Page 40

“Yes. Hello.” Ross quickly turns toward the box and bellows louder than necessary for such a small space. “We’re stuck.” He glances at the floor numbers, none of which are lit to tell us where we’ve stalled.

“Sir, it should only be another minute.”

“Someone in here is on the verge of a panic attack. If she goes into cardiac arrest, it will be on your conscience.”

Oh my . “Was that necessary?” I demand, surprised by the sharpness of his tone and the terse insult to someone only trying to help us remain calm. Not to mention, he’s calling out my verge-of-hysteria. The only heart attack I’ll have is if my bladder gives out.

The elevator thuds, rumbling the lift before a loud clacking occurs, and we move again. I drop my fanning hand to my lower belly and squeeze my thighs tighter together. Knowing I’m this close to exiting this thing and reaching the safety of my room has the urge to pee ratcheting sky-high.

The sweat lingering on my skin is no longer related to the hot flash but to the potential mortification of not making it off this elevator and into my room in time.

Suddenly, the doors whoosh open.

Without a word to my former celebrity crush because he’d just lost all his points by reprimanding the elevator attendant, I rush toward my room.

I have a vague sense of him turning in the same direction as me but I’m hyper-focused as I fumble with my room key.

My hands tremble as the plastic card swipes over the electronic lock.

Red.

Red.

I flip the card over .

Red.

What the hell?

My hips rock. My knees knock. My thighs are pressed together tighter than a ballpark hotdog in a bun.

“That’s my room.” The masculine voice, embodied by the man standing beside me, watching me struggle to enter a hotel room, only irritates me further.

Glancing at the marker beside the door, I read the number. 1113.

Shit. I step to my left, forcing Ross Davis out of my way, and swipe my card over the keypad for my room. 1111.

Green. Click .

Without a glance backward, I step inside, allow the door to slam behind me and enter the bathroom.

The potty dance continues as I struggle to roll down my nude-colored shaper briefs and settle on the toilet.

Relief hits instantly and I bow my head, resting my forehead in my hand with my elbow on my thigh.

Holy cow , that was close.

Taking a deep breath, I linger on the porcelain throne as sweat cools on my skin. Pushing the body-contouring torture garment over my knees, I let it fall to my ankles. After kicking off my heels, I jiggle my feet for the final stage of removing the underwear.

With another deep exhale, freedom comes for my once constricted belly while I wiggle my toes, now released from my pinching shoes.

Placing both hands on my thighs, I lean forward, shaking my head back and forth.

No one else . To no one else would such a moment happen. I nearly peed myself in an elevator in front of Ross Davis.

Who really wasn’t a conversationalist, nor was he particularly polite. Not to mention he sort of threw me under the bus without compassion, like I was one hand wave away from smacking myself or dropping to the floor in a frothing panic .

I hate when you learn your crush isn’t really all that in the end.

Sitting upright, I reach over my shoulder and attempt to lower the zipper on the back of my dress.

Single-Woman Issue 171: Zipper lowering. Equally as difficult as zipper lifting.

My arms don’t bend behind my back quite like they once did to operate zippers on a dress.

I only have the closure lowered a few inches before I take care of personal hygiene and stand from the toilet.

With my shaper on the floor, I push the garment aside with my foot and wash my hands, taking a second to stare at myself in the mirror.

My blonde hair shows evidence of finger combing throughout the long day of attending seminars.

My eyes are bloodshot from straining to read in low-light ballrooms, plus, I’ve had two glasses of wine.

Reaching for a washcloth, I wet it and scrub my face with the warm terrycloth, removing any remaining makeup.

As I wring out the washcloth, a knock comes on my hotel room door.

Being that I was kind of in a hurry to enter the bathroom, I hadn’t bothered closing the privacy slider.

Plus, I’m the only one staying in my room.

Either way, I haven’t ordered room service, and someone evidently has the wrong room. I pause, waiting out the sound.

But another knock occurs, a little harder, a little more insistent.

Setting aside the washcloth, I pick up a hair band and tuck my hair into a messy bun at my nape while I cross the room for the door.

Peeking through the peephole, a sight I never in a million years imagined seeing stands in the hallway.

Even with an overactive imagination, I couldn’t make this situation up.

And for a full minute or more, I stare at the peephole, as if I have imagined him.

My stomach ripples like stands full of fans attempting The Wave.

Unhindered, I observe him. Even though he was rude in the elevator, the tilt of his head gives a vibe of bone-deep weariness.

A vulnerability that has me stepping back.

I tug at the loose twist of my hair then smooth my hand over my belly, hoping to calm the fluttering within me. I’m highly conscious that my dress is partially unzipped. And , I’m not wearing underwear.

With a flourish, I open the door and stare into the hall.

Ross Davis’s gaze drops to a cut-crystal bottle of amber-colored liquid he cups in his hand. “I was saving this for tonight.” He lifts the container. “For the big win.”

I nod, suddenly sympathetic. Nothing excuses his tone or behavior earlier, but I instantly recall he’s had a tough night.

Maybe rougher than getting stuck in an elevator with a woman fanning herself, but not quite as desperate as my near-urination emergency.

I will not concede the direness of that situation.

“I’m sorry about the loss.”

Yep . Ross Davis and the Philadelphia Flash lost the biggest night in baseball in a gut-wrenching sixth game match up with Houston.

The game came down to the ninth inning with bases loaded and a double play when the centerfielder caught a fly ball and then threw to the second baseman, who tagged the runner for the game ending out.

In a mediocre game, the play was a major blow.

Ross nods once. His demeanor melancholy as he lowers his gaze again to where his thick fingers circle the neck of the crystal container, which he cradles like a prized possession. Albeit a poor substitute for a championship trophy.

For some reason, I envision what it would look like to have those thick fingers wrapped around me in some way. My thighs. My wrist. My throat.

“And I’m sorry for my behavior in the elevator. I called the front desk to apologize to the kid.” He lifts the bottle in his hands and shrugs, the subtle movement almost bashful. “Anyway, I wondered if you’d like to share a drink with me. Even though, I can’t promise to be the best company.”

Holding onto the door, I shift to one leg and rub my bare foot over my ankle. Ross watches the motion. He’s no longer wearing his team’s three-quarter zip shirt or those ass-complementing dress slacks, but a plain black sweatshirt made of waterproof material and athletic pants.

We might be total strangers to one another but the aura of defeat around him has me stepping back and silently waving him inside. A hint of freshly-showered man mixes with a splash of spicy, masculine cologne as he passes me.

Was I really sitting on the toilet long enough for him to shower? Then again, I remember the days when Cameron could shower in under five minutes and be prepared to go in a total of eight. It’s a man-thing.

However, the man-thing I’m most curious about right now is why Ross Davis wants to share a drink with me and how we’re doing it in my hotel room.

READ: ELEVATOR PITCH