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Aaron’s fingers tightened on mine, his eyes flicking—slowly, almost imperceptibly—to my parted lips. His chest hitched.
Maybe it was the adrenaline from our back-and-forth. Or the spell of the elevator’s darkness. Or the fact that Aaron sat so close. Or the fact that his eyes were on my mouth first. Or, heck, maybe it was my stupid proposal.
There was no music in my head, no thoughts of the cello or the piano or any other instrument. There were no notes, no compositions, no thoughts other than?—
Kiss him.
I might’ve, too, if the elevator doors hadn’t opened on the eighth floor. Instead of opening to an empty hallway, the mirrored panels parted to reveal legs standing on the other side.
Years of working at Alderton-Du Ponte kicked my autopilot into gear, at least enough that it had me turning away from Aaron. Dazed, I traced the legs up—dark blue pajama pants with little footballs printed on them—to the torso—a fitted white shirt that left little to the imagination—to the face.
The elevator was stationary, but it felt as if it’s suddenly plummeted, my stomach following suit.
His hair was shorter, and he’d let his patchy 5-o’clock shadow grow into a meager patch of stubble, and his frame seemed broader. His hands hung at his sides, but I could remember what they felt like around me, and could perfectly recall what those parted lips felt like against my own.
I’d told Mr. Holland our paths wouldn’t even cross. And even then, I’d known I was lying. I just figured we’d bump into each other at the fundraiser, or even in the hallway, not likethis.
In an elevator.
On the floor.
With my hand on a man’s thigh.
A man I’d just blurted a proposal to.
But Grant Holland loved to always prove me wrong.
Clad in pajamas, Grant’s eyes landed on Aaron first. I basked in that split second, wishing I could’ve paused and stayed there forever. Forever suspended in the moment before his eyes shifted over, finding where I sat in the corner of the elevator.
But they shifted, and they found me.
Recognition bloomed like a flower in Grant’s expression, beautiful and bright and poisonous. “Lovisa?”
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
Ihad resisted Grant when he pursued me at first. Vehemently. I knew dating him would get messy fast, and for the longest time, I’d held out against his rough attempt at flirting. In the end, I’d caved, though, with possibilities and what-ifs and loneliness luring me in.
After a bad breakup, every girl imagined the next time they ran into their cheating ex. They imagined themselves beautiful, with a fresh blowout and drop-dead makeup. No one ever imagined themselves with smudged makeup, a teal polo that probably had sweat stains, and hair that had frizzed the second hour into her shift. They imagined their skin smelling like their buttery, vanilla body wash—notlike burnt fry oil.
No, I was living every girl’s worst nightmare—running into an ex wholly unprepared, with bits of food squished underneath the soles of my non-slip shoes.
“Lovisa?”
Was it my brain echoing Grant’s voice out of old habit, or had he actually said my name twice? From the way he looked at me—expectant—I figured it was the latter.
Still, I just stared. Not frozen. Not panicking.
Just… blank.
The elevator doors slid closed before any of us moved, but popped back open a second later as Grant hit the button again. This time, Grant stepped onto the elevator, directing his astonished stare down at me. “Well, this—this shouldn’t have been the last place I expected to see you, but… well.” He spoke as if it was perfectly ordinary to find me on the ground. The doors slid shut behind him, sealing the three of us inside. His eyes flicked to the pile beside me. “Were you the one bringing me my towels?”
His towels. He was in 803. I didn’t know what was worse—him being on the other side of the elevator or on the other side of the door when I would’ve knocked, unsuspecting.
I should’ve been mortified, or furious, orsomething. I didn’t look at Aaron, and I didn’t move.This isn’t happening—and not in the dramatic, earth-shattering way. More like in theof course it’s today, of course it’s him, of course I’m on the floorkind of way.
Andoh my gosh, my hand is still on Aaron Astor’s thigh.
I yanked it off.