by Tawna Fenske
Two Ways to Read
This book includes art and animation designed to enhance the story. You control the experience using the Show Media option in the Aa menu. If Show Media is not an option, art and animation are not available on this device. However, you will be able to read the text.
CHAPTER ONE
Noah
Going down.”
There’s something painfully pornographic about the lilting British voice that drifts through the elevator speakers as the doors slide shut behind me. I do my best not to snort like a preteen boy before noticing the only other person in the elevator is a Japanese businessman so engrossed in his phone conversation that he wouldn’t notice if I took off my pants and swung them around.
Which I don’t, of course. In fact, I make it a point to arrange my masonry tools in a tidy pile before scrunching myself in the corner to take up the least amount of space possible. When you’re six foot five and two-eighty with a job that requires you to carry buckets brimming with sharp objects, you spend a lot of time telegraphing “I swear I’m not a serial killer” to random strangers.
The guy on the phone says something in Japanese, and I lean against the wall as the elevator heads down. It’s Friday night, and after a long week building a massive stone fireplace in the penthouse of this overpriced high-rise, I’m excited to crack a beer and binge-watch Rock of Ages, a new History channel special about stonemasons from centuries past. What? I love my job.
Above the door, the button for floor sixteen lights up before the car lurches to a stop. The guy on the phone moves forward like he thinks I’m going to fight him to the exit. I lean back against the wall in my best nonthreatening posture as the doors swish open to reveal the two most attractive women I’ve seen all week.
The brunette wears a black lace tank top and a scowl that suggests she’d cheerfully junk punch me if I tried to hit on her. She’s toting something that looks like a cat carrier with tiny silver bars crisscrossing the front, and she shifts it to the other hand as she steps into the elevator.
I glance at the blonde, who holds a pink iPhone to her ear while delivering a chipper-sounding monologue about a job interview.
“So by this time I’ve been there for, like, fifteen minutes, and this chick interviewing me hasn’t stopped droning on about Zenith’s company culture or some crap like that, but all I can think is—hello!—she seriously needs a pedicure. Like why would you even wear peep-toes?”
The blonde tosses her hair, and I turn my body sideways to make room for both women. The brunette edges as far away as she can get, but the blonde meets my eyes then and delivers a smile that shoots straight to my groin.
“Sasha?” the blonde says into the phone as her gaze flicks up and down my chest. “I’m going to have to call you back. No, I just got on the elevator with this really cute guy.”
Hello.
I scrub my hand over my chin to make sure I don’t have Cheetos dust left over from lunch. There’s about five days of scruff, but no crumbs that I can tell. As the blonde ends her call, I think fast to come up with the best possible conversation starter.
But she beats me to it.
“Sorry about lying,” she says as she tucks the pink phone in her purse. It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me. “I just didn’t want to talk to her.”
From the corner of my eye, I see the brunette grin. Those beautiful, bare shoulders are shaking, and I’m pretty sure she’s trying not to laugh.
Okay, so it is pretty funny.
Still, I slouch against the wall and give the blonde the most bored expression I can muster. “Huh? Did you say something?”
She frowns, but before she can reiterate the jab, I pull out my phone and pretend to read an incoming text. “Hang on, it’s one of my girlfriends.”
Girlfriends, plural. Nice, right? It seemed like the right thing to put out there for someone who just called me uncute.
I pretend to read the screen, even though it’s only showing a background photo of my sister’s dog, Ludwig. I smile like a guy who just got a dirty text, then glance at the blonde again. “Man, what a woman,” I say, hoping I’m not laying it on too thick. “Maybe you know her?”
The blonde looks confused. “Um, what?”
“The girl I’m dating. Well, one of them. She’s the hiring manager at Zenith. Sounds like maybe you just met her?”
The blonde stares at me with a dawning horror. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to hold a straight face. She opens her mouth to say something, but no sound comes out.
The door dings behind her, and she whirls like she’s fleeing a house fire. It’s probably not even her floor, but the blonde hurries off without a backward glance.
“Good luck with the job!” I call after her as the doors swish shut behind her.
The brunette is full-on snort laughing now, and I feel a little sheepish as I turn to face her. “Sorry about that. Your friend kinda had it coming.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not my friend. I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“In that case, I’m not really sorry.”
The brunette smiles, but it’s a guarded smile. The kind that says, “I find you amusing, but you should know I have Mace.”
I arrange my features into my best nonthreatening expression, which would probably be more effective if I weren’t wearing a black T-shirt with a hammer printed across the chest. It’s part of my company logo but probably looks like a murder weapon to a woman whose body language suggests a serious skittishness around men. Or maybe it’s just me.
