“Apparently,” he murmurs but leans forward anyway to assist me.
“Just no—I don’t—just leave me alone,” I snap at him and practically slap his hand away. “You’ve done enough today.”
But when I look up at him and he has a smile on his lips that lights up the freaking elevator in a way an elevator shouldn’t light up, I hate him.
On the spot.
For being everything I’m not. For being everything I’ll never have. For being the have when I’m the have-not. He’s all perfect with what I can assume are his skinny models decorating his side while I’m far from it with reindeer antlers and curves and extra padding that doesn’t go away when I shimmy out of the coat I have on.
That’s my assumption anyway.
Because men as perfect as him should be illegal.
“Me?” He coughs the word out.
“Yeah. You,” I accuse as I rub the top of my head in the same fashion that he is.
“What did I do?”
“You’re just”—I point my finger at him and wave it back and forth but verbally fumble over what to say next.
“A shit day?” he asks as if he cares.
“A shit day? A shit day?” I screech. “Try going to the bank to pull out cash only to find out that your boyfriend not only decimated your account but then sent you a Dear John letter via text. Oh and the cherry on top of that? My rent is due by the first of the month and now the money to pay it is in his pocket and not mine.”
He hisses in mock sympathy. “You sound more angry than upset.”
I shake my head feeling more relieved than anything. “The break-up has been coming. The stealing my rent money, not so much.”
“Brightside? The prick’s no longer in your life.”
I glare at him and the cute little smirk he has on his lips. “From the bank, I drove to the train station only to be rear-ended by some asshole on the Expressway.” I suck in a deep breath of air and know that he doesn’t deserve a single bit of this ire I feel or have a clue of the role he’s playing in my catharsis, but I continue anyway. “Then . . . I slip outside on a patch of ice—freaking go down for the count—and I swear to god I still have ice in my panties.”
“There are so many comments I can make on that one—frigid, Ice Queen, cold kitty—but I’ll keep mum so I can be on my best behavior,” he says and I hate the way the playful tone of his voice and the boylike angle to his head makes my body react in the most visceral of ways.
It’s the close quarters.
It has to be.
“See? I told you it was your fault,” I accuse just to break my own fascination with the whole of him— the curve of his lips, the strength in his hands, the blue of his eyes, the sexiness of his glasses, the line of his jaw.
His chuckle is low and even. “Your shit day is definitely my fault. I told the prick to empty your accounts and dump you. I told the asshole to rear-end you. And I for sure made that patch of snow freeze to ice just so you’d slip on it.” His expression is serious as he fights his grin to try and make me smile. “Whew. Not even a crack of a smile. There must be more then.”
“Not only did I get dumped by the asshole—”
“The asshole was the driver, the ex is the prick,” he corrects in a professional voice followed with a nod for me to continue.
“Thank you.” I roll my eyes. “So not only did I get dumped by the prick, crashed into by the asshole, and have ice in my pants, but when I showed up to work downstairs—mind you I called three times to tell them about my accident—I got a Merry Fucking Christmas, you’re fired.”
“No!” he gasps playfully but only after my eyes fill with tears and my bottom lip starts to quiver he realizes I’m dead serious. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing.” I sniff, trying to fight them back but lose the battle as one slips down my cheek. “It’s just . . .” I throw my hands up in defeat. “It’s Christmas in two days. All I wanted from Alex—”
“Alex?”
“The prick,” I hiccup over the word, fighting back the downpour of emotions that are threatening to spill out. “All I wanted was to feel special. My only wish was for dinner at Tavern on the Green so I could pretend to feel like I belonged here in this city. Like I was one of those who work on the fifteenth floor . . . and—and—never mind. Just . . . oh my god.” I bury my face in my hands as embarrassment hits me squarely in the solar plexus.
“What?” he asks, concern in his voice although I’m certain he’s more worried about being trapped for much longer in an elevator with Crazy-Emotional-Mail-Room-Girl.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head and pretend like I don’t have tear tracks on my cheeks. “Here I am trapped in an elevator spilling my heart out to some guy who doesn’t care in the least like some idiot. I’ll just collect my packages and be on my merry way.”
I scramble to swipe a tear away with one hand while picking up a small box and stack it with another. Swipe. Stack. Swipe. Stack.
“There’s one problem,” he says after a few moments and has my attention pulling back up to him.
“What’s that?”
“There’s no merry way for you to go on. We’re trapped in an elevator. We’re not going anywhere for a while.”
“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.”