Fifty First Times: A New Adult Anthology

by J. Lynn

  We’re both catching our breath and I’m trying to gather my thoughts, when she turns her back to me and wraps herself in my arms, embracing my warm afterglow. I’ve never been this at peace and comfortable.

  “¿Eres feliz, mi amor?” she says with a grin.

  Feliz? Feliz? I’ve heard this before but where . . . oh, Feliz Navidad! Merry Christmas! Yes, I am quite merry, or happy; is it happy?

  “Si claro que si, that really was perfect. Te amo para siempre.” She rolls around and we’re face to face. She caresses my lips with hers and I drift off, grasping my necklace as the ocean laps in the background, lost in those eyes that will forever substantiate my dreams.

  About the Author

  MARK PERINI is a New York City-based author debuting his first YA novel, Halfway Perfect.

  Mark began his career as an international fashion model eight years ago, while simultaneously obtaining a business degree from Seton Hall University. He has a passion for traveling the world, and he’s made a blood pact with friends to see all seven ancient wonders of the world before he’s thirty. Four down three to go.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Love in an Elevator

  CARRIE RYAN

  “HOLD THE ELEVATOR!” I shout as I dash across the lobby, juggling three cartons of takeout, two drinks, and a dripping umbrella. One of my heels slips out from underneath me as I round toward the elevator banks and for a few precarious moments I’m about to bust ass on the wet marble floor. I just barely recover as the elevator doors begin sliding shut.

  There’s a group of guys crowded inside, all of them from my summer intern class, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I make eye contact with one of them. He slips a hand between the doors, batting them back open, and I slow down a bit as I make my way across a slick puddle of rainwater left by one of their dripping umbrellas.

  The doors start to slide closed again, this time accompanied by a buzzing alarm, and when the guy attempts to push them back open one of the other guys punches him on the arm with a “Yo, I gotta piss, man.”

  Shrugging, the first guy withdrawals his hand and gives me an “Oh well, what can you do?” glance. I kick out a foot in an attempt to wedge it between the doors, but all I succeed in doing is throwing myself off balance.

  One of the drinks slides across the top of the takeout containers, right toward my face. I lift a hand to grab it, realizing too late that I’d been using that hand to hold my broken umbrella closed. It pops open, flinging water everywhere.

  There’s a small shout of protest from the guys in the elevator, which quickly turns into raucous laughter when the drink tips, its lid sailing free. A cascade of ice-cold Coke splashes down the front of my shirt, instantly soaking it. I jerk back, which only causes the second drink to fall, dousing my skirt.

  I freeze, gasping against the sudden chill.

  In front of me, the elevator doors settle shut, but I can still hear when one of them laughs and says, “Oh my God, did you see her face?” and another counters with, “Did you see her rack?”

  I can only sputter for a few seconds before finally growling, “What assholes!” But it doesn’t matter—the elevator is long gone. I sigh, but it comes out a bit wobbly as a burning starts to tighten the back of my throat.

  I glance down at my blouse, now stained and plastered against my chest, wondering if it’s ruined. I’d just bought it last week with my first paycheck and today is the first time I’ve worn it. Even my skirt is drenched. Tears threaten at the corners of my eyes.

  “Keep it together, MacKenzie,” I admonish myself. As much as I’d love nothing more than to drop the rest of the food in the nearest trash can and storm out of here, I can’t afford to. Not just because of the money, which I need to help pay for my books next semester, but because the firm’s already promised us that the top interns will receive full-time offers for after we graduate next year.

  I remind myself how nice it would be to go into senior year of college with a job already lined up. But to get there, I have to endure the rest of the summer, and that means not complaining when one of the senior partners sends me across town to grab dinner for him.

  Carefully, I squat, reaching for the empty cups and umbrella with my free hand.

  “Here, let me,” a deep voice calls, startling me. I glance up to see a guy trotting across the empty lobby toward me, a slender paper bag tucked under his arm. He’s dressed like most of the other guys who work here: dark slacks, blue button-down shirt, black loafers—the Banker Uniform, my friend Sarah and I joke.

  But on him, it looks different. The shirt pulls tight across his shoulders, giving hints of the muscles curving beneath. And the pants hang straight from his hips, no soft roll of fat bulging above the belt like so many of the other guys working here, from too many indulgent dinners out on the firm’s dime.

  He looks young enough to be an intern but I don’t recognize him from orientation. Nor do I remember running into him at any of the welcome parties or happy hours they’ve thrown for us so far this summer.

  “I’ve got it,” I mumble, clutching at the now empty cups. But the umbrella proves too unwieldy and he grabs it with one hand while holding out his other to help me stand.

  Though his grip is gentle, his fingers dwarf mine as I wobble to my feet. “You okay?” he asks, politely letting go once I’ve regained my balance.

  “I’m fine,” I mutter, shoving the empty cups into the nearby trash can. I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes and so I focus on the way his fingers tighten and flex around the umbrella as he twists it closed. A few sprinkles of water dribble down the backs of his knuckles and I feel myself swallow as I watch them trail from ridge to hollow.

  Thankfully, the second elevator dings and I’m able to shuffle inside, head still bowed. I hit the button for the fifty-seventh floor and tuck myself into the corner. He follows me in and presses the button for sixty.

