Page 6 of My CEO Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #5)

M onica

Monica watched Ted's face as the emergency lighting flickered and dimmed to half its previous intensity. The harsh yellow glow seemed to soften and suddenly the elevator felt less like a prison and more like a confession booth.

She'd been teaching breathing techniques for five years, but the way Ted had asked for help—reluctant, almost defeated—made him more interesting to her.

In the dim light, she could see details she'd missed before.

The way his sexy cologne mixed with his natural scent.

The way his perfectly tailored shirt stretched across broad shoulders when he shifted position.

The strong line of his jaw, shadowed with the hint of five o'clock shadow that made her fingers itch to touch.

Focus, Monica told herself firmly. Breathing lesson. That's all this was.

"Okay," Monica said, shifting to face him more directly. "First thing is to sit down."

Ted glanced at the floor with obvious distaste. "On the ground?"

"Unless you have a chair hidden somewhere." Monica patted the space beside her, acutely aware of how small the elevator was, how close they'd be if he sat next to her. "Don't worry. The floor won't compromise your corporate dignity."

"I wasn't worried about—" Ted stopped, shook his head, and lowered himself to sit across from her instead of beside her. Smart man. The elevator was small enough that sitting next to each other would have put them close enough to touch, and Monica wasn't entirely sure that would be wise right now.

Though she found herself disappointed by his choice.

Ted looked cramped, his long legs bent awkwardly, but he'd loosened his tie just enough to reveal a strip of throat that made her knees weak in ways that definitely weren't professional.

His hands rested on his knees—strong hands with long fingers that looked like they could be gentle when they wanted to be.

Monica caught herself staring and forced her attention back to his face. Focus. Breathing lesson.

"Good," she said, proud of how steady her voice sounded despite the way her heart was racing. "Now, put one hand on your chest and one on your stomach."

Ted followed her instructions, and Monica tried not to notice how his shirt pulled across his shoulders, or the way his dark hair had fallen slightly across his forehead when he looked down. She definitely tried not to imagine what those hands would feel like on her skin instead of his own chest.

When was the last time a man had touched her? Really touched her, with intention and desire? Monica pushed the thought away, but it lingered, making her hyperaware of Ted's physical presence in the small space.

"When you breathe normally, which hand moves more?"

Ted inhaled, and Monica found herself watching the movement of his chest, the way the fabric of his shirt rose and fell. "The top one."

"That's the problem. You're breathing into your lungs instead of your belly." Monica demonstrated, placing her own hands in position, acutely aware that Ted's eyes followed the movement. "Chest breathing is shallow, stress breathing. It tells your nervous system that something's wrong."

"Something is wrong. We're trapped in an elevator."

"Are we in immediate physical danger?"

Ted considered this, and Monica watched emotions play across his face—frustration, resignation, curiosity. "No."

"Then your nervous system is overreacting. Watch." Monica took a slow, deep breath that expanded her ribcage and moved her stomach hand. She could feel Ted's attention on her like a physical touch, and it made her skin warm in ways that had nothing to do with the elevator's temperature.

"This is diaphragmatic breathing. It activates your parasympathetic nervous system, your rest and digest response."

"You want me to digest right now?"

Monica laughed, and the sound seemed to echo in the small space. "I want you to convince your body that it's safe to relax."

"My body doesn't relax."

When was the last time this man had allowed himself any pleasure, any softness?

"When was the last time you got eight hours of sleep?"

Ted's pause was answer enough.

"When was the last time you ate a meal without checking your phone?"

Another pause.

"When was the last time you did anything just because it felt good?"

This time Ted's silence stretched long enough that Monica wondered if she'd pushed too far. The emergency lighting cast shadows across his face, making his expression difficult to read, but she could see vulnerability there. It made her want to reach out and touch him.

"I don't remember," he said finally, his voice so quiet she almost missed it.

"Try again," she said gently, her voice warmer than it should have been. "Breathe into your belly instead of your chest."

Ted closed his eyes, and Monica found herself studying his face without the barrier of his intense gaze.

