Page 2 of Champagne Fizz

One: tall, dashing, and handsome—check.

Two: horn-rimmed glasses—check.

Three: hiding his Superman-muscles-of-gold under that Clark Kent nerdy vibe—check.

Four: sporting a let’s-play-out-my-naughty-male-librarian-fantasies look—triple check.

Indeed, why don’t the two of us go into this small enclosed elevator all alone, stranger? That sounds fabulous.

“I—I’m sorry, what?” I mumble in my twenty-five-years of perfected Kendall awkwardness. When it comes to hot men, I will always claim imposter syndrome.

Yes, Sue Blade, I know I’m the one with the problem.

“Sorry, uh, I was, uh, listening to—” I pull my headphones out of my ears and motion to them gracelessly. “Podcast,” I manage to get out. “I get really into this one and—”

“You recite what it says under your breath?” Clark Kent asks, raising a conspicuous eyebrow (which in Kendall-town might as well mean he wants to ask me to take my clothes off and invite me to do something inappropriate in the elevator).

My body starts to heat.

Abnormally hot.

Well, normal forme, but abnormal for every other human woman on the planet who knows how to control her body’s reaction in the presence of pure male beauty.

This is why I avoid men and don’t date. I’ve received little more than five words from a hot stranger and my body is blasting all the wrong signals to all the wrong places, and broiling me like a turnip in the process.

“I, uh—I guess,” I say lamely to his comment about mumbling, then overcompensate with a joke. “Ha! I must be a complete lunatic, huh? You should probably avoid getting on the next elevator with me.”

“People with mumbling-phobias beware.” He smiles sweetly, making me want to run and hide. My cheeks flush—because that smile seems too innocent not to be real, and yet, I swear it’s actually genuine.

“You can take your chances,” I flirt, as the elevator door opens and I head toward it. “But there’s no guarantee I’m not crazy.”

“You don’t strike me as the type,” he replies, walking onto the elevator cart after me and making my body feel like it’s a stick of dynamite. One more smile and that sweet honey spot between my legs is going to become a sparkler-fuse.

“You don’t know me,” I warn as I press the button for the roof.

“True,” Clark Kent agrees, “but I do know hot-headed, dominant, type-A crazy—and you’re not that.”

“Girlfriend?” I venture, and now it’s Kent’s turn to flush. His eyes dart over his horn-rimmed glasses, eyeing me like he’s trying to play it cool but he can’t.

Oh Lolli-pops! My flirty-guy barometer is going into overdrive.

“Worse,” he admits. “Business partner.”

“Oh,” I nod, wondering what business he’s in that he can afford a suite at the Atlantis. This place is known to house celebrities, and royalty, and the business elite (which again, is why I don’t think the resort is the right place for Olivia and Ned’s wedding).

“What’s the podcast?” Clark Kent asks, not pushing a button on the elevator console. Either he’s going to the roof too, or he just wants to ride all the way up there with me—cause you know, I’m irresistible. Ha!

All my natural instincts tell me I’m a fool. Of course, this gorgeous man wouldn’t be interested in mumbling ol’ me. But if Sue Blade has anything to say about it, I ought to take a little more pride and confidence in what I’ve got going on.

Screw imposter syndrome, right?

I’m awesome enough that a hot guy would want to ride in an elevator with me.

That’s right, Sue Blade. I am woman. Hear me roar!

“Podcast?” He fishes again.

“Oh, right—” I blush, stuffing my headphones into my purse. “It’s um, it’s calledSlay Your Business. It’s a podcast for entrepreneurial women.” For a second, I wonder if that will sound impressive. After all, his whole preppy V-neck sweater over his button-up shirt screams business acumen. He looks like an uber-intellectual trapped in Superman’s body. You know, the type who could seduce me by reciting the fancy billion-dollar-tech algorithm he invented.

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