Page 4 of The Package
“Then we should stop talking. Right? We should conserve the air.” Panic hits me out of the blue. Why didn’t I think of that before I just went and sucked up all the oxygen with my blabber-fest. “Oh crap.”
But he just stands there and stares down at me with the slightest bit of amusement etched in the lines of his face. “What’s your name?”
“Jules.”
“Jules?”
“Julia Jilliland.”
“Wow,” he laughs the word out. “That’s a mouthful. Nice to meet you, Jules Jilliland of the mail room”—he sticks his hand out to shake mine and when our hands touch, his voice falters for a second—“I’m—uh—I’m—”
We both jump to our feet as the phone on the panel beside him rings harshly. His laugh is what resonates though—that and the warmth in my hand where his was moments before—when he brings the receiver to his ear.
“Should we be concerned that it took you this long to call? Cell service is shit in here so we’re depending on you to save our asses,” he says to whoever it is on the other end of the line with a laugh.
And I smile.
I hate that I do.
His nonchalance is as sexy as it is irritating. And of course now that he’s turned to face the panel, I get a more than ample look at his backside. A backside, I might add, that is complimented by a very fine ass.
It’s not like I expected any less. He’s got the glasses that are sexy as hell. The rolled up cuffs that show strong forearms. Eyes that question and suggest and are hotter than hell. A sense of humor that I pretend I don’t find funny. The nice ass . . . I mean, of course I get trapped in an elevator with perfection like him.
“Thank you. Yes, we’re fine. There could be worse ways to pass the time days before Christmas,” he jokes. “Can I assume we’ll be out before then? Christmas, that is? Because if not, Jules and I should probably start panicking more.” He nods when the person on the other end of the line says something and laughs. “That and we’d definitely need some Red Vines dropped down through the hatch.” Another chuckle. Another nod. “Thank you.”
When he hangs up the phone, he turns so that his shoulders lean against the wall, his hands are on the rail that lines the car, one ankle is crossed over the other, and his eyes right on me. “They’re working on it. They said it shouldn’t take much longer.”
“Red Vines?”
“Sustenance,” he says with a wink.
“Then you should have asked for Twizzlers.”
“Seriously? I’m trapped in an elevator with someone who loves Twizzlers? Just means more for me then. Hey, are you sure that wasn’t why you were fired because loving Twizzlers is one of those things that is hard to overlook.”
“Hardy-har-har,” I say with a shake of my head.
“Did you actually just say hardy-har-har?” He laughs.
“Yes. It’s been a shit day. I’m allowed to say whatever the hell I want.” But I smile and it feels so damn good after the day I’ve had.
I
squat back down as gracefully as I can in my skirt to continue picking up the vomit of brown parcels that pretty much look identical at my feet. The packages that are supposed to be my ticket to making a difference in this place. My first step in working my way up the corporate ladder that apparently ends at the first rung for me.
“You know I could help you, right? It doesn’t make you any less capable if I do.”
“Mmm.” It’s all I say knowing I’m mad at him for not helping me and at the same time acknowledging I don’t want his help.
Or rather, maybe it’s that I don’t want his help because the more he talks, the more he makes me laugh, the more I’m forgetting he’s one of those who work here I’m not supposed to like.
The more I can pretend that he’s not as attractive as he really is.
“Mmm?” He repeats the sound I made back at me. “Is that a yes, you’ll accept my help now, or a no, you think I’m a bastard simply because I have a dick, type of sound?”
My eyes flash up to meet his from where he stands and amusement lights up his eyes, but his face remains completely impassive all but for the muscle feathering in his jaw.
And of course, now my mind is fixated on his dick.
