Page 26 of Babies for the Big Shot

She laughs then, quiet and genuine, the sound catching me off guard. It slices through my composure with surgical precision, leaving behind an ache I don’t want to examine too closely.

I reach forward and press the call button. The doors slide open in a smooth metallic whisper, revealing the empty elevator waiting beyond. We step inside together, and the instant the doors close, the atmosphere shifts. The air thickens around us, silent but weighted, vibrating with something neither of us acknowledges but both of us feel.

She stands beside me, her body angled forward, her arm brushing mine in a fleeting contact that is almost nothing. Almost. But it sparks through me with ruthless efficiency, igniting every nerve ending I have tried to numb with discipline.

She exhales, a quiet, unsteady breath that betrays what her posture tries to conceal. Her gaze remains fixed on the illuminated floor numbers ahead, but I see the tension in her jaw, the rapid pulse at her throat, the way her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag in a futile attempt at self command.

My hands remain at my sides. I don’t move. I don’t allow myself the indulgence of turning toward her.

But internally, I am chaos.

When I speak her name, it comes out low and deliberate, a private invocation spoken into the charged silence.

“Sara.”

She turns to me immediately, eyes wide and unguarded. Expectant. Cautious. And beneath both, wanting.

The force of it hits me with brutal certainty, the memory of her against me, the taste of her, the fractured sounds she made as she came apart in my arms. I feel her sway toward me, not enough to close the distance, but enough to destroy my equilibrium.

I almost do it.

Almost reach for her, almost drag her against me with a ferocity I know would leave neither of us untouched by consequence. Almost reclaim what I have spent every day since trying to forget.

But I grip the safety bar behind me instead, my knuckles whitening around the cold steel.

“You should get out on the next floor,” I say, my voice stripped raw.

She wets her lips, and the small, unconscious movement fractures my restraint further.

“Why?” she whispers.

I inhale, my chest tight. “Because if you don’t…”

The words die in my throat. I’m breathing hard now, struggling to keep my expression neutral when every instinct I have is screaming to touch her.

“If you don’t,” I finish quietly, “I’m going to make a mistake.”

The elevator hums around us, mechanical and indifferent. The numbers blink past in silent succession. She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t step back. She simply watches me, eyesdark and steady, and the knowledge is there in her gaze: She wants the mistake.

And I want it, too.

Want it with a desperation that trembles through every muscle in my body, coiling deep and dangerous in my gut.

But I remain still. I don’t reach for her. I don’t stop the elevator. I don’t taste her mouth the way I’m dying to.

The doors open.

I step out into the empty hallway, leaving her behind. My shoulders are tight, my pulse a riot beneath my skin.

She remains standing where I left her, silent, unmoving, but her eyes follow me as the doors close.

I keep walking, each step pulled from somewhere deep within me that still remembers how to choose discipline over desire.

But it costs me.

Because as I move down the corridor, each stride heavy with restraint, there is no doubt in my mind that next time, I will not stop.

CHAPTER SEVEN