Page 28 of Manhattan State of Mind

This box suddenly feels claustrophobic. Will there be enough oxygen to reach the fortieth floor?

Would it be weird if I sprinted out?

“Morning, Mr. Wolfe,” I croak. Flashes of that cartoon fiasco are playing in my head—like it was just yesterday.

Cross me again, and you’ll be fired on the spot.

“Lucy,” he greets, his voice sending shivers down my spine.

So he remembers my name.

He gazes at me so intensely I’m sure he can see all my cringey little secrets. My cheeks go from zero to flaming in about a nanosecond.

Without a word, he hits the close button.

The door slides open again.

“It’s full. Take the next one,” he growls at the poor guy who freezes with his foot hanging over the threshold.

“S-s-sorry sir,” the guy sputters, retreating so fast he accidentally stomps on the woman behind him.

My eyes are like saucers. “Should I, um, grab the next one too?” I manage, already edging toward the escape route.

His glower hardens, nostrils flaring, eyes smoldering and suddenly, I’m rooted to the spot. My heart’s going crazy. Oh God, does he still hate me?

“No.” His voice is deep and gravelly and sends my nerves into overdrive.

He hits the close button again, locking us both in our metal box.

We ascend in silence, side by side.

I channel my inner Wonder Woman, staring straight ahead, clinging to my laptop like a lifeline, hyper-aware of his every move—the rise and fall of his chest, the clenching and unclenching of his fists, the impatient sweep of his hand through his hair.

He’s a good head taller than me; my nose is level with his shoulder. He’s wearing the same crisp white shirt as the day he threatened to fire me. His sleeves are rolled up, showing off tanned, muscular forearms.

His cologne’s intoxicating, all earthy and sexy. It’s the kind of scent that fits his whole manly vibe perfectly.

I mentally slap myself, warding off the unwanted thoughts. This, right here, is exactly why I don’t do well at rubbing shoulders with the top dogs. Or wolves, inthis case. Taylor would use the airtime with him to metaphorically kiss his ass. Others might try their luck flirting with one of America’s most eligible bachelors.

Me? I’m fighting the urge to repeatedly faceplant into the doors until they release me.

Even with my eyes glued ahead, I can feel his gaze raking over me, burning into my skin.

Get over yourself. Of course it’s not.

“How are you feeling?” His deep voice cuts through the silence, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Slowly, I pivot to look up at him. Now my mouth is level with his pecs. His jaw clenches as our eyes lock. There’s light stubble shading his jaw.

For a fleeting second, I wonder what it would feel like between my legs and the hairs on my arms stand on end. Those hands everywhere, that growl of a voice murmuring in my ear, telling me what a bad girl I am…

Gah. Get a hold of yourself.

“You know about my accident?” I ask, wondering who ratted me out. HR?

He looks angry. “Of course I do.”

“I’m starting to feel better, thank you.” They really need to crank up the A/C in these elevators. A girl could pass out from the heat.