  As the elevator begins accelerating upward, I frown, trying to place him. The only thing on the sixtieth floor is the firm’s reception area and a warren of board rooms that are usually all closed this late at night. I have no idea why he’d be going there, especially with what looks like a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

  The walls of the elevator are lined with mirrors and I shift slightly until I catch sight of his reflection. My eyes roam up his body, pausing again at his hands and the slight glimpse of tanned skin peeking out from under the edge of his shirt cuff. I notice a set of initials embroidered into the cuff and I tilt my head to get a better angle: RBK.

  Richard? I wonder. Rick? Robert? Ronald? Ugh, I hope it’s not Ronald. He doesn’t look like a Ronald, I think, glancing up at his face. Only to find that he’s been watching me.

  Our gazes collide and my fingers tense around the takeout containers, causing the Styrofoam to squeak in protest. Already heat floods into my cheeks as I wrench my eyes straight ahead.

  Which is a mistake as I catch sight of my own reflection. Unsurprisingly, I look horrendous: my long hair pulled into a knot at the back of my head, bedraggled tendrils pulled free by the stormy wind during my walk to the restaurant. My cheeks are flushed a scarlet pink and my eye makeup has smudged into a smoky sweep more appropriate for a night out rather than work.

  And of course, there’s my blouse clinging so wetly to my chest that I can see the outline of intricate swirls on my lace bra underneath. Trying to swallow a groan of embarrassment, I lift the takeout containers, hoping to cover most of the damage. Which only puts my sodden skirt on display.

  For lack of anywhere else to focus, I stare at the display above the bank of numbered buttons, urging them to go faster. Even though we’re in one of the express elevators that bypasses the first fifty floors of the office tower, it still takes a while to reach the top.

  “You know you can get to most of the restaurants without having to go outside,” the stranger offers, breaking the awkward silence. “Interior wa
lkways connect most of the buildings downtown.”

  My smile is strained. “Yeah, unfortunately you can’t get to Cress that way.”

  “Ah,” he nods. “You’ve got a project for Kauffman then?”

  I glance over at him. “How did you know?”

  “He always sends the new female hires out to Cress when it rains.” His lips tighten. “Lemme guess,” he adds. “He lent you his umbrella too?”

  I frown, about to tell him I don’t understand, when I put two and two together. Rainy night, broken umbrella. Even without the spilled drink my shirt had gotten damp and clingy from the walk. A sour, angry feeling twists in my gut. “Seriously?” I grumble. “What an asshole.”

  The stranger is about to respond when the elevator goes dark and jolts, screeching to a shuddering stop so quickly that momentum sends us both flying. I slam back into the corner, my shoulder jarring against one of the glass walls as I slip and fall onto my ass.

  From somewhere in the darkness I hear the stranger grunt as something strikes hard against the floor. Then there’s nothing but darkness, silence, and the shrieking rise of fear in pit of my stomach.

  Overhead a light flickers on and I look up just as the stranger slides across the elevator to crouch in front of me. “You okay?” he asks, eyes wide as he scans me for injuries.

  We stare at each other for a moment, panting, until I finally nod. “You?” I ask, voice breathy.

  He also nods. Somehow I’ve been able to keep the takeout containers from spilling and he takes them from me, setting them in the corner. In my slide down the wall, my skirt hiked up so high that the scalloped edges of my underwear are almost visible and I quickly pull myself standing so I can tug it back into place.

  Giving me a moment of privacy, the stranger busies himself reaching for the package he’d been carrying earlier and inspecting it. He pulls free a bottle of wine, checking to make sure it’s not broken or cracked before setting it next to the food in the corner.

  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.

  I can’t help it, I suck in a breath it feels so nice.

  “Your skin’s clammy,” he says. His voice is soft, full of concern.

  “Not much I can do about that.” I pluck at my wet
shirt and his eyes drop to my chest. He blinks, his hands on my arms tensing ever so slightly, before sliding his gaze away.

  “Here, wear this.” He pulls his shirt free of his pants and begins to unbutton it. He’s not wearing anything underneath and with each button he slips free, he exposes a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, tanned muscle.

  I practically choke. “Wait, what are you doing?” I protest. “I can’t—”

  But it’s too late. He’s already pulling it off and for a moment, all I can do is stare because Russell has a beautiful body. I clench my hands into fists because my first instinct is to reach out and trace the ridges of his abdomen, just to see if they’re real.

  He thrusts the shirt at me and I take it because I need something to do other than stare at his chest. “I promise not to look,” he says, turning, and the first thought I have is, What if I want you to look?

  I’ve never had such brazen thoughts in my life. I spin, my cheeks flaring. For a moment, I just stand there. He’s less than three feet away. It’s so silent in the elevator I can hear him breathing. I can practically hear his heart beating!

  Taking a deep breath, I start unbuttoning my own shirt. My fingers tremble slightly and I tell myself it’s because I’m cold. But I know that’s a lie. My entire body is straining toward Russell’s, on high alert for the slightest sound of movement.

  When I peel my shirt from my chest and drop it to the floor it makes an embarrassingly loud slap and I cringe. I feel like I should say something—make some sort of joke, but I can’t. Because all I can think at this moment is that I’m practically naked in a tiny enclosed space with one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen.

  I swallow thickly as I reach for my bra strap and unclasp it. I hold the damp material against my chest for a few moments, trying to work up the courage. Closing my eyes, I let it drop.

  And hear a sharp inhale from the other side of the elevator. It’s not until I glance up that I realize that with the mirrors ringing the walls, Russell’s been able to see me this whole time—if he wanted to.