She looks down and sets the plastic box on the floor beside her, murmuring to it with the same voice my sister uses when coaxing the dog to take his pill. I watch the long, dark ponytail slide over her bare arm and notice a soft smattering of freckles on the curve of one perfectly rounded shoulder.
I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. The freckles—they’re the exact shape of Cassiopeia. It’s my favorite constellation.
I know. What kind of big, tough guy has a favorite constellation? How many could even name a constellation?
But I do and I can, which means I can’t stop looking at this girl’s shoulder.
The elevator lurches, and her head jerks up. She frowns as we shudder to a halt, then change directions. It feels like we’re headed up now, and the brunette glares at the control panel. “What the hell?” she mutters. “I’m going to the ground floor. Down, not up.”
“I’m going down, too,” I say, then hope she doesn’t take that as a pervy innuendo. She’s not looking at me, so it’s impossible to tell. She’s pressing elevator buttons with a hand bearing a wedding ring so huge it could double as a paperweight.
I’m surprised to feel a flash of disappointment.
“Something’s wrong with the elevator,” she mutters as we continue surging upward. “Why would it go get someone on an upper floor before taking us down?”
I shrug and step a bit closer to investigate the control panel. Not that I know what the hell I’m looking at. I’m a stonemason, not an electrician.
“The woman who lives in the penthouse told me she has a code to override things if she needs the elevator in an emergency,” I suggest.
This earns me a suspicious look from the brunette, who’s probably wondering about my intimate knowledge of speedy escape routes from the living quarters of a known socialite man-eater. Or maybe not. Maybe she doesn’t know Suzette at all. I’m just the g
uy hired to build her fireplace.
Wanting to be helpful, I reach across the brunette and hit the “Down” button, even though she’s already done it about five times. Shit, was that a form of mansplaining? I’ll have to ask my sister, who’s constantly coaching me on that.
The brunette doesn’t seem bothered, and the elevator surprises me by rattling to a stop, then changing course and starting down again.
“No way.” She turns and gives me the first genuinely friendly smile I’ve seen since she stepped into the elevator. It’s the first time she’s hit me with the full force of those eyes, and my breath catches in my throat. They’re sort of a smoky green with a ring of amber around each iris. I’ve never seen anything like them, and I stare like an idiot for a few beats before extending my hand.
“Noah Donovan,” I tell her. “Elevator repair specialist, at your service.”
She laughs and accepts my handshake, sliding a warm, smooth palm against mine and gripping with surprising strength. “I’m Lexi,” she says, and I notice she doesn’t volunteer her last name. “Is that what all those tools are for?”
She nods toward my large bucket filled with trowels and chisels, and I watch her smile falter as she spots my mashing hammer. The double-sided steel head looks like something made for bashing skulls, and I don’t blame Lexi for her discomfort. Truth be told, the whole mess of tools seems like something you’d find in the back of Ted Bundy’s van.
“I’m a stonemason,” I tell her. “I build things like fireplaces and decorative stone facades and custom headstones.”
That sounded more impressive in my mind. I can see from Lexi’s reaction that the word headstone did nothing to alleviate her suspicion that she’s stuck in a confined space with a serial killer.
Look, I get it. As a big guy with tattoos and a build that suggests I routinely bench-press small automobiles, I know I make some folks nervous. But the paranoid vibes coming off this woman are especially strong, so I make a mental note to avoid topics like death and sharp objects for the remainder of this elevator ride.
She steps back and studies me for a moment, and I hold very still, like I would if a butterfly landed on the tip of my nose.
“Is your girlfriend really the hiring manager at Zenith?” she asks.
Her question startles me, and it takes a second for me to figure out what the hell she’s talking about.
Right, the story I told the blonde.
I shake my head and shove my hands in my pockets. “Nah,” I say, “she’s not.”
Her expression remains guarded, and I wonder if I should have just kept the fib going. An admission of lying isn’t the best way to convince her of my upstanding moral character.
“My husband is a police officer,” she blurts before I can say anything else. “He specializes in solving high-profile murders. He has an excellent track record.”
She watches my face as that information sinks in, and I nod once to let her know the message has been received. “Ah. Got it.”
I wonder if this is true or not, but she’s wearing a wedding ring, so it’s at least half-true. None of my business, really.
Still, I wonder if I should just come clean entirely. Totally set the record straight. I mean, hell, I’m never going to see this woman again, and I don’t like leaving fibs floating around out there. When I was six, the cafeteria lady used to ask all the kids if they’d finished their lunches before recess. Once I said yes even though I had two carrot sticks left in my Incredible Hulk lunch box. I cried for a week from the guilt of it, then finally broke down and confessed.
My sister still laughs at me for that.
“Look, about the girlfriend,” I begin.
“Girlfriends,” she repeats with a small smile.
“Right. Um, I actually have a—”
Screeeech!
