Page 3 of Babies for the Big Shot

“Do you have a phone?”

He checks his. “No signal.”

I check mine. “Two percent battery and I used it to Google ‘cheap date ideas involving soup.’”

He stares at me. “You’re joking.”

I gesture at myself. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Another beat of silence. The elevator hums. The tension builds.

I shift awkwardly in my heels, now regretting both the shoes and my entire personality.

“Well,” I mutter, “at least if we die in here, I’ll be wearing a nice dress… even if it isn’t exactlymine.”

That gets him. Just a twitch of his mouth. But it’s there. A smirk.

“You find this funny?” I challenge, crossing my arms. “You, in your three-thousand-dollar suit, smirking while I spiral in cheap underwear?”

His smirk deepens. “It’s at least a five-thousand-dollar suit.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter, leaning against the mirrored wall, careful not to wrinkle Laura’s cousin’s Very Fancy Dress™. “Let me guess. You own this building?”

His head tilts slightly. “In part.”

I blink. “I was kidding.”

“I wasn’t.”

I stare at him, this smug, infuriatingly attractive man. “What, do you collect skyscrapers for fun? Build empires in your spare time? Drown orphans in espresso?”

He raises one brow. “Only if it’s decaf.”

I choke out a laugh before I can stop myself. It echoes around the elevator, surprising both of us.

He glances over, clearly intrigued now. “What’s your name?”

I hesitate. “Sara.”

“Sara…” he repeats, trying it on. “What do you do, Sara?”

“Currently? Survive.”

He nods once, almost as if he respects the answer. “I’m Nick.”

Of course you are. You look like a Nick. Tall, intense, possibly cursed by some old-money ghost and a tragic backstory.

I squint at him. “You don’t smile much, do you, Nick?”

“I’m smiling right now.”

“That’s… terrifying.”

Another flicker of a smirk. His eyes trail down, not in a gross way, more… assessing the situation. Or me. “So,” he says, “what exactly were you planning to do before the elevator hijacked your night?”

“Drink something free. Eat something on a tiny stick. Leave without being hit on by a man who quotesThe Wolf of Wall Street.”

“Ambitious,” he murmurs. “You’re not doing a very good job of avoiding men, though.”