His eyelashes were longer than she'd expected, dark against his cheekbones.

His mouth was full, the kind of mouth that probably knew how to kiss a woman senseless when it wasn't being used to bark orders into phones.

What would it feel like to kiss him? The thought came unbidden, and Monica felt heat flood her cheeks. She watched his stomach hand rise slightly and felt an unexpected surge of pride when his shoulders dropped half an inch.

"Better. Again."

They sat in relative silence for several minutes, Ted's breathing gradually deepening and slowing. Monica found herself synchronizing with his rhythm without meaning to, which was either very professional or very unprofessional, depending on how she looked at it.

The intimacy of breathing together, of watching him relax under her guidance, made Monica acutely aware of how lonely she'd been. How long it had been since she'd shared space with a man, since she'd felt that electric awareness that came with mutual attraction.

Because that's what this was. Attraction. Pure and simple and completely inconvenient.

"This is actually..." Ted opened his eyes, and Monica was struck by how much younger he looked with his face relaxed, how handsome he was when he wasn't wearing stress like armor. "Not terrible."

"High praise from someone whose default state is aggressive respiration."

"I'm never living that down, am I?"

"Probably not."

Ted's mouth quirked upward in what might have been the beginning of a real smile, and Monica felt her stomach do acrobatics that had nothing to do with breathing exercises.

God, he was attractive when he smiled. It transformed his entire face, made him look less like a corporate robot and more like a man she could imagine laughing with, touching, kissing until they both forgot their own names.

Then the emergency lighting flickered again, dimmed further, and died completely.

The elevator plunged into absolute darkness.

"Shit," Ted muttered, and Monica heard the rustle of fabric as he moved. "My phone—"

A pale blue glow illuminated his face as he activated his phone's flashlight, but even that seemed dimmer than before. In the weak light, his features looked sharper, more mysterious, and Monica was attracted to him more than ever.

"How's your battery?" Monica asked.

Ted's expression answered before he did. "Twenty percent. Maybe less."

"Mine's dead. I forgot to charge it last night."

They stared at each other in the weak light, both calculating the same math. Twenty percent battery wouldn't last long, and once that died, they'd be sitting in complete darkness for however many hours it took to get rescued.

Hours. Alone. In the dark.

"We should conserve it," Monica said. "Turn it off for now."

"What if there's an emergency?"

"What kind of emergency are you anticipating? A sudden need to check email?"

Ted's jaw tightened, but he switched off the flashlight. Darkness swallowed them again, thick and absolute. Monica could hear Ted's breathing—faster now, less controlled than it had been during their impromptu lesson.

Without sight, her other senses heightened. She could smell his cologne more strongly now, could hear the subtle sounds he made when he shifted position. The space between them felt charged, electric with possibility.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

"That was convincing."

"I don't love small spaces."

Monica felt around until she found her water bottle, took a sip, and offered it toward where she thought Ted was sitting. "Here."

"I can't see your hand."

"Just reach toward my voice."

Ted's fingers brushed hers as he took the bottle, and the contact sent an unexpected jolt up Monica's arm.

His hands were warm, slightly calloused in a way that suggested he did more than just type on keyboards, and Monica found herself wondering what those hands would feel like skimming her skin, mapping her body with the same intensity he brought to everything else.

The thought made her breath catch.

"Thanks," Ted said, and she heard him drink. Even that simple sound seemed intimate in the darkness.

"So," Monica said, settling back against the wall and trying to ignore the way her body was humming with awareness, "tell me about this meeting that's ruining your entire day."

"It's not ruining my day. It's ruining my life."

"That seems dramatic."

"You don't understand. This funding round is everything. Three years of eighteen-hour days, of living on protein bars and coffee, of missing birthdays and holidays and every normal human experience, and it all comes down to one presentation to one investor who can make or break everything."

Monica heard the strain in Ted's voice, the weight of pressure that went beyond normal business stress. In the darkness, his vulnerability seemed more pronounced, more real.

"What happens if you don't get the funding?"