Page 150 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
He stands, inspecting the bank of buttons by the door. They’re all dark, the display above empty. He presses at a few of them but nothing happens.
“So we’re stuck?” I ask, stating the obvious. As if this day could get any worse, I add mentally.
His lips twist. “Looks that way.” He pries open the little compartment by the door, revealing a bright red phone. He lifts it to his ear and after a moment says, “Yeah, I’m calling from one of the elevators in Spencer Tower—we seem to be stuck.”
I strain to hear what the person at the other end of the line says, but it’s impossible. So with nothing else to do, I take the opportunity to study him a bit more while he’s distracted.
His hair is dark and cut close to his head which isn’t a recent occurrence because there’s no telltale pale stripe at his old hairline. In fact, his skin is tanned, like he’s spent a lot of time outside, which seems unlikely if he works for the firm.
But the tan of his skin only makes the lightness of his eyes that much more arresting. They’re a pale green set off by a sweep of long, dark lashes and when he looks down, it brings the sharpness of his cheekbones and squareness of his jaw into sharp relief.
All in all, he’s pretty hot, I think to myself as a blush starts again at my lower back and begins seeping upward. Chill bumps flare across my skin, drawing tightly at my nipples that press against my clinging wet shirt. I cross my arms, trying to cover the evidence.
With a sigh, he hangs up the phone and runs a hand up over his head to grasp at the back of his neck. He doesn’t appear pleased.
“That’s not a good sign,” I offer.
“Yeah, it’s not great news. Apparently the building was struck by lightning,” he says, leading against the wall opposite me. “The entire downtown grid is out and they have no idea how long it’ll be to get back up running. They have to get the engineers in to look at it before they can even get us an estimate.”
His hands grip at the railing on either side of his hips, knuckles flaring white. “It’s going to be a while,” he adds.
For a moment I just stare at him. “Oh.” It’s the only thing I can think to say. And then I realize what being stuck for so long means. “Kauffman’s going to kill me,” I groan. “I have a project due for him tomorrow.” I press my fingertips against my temples. Kauffman’s on the hiring committee—I can’t afford to piss him off.
“I should let him know I’m going to be late.” I paw through my purse until I find my cell, but when I flick it on, there’s no service. “Crap,” I mutter, closing my eyes and letting my head fall back against the wall.
There’s a moment of silence before the stranger clears his throat. “I’m Russell, by the way,” he offers. When I lift my head I find him holding his hand out toward me and I take it, liking the way his fingers curl around my own.
“I’m MacKenzie,” I respond, noting with surprise the breathiness to my voice. “Your fellow captive for the foreseeable future.” Oh my God, am I flirting with this guy?
The corner of his mouth tilts up into a smile as his grip lingers. “Good to meet you, MacKenzie,” he says, and I can’t help the way my skin flushes at the way his mouth curls around my name.
His eyes hold mine for a beat longer before I pull my hand back and drop my gaze to my feet. Flirting, I’ve learned over the years, takes a certain amount of ego. Not just to throw yourself out there and believe you’re worthy of someone else’s attention, but also to believe that you yourself are worthy of receiving that same attention.
I can think of few things as embarrassing as assuming a guy’s flirting with you to only realize that you’ve read him all wrong. So for me, the safest approach to flirting has always been to operate under the assumption that any attention directed my way is nothing more than polite regard. As much as I may wish it were otherwise.
“So, do you work for the firm?” I ask him. Any hint of interest I might have been reading in his eyes dissolves and I could kick myself for asking such a rote question.
His fingers drum against the railing by his hips. “I have in the past,” he says. “I’m just down here tonight to meet someone.”
A girl, I immediately think. Probably a girlfriend. Either that or someone he hopes to be a girlfriend. Why else would he be so vague about it? Not ‘I’m down here to meet a friend,’—but to meet someone.
And why else would he be carrying a bottle of wine?
At least that answers the question about whether he was flirting with me. “Oh,” I say. But it comes out sounding more disappointed than I want it to so I add, “That sounds a lot more exciting than working late with Kauffman.”
His lips twist as he raises an eyebrow and he’s about to respond when the little red phone begins ringing. He answers it, listening for a moment before cupping his hand over the receiver to ask me, “They want to know if we’re okay here for a while—that neither one of us has any emergency issues like medication or claustrophobia or anything like that?”
I shake my head and he continues his conversation. Obviously, we’re going to be here a while and I cross my arms, rubbing at them to warm up.
“How bad is it?” I ask when Russell hangs up the phone.
“Several hours, minimum,” he tells me.
I let out a long breath and clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. But he must notice because his eyes rake over me.
“You’re freezing,” he says. I try to shake my head no but he frowns, “Your lips are turning blue.” He steps closer and starts to reach for me when he hesitates. “May I?” he asks.
With him this near, I smell the sharp tang of his soap and something else that causes my stomach to twist, not unpleasantly. I nod and he wraps his hands gently around my upper arms. Instant heat: both at where he’s touching me and low in my abdomen.
