Page 152 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
He smiles, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “No, but I have a shoe.”
I watch, skeptical, as he removes his shoes and sets the bottom of the wine bottle in the heel of one. “Brace yourself,” he warns, still grinning. Then he slams the shoe against the elevator floor hard enough that it makes me jump.
“If that breaks and spills wine everywhere, we’ll be out of shirts,” I tease. And then I realize the implication of what I’ve just said and blush so furiously that I swear even my toes flush pink.
“Wouldn’t that be a shame?” he asks, eyebrow raised as he bangs the shoe against the floor again, if anything, with more force this time.
Flustered, I focus on setting out the food into a semblance of a picnic. When I look up again, Russell has the cork worked almost out and pulls it free with a flourish. He bows and takes a swig straight from the bottle. “Perfect,” he announces, passing it toward me.
“I can’t believe that worked,” I tell him, laughing. I take a sip, trying not to think about the fact that only seconds ago his lips had pressed tight to the rim of the bottle. A rush of warmth flows through me—the wine hitting my empty stomach combined with Russell’s nearness as he sits next to me.
I tuck my legs to the side, tugging the shirttails down in an attempt to retain a bit of modesty. “For this evening’s menu we have stuffed chicken breasts in a champagne sauce with roasted fingerling potatoes, steak au poivre with sautéed vegetables, and a Mediterranean plate.”
“Bless Kauffman and his penchant for wet nights and gourmet food,” Russell says, pulling a container of pita points and hummus closer. He takes a bite and moans with delight. The sound of it sets off fireworks low in my abdomen and I take another swig of wine.
“You have to try this,” he says, swiping another wedge of pita through the hummus and holding it out to me. My mind dares me to eat it right out of his fingers, to let this gorgeous man feed me, but I’m not that brazen. I take the offered piece and pop it in my mouth.
Now it’s my turn to moan with appreciation as my eyes flutter closed and I lick an errant dollop of hummus from my thumb. When I look up again, Russell’s holding the wine bottle still against his lips, as though I’ve just caught him mid-swallow.
He clears his throat. “So, MacKenzie,” he says pulling another container closer and cutting off a slice of steak. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Ha!” I press the back of my hand against my mouth to keep from laughing. “There’s not really much to say. I’m not that interesting.” I cringe once the words leave my mouth. Way to sell yourself, MacKenzie. Taking a deep breath, I try to salvage the situation. “What do you want to know?”
He looks at me for a long moment, as though appraising me as he finishes chewing his steak. Nervous being the attention of such focus, I take another swallow of wine.
“Not the boring stuff,” he finally says. “Like where you grew up and what your first pet was named.” He reaches for the wine. “I want the interesting stuff, like what you want to do with your life.”
This time I really do laugh. “I’d think that was obvious given where we are.”
“You want to be stuck in an elevator the rest of your life?” he asks, grinning cheekily.
I swat at him but he catches my hand before I can make contact. His touch instantly buzzes along my skin and I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “No, I mean working for the firm this summer. I’m hoping to get an offer for after I graduate.” I sound more serious than I intend to.
“So you do mean being stuck in an elevator the rest of your life?” he says again, and while it comes out teasing, it’s clear he intends it as a serious question.
“It’s a good job,” I say defensively.
He still holds my hand in his and he turns it, splaying his thumb across my palm. “If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?”
I stare at my palm for a moment, as though the lines carved across it could tell me anything about my future. The edge of his thumb traces along my lifeline and the sensation of that touch pulses up my arm.
It’s too much and I tug free, reaching for the bottle of wine as an excuse. I’ve been asked this question before—you can’t get through junior year of college without a slew of people asking what you want to do when you grow up. But all the answers I’ve given in the past feel inadequate now.
“I don’t know,” I finally admit.
He immediately counters with “I don’t believe you
.”
I smile, a part of me liking that he’s called me on my bullshit. “I’d travel,” I tell him, not realizing until I say the words out loud that I’ve never voiced this desire. “But I’d go to the places people don’t normally go, to see how people really live. Really experience life.”
Russell doesn’t respond at first and the muscles along my shoulders tense, bracing against the fear of being judged. But then he nods, as though appreciative of my answer. “Then why don’t you do that?”
I blow out a breath of air with a laugh and roll my eyes. “A million reasons: money, time, resources.” I hesitate, tapping a finger against the floor as I decide whether to tell him more.
Maybe it’s the wine helping me let down my guard, or maybe it’s just what happens when you’re trapped somewhere with a stranger and all the typical rules of normal social interactions become suspended. But I feel the urge to be more honest than I perhaps otherwise would be.
“But really, it’s fear,” I confess. “I’m not brave enough to go to those places. Definitely not alone.” I look down at my hands, staring again at the lifeline he’d traced just a moment ago. “And that’s what worries me the most. That I’ll let fear keep me from really living life.”
