Page 86 of The Playboy

A door opening.

A door that was extremely close to the one I was standing by.

My hand froze.

My heart began to thump at a rate I couldn’t control.

I scanned the hallway, trying to see which room the noise was coming from, and then I saw the movement.

The opening … from the door that was three rooms down.

A room that belonged to Macon.

Fuuuck.

He was stepping through the entryway, and I watched him immediately notice my cart.

He only had to lift his eyes a few more inches, and he would see me.

That was seconds from happening.

I didn’t know what to do.

If I dashed back into the room, I’d draw even more attention to myself.

But I couldn’t let him see my face.

So, I turned my back toward him and pretended to clean the doorframe with a rag that I’d pulled out of my pocket.

“Good morning,” he said from behind me.

Is he talking to me?

He has to be. There’s no one else in this hallway.

I held in my breath, attempting to sound congested, and used the highest pitch I could muster, replying, “Good morning.”

“Have a good day.”

He wouldn’t have to walk past me. The elevator was in the opposite direction.

But my heart still thumped away in my chest, my muscles screaming, my knees locking, as I feared he would recognize something about me—the color of my hair, the frame of my body in this uniform, the curve of my neck, anything—and he’d come closer to me.

I waited.

I pretended to scrub an invisible dot off the paint.

And suddenly, the sound of his door closing was filling my ears.

Followed by his footsteps.

I was so in tune to him and his location that I could hear his steps getting quieter.

And quieter.

Until I knew it was safe to turn around.

I pressed my back against the outside of the door, panting until I found my breath again.

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