a low, gravelly voice.
“Didn’t know you lived here.”
“Penthouse.”
As if that explains everything.
His mouth twists in mix of a smile and grimace. “Figures.”
The car hums lower, floors ticking past. My chest tightens with every number. I hate the way my body betrays me—too aware of the heat radiating off him, too aware of how the tailored suit makes him look like he belongs at a board meeting instead of a crease.
The silence stretches, and his cologne is making me crazy. I just want to find the source of it and inhale it.