The elevator lurches to a stop, toppling Lexi into me. I catch her by the arms as she face plants into my chest. The scent of orange blossoms catches me by surprise, as does the firmness of her biceps, and it takes me a second to set her upright and let go of her.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She looks up at me for a few beats and nods. “Yeah. Jeez, you’re really solid.”
I laugh and take a step back. “If it’s any comfort, my sister says my heart is all squish.”
“Good to know.”
She turns to the panel of buttons again and frowns. We’re not moving up, but we’re not moving down either. We’re totally still. I’m not sure what that means.
“What did you push before?” she asks.
“The ‘Down’ button. I’m sure it was just a coincidence it worked.”
She tries it. Nothing.
Hits the “Down” button again.
Still nothing.
Up?
I watch without a word, figuring I’d just hit the same damn buttons. No sense duplicating efforts.
Lexi turns and looks at me. “Now what?”
She’s asking me like I’m supposed to know, so I step forward and take a few half-hearted stabs at some of the controls. We appear to be stuck somewhere between floors seven and eight, which isn’t a good thing. If push came to shove, I wouldn’t feel safe prying doors open when there’s no floor to step out onto.
I try hitting seven, figuring that might get things moving.
Nope.
“Try eight.” Her voice is whispery, and I hope she’s not starting to panic. Claustrophobia is the last thing either of us needs right now.
Nothing happens when I hit eight. We wait in silence for a few beats. I glance at the alarm button and wonder how long we’d have to stand here before one of us pushed it.
“I’m hitting the ‘Call’ button.” Lexi reaches past me and pushes the button with the telephone icon on it. There’s no actual phone, so I’m surprised when the sound of ringing fills the elevator car.
“Maintenance, this is Bob.”
Lexi breathes a sigh of relief. “Hi, we’re in the elevator of the Burlington Tower here, and it seems to be stuck. We’re not moving.”
“Hell,” the technician replies. “I was afraid of that.”
Wait, what? Not the most encouraging reply.
Lexi shoots me a panicked look, and I step forward as calmly as possible. “Um, Bob?” I try. “What’s going on here?”
Silence. A lot of it.
“Hello?” Lexi says when a click sounds through the car. I think we’re both afraid our friend Bob might have abandoned us.
But Bob is still there, and his next words are grim. “Look, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you’re stuck.”
No shit.
“Excuse me?” Lexi says, her voice trembling a little.
“Stuck. As in not moving for at least an hour, maybe two. Maybe longer?”
Lexi looks at me, her eyes wide with distress, and raises a hand to her mouth. “Oh no.”
CHAPTER TWO
Lexi
I focus on belly-breathing, inhaling slowly through my nose, exhaling through my mouth, with one hand on my chest and one just below my ribs.
It’s supposed to keep me from hyperventilating, but all it does is make me wonder if Noah thinks I’m groping myself. He glances at me with concern in his eyes, and the broadness of his shoulders reminds me that the guy could crush my skull with his bare hands.
Not that he’s thinking of doing that. I can’t actually tell what he’s thinking, but he looks concerned.
“Are you okay?”
This is the second time he’s had to ask that in the five minutes of our acquaintance, and it occurs to me I should work on being tough and in charge instead of being scared witless by everything.<
br />
Blame the latter on the stuff that happened last year. But I digress.
“I’m fine,” I lie as heat creeps into my cheeks. “It’s just—I’m a little claustrophobic.”
“Ah,” he says. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. We all have our issues.”
Buddy, you don’t know the half of it.
“Really?” he asks.
I blink. It dawns on me that I may have said those words out loud. Panic makes me do strange things.
“I, uh—I can be a little neurotic,” I tell him.
He smiles like I’ve told him something cute, and I wonder what he’d think if he knew about the voices in my head. They’re not real voices like I’m crazy or something. It’s just my way of thinking through things, of processing in my subconscious. And okay, maybe there’s two of them, and maybe I’ve given them names. There’s Watson, named for John B. Watson, who did the seminal behaviorist studies on fear—you know the ones where Little Albert was conditioned to be terrified of anything white and furry? I always picture a white bunny. And then there’s Harry Harlow, who studied trust and attachment in monkeys, which makes me picture a monkey and a rabbit arguing in my head when I’m weighing between those two reactions to things.
Okay, it sounds nuts. I’m a bartender with a psych degree and pretty recent trauma in her life, so maybe I’ve got some weird stuff happening in my head.
Stop caring what anyone thinks and pay attention to your surroundings, Watson snaps.
Noah seems harmless, Harlow soothes. And very good-looking.
Unaware of the crazy-talk in my brain, Noah smiles at me and points to the floor. “I’m going to sit down, okay? I’ve been on my feet all day, and if Bob is telling the truth about us being stuck for hours, I might as well get comfortable.”