1
Julia
“Argh!” The groan rumbles through the elevator seconds after the car jolts to a stop midway between floors three and four. The man who just breezed in like he owns the damn place slams his palm against the brushed metal walls, then clenches his fist on the package in his one hand while he jams repeatedly at the door open button and then the fifteen button with the other.
Nothing happens.
“Don’t bother telling management. It’s not like they’re going to do anything about it,” I mutter from my place in the opposing corner, packages in my hands stacked from my waist up to beneath my chin in the most precarious of balancing acts, and the tracks on my cheeks from the tears I was shedding moments ago hidden by their bulk.
He turns to eye me for the first time, almost as if he didn’t even know I was there—not that I‘m surprised. I’ve seen him before. Him and his perfectly styled dark hair and his rough-cut jaw as he breezes in and out of this place day after day like he owns it. I have no clue what floor he works on in this expanse of a building, but I know it’s not mine and I know it’s the upper half. The executives’ half. The half where mail girls are nonexistent—good for nothing other than to make crude comments at or completely ignore.
Never anything in the middle of the two.
Ice blue eyes pin mine behind his black framed glasses and a lone eyebrow quirks up. “Come again?” His voice rumbles through the small car, annoyance painting its edges.
And of course his voice is just as sexy as he is. Just my luck.
“The elevators are just the tip of the iceberg in this place, if you ask me. Ever since ole McMasters Senior kicked the bucket, this place hasn’t been the same. The big wigs on the top floor walk around in their thousand dollar suits and wear watches that cost more than cars. They rule the world from their three hundred and sixty degree view offices while those of us down in the mailroom have to try and sort letters while wearing gloves because the heat is broken and they don’t care to fix it. Then there are the bathrooms that rarely work, the budget cuts that have left the cafeteria food not fit for a dog, and the Christmas bonuses? Ha!” I laugh out as the tears threaten again. “Bonuses are only given to the men of this company who pretend to make decisions while everyone around them busts their asses doing the real work.”
“Subtlety is your strong suit, I take it?” he asks, turning now to face me. There’s something in his voice, a faint lilt in a word I don’t quite catch, but the thought fades from my mind when his eyes hold mine. “And what exactly do you mean about Christmas bonuses?”
Unnerved by the intensity of his stare, I glance anywhere but at him. I take in his flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The breadth of his shoulders. The rich yet subtle scent of his cologne. What else he’s wearing I have no idea because I can’t see below my stack of packages.
When I look back up to his eyes as the silence dominates the space, I recall his finger was pushing the fifteen button on the panel.
“Never mind. You’re on one of the floors that actually gets a bonus. Forget I said that.” I blow out a breath to force my bangs off my face as my heavy coat, this tight space, and my freely running mouth have me getting hot all of a sudden.
Or maybe it’s him—hot in all the right ways and I hate that the thought even crosses my mind.
“No.” He takes a step closer and my packages wobble in my arms. But he doesn’t seem to notice because he’s too focused on me. “What did you mean by that?”
The rush of today’s events fills my head and hurts my heart so that all the fucks I’d like to give seem to dissipate in that single word, no.
I look at him. He’s part of the problem. The man who walks into an elevator without a glance backward to the quirky girl from the mailroom whose arms are full. Always too busy trying to save what he seems is the world, one pair of panties at a time.
Jerk.
Take a step back, Jules. Keep your mouth shut. Burning a bridge is never a good thing. Even if some prick like him is the reason you were just fired.
If you finish your deliveries and don’t make a scene, Jules, you’ll get paid through the end of the week.
The nasally voice of my boss, Barney, and his comment runs through my mind quickly followed by the list of mounting bills I have whose balances I know by heart.
And almost like fate needs to reinforce my luck and lot in life during probably the shittiest of holiday seasons in my life, the elevator harshly jolts up. Yep. You guessed it. That precariously stacked bunch of packages tumbles out of my hands and scatters to the floor accompanied by my strangled cry as I try to steady myself.
Mr. Flannel Shirt emits a noise that’s way more sophisticated sounding than mine in reaction.
And just like in those old ’80s movies I love, nerves have us rattled so that we both bend over at the same time—a “Let me help you with that,” falling from his mouth in that deep rumble—seconds before our heads bonk against one another’s.
“Ow!” we both say in unison as we jolt back, but when I step and slip on one of the packages, I fall forward. And before I can faceplant perfectly square into what I’m looking at—the crotch of his dark denim jeans—strong hands grab my shoulders and prevent me from doing just that.
“That package isn’t part of your delivery,“ he murmurs but I can hear the amusement in his tone. “Eyes up here.”
Out of breath and more than startled by the bonk to the head and his comment, I look up to see his face mere inches away from mine. Lips. Nose. Eyes.
All of them assault my senses and has me shrugging out of his grasp just as quickly as I pretend not to notice.
“I’m fine. This is fine. We’re fine.” Each word is a stilted syllable out of my mouth as I silently chastise myself over why I’m so flustered.
“Okay.” He draws the word out and narrows his eyes at me with a part-smirk, part-she’s-crazy expression on his face. “Your antlers are crooked.”
“Antlers?” I ask.
He points to my head. “The ones on your head.”
“Oh. Oh!” I immediately reach up for my headband with antler ears and rip them off, feeling more like a kindergartner dressed for the Christmas program while he’s the one heading off to the Nutcracker.
“Why’d you take them off? They’re cute.”
“Cute?” I cough the word out and shake my head. Did he just really say I’m cute?
No. He said the antlers are cute.
Not you.
“Yeah. They look cute on you. You should keep them on.”
I stare at him blinking more than I probably should, as if I’m trying to process what he just said when I know I heard him just fine. Instead of saying anything, I lower myself as gracefully as I can to the floor so I can start cleaning up the packages.
I have to do something with my hands.
Anything.
Because I’m spending way too much time focusing on him when I don’t like guys like him—probably stable. Most likely successful. And definitely thinks he’s too good for someone like me.
“Let me help you.”
“No!” I all but shout and hold my hand up without looking at him. “I’ve got it.”