* * *
I was alone in the lift, heading out for the night, when Ruby stepped in just as the doors were closing. Our eyes met, I coughed harshly, her breath caught . . . and descending in the weighted silence became immediately dreadful.
The lift moved too slowly.
The quiet felt enormous.
We were going on a business trip together, and glancing at her now—young and energetic and, admittedly, unbelievably beautiful—I registered we would be required to chat and get on, and there were few things I was worse at than talking up women.
She opened her mouth to speak, and then stopped, falling back into silence. When she looked at me and I looked over, she blinked away. Just as the doors opened in the lobby, I gestured for her to lead us out, and instead of moving, she nearly shouted, “Looks like we’re going away together!”
“Too right,” I said, but my smile felt stiff.
Try, Niall. Try to get it out of robot mode for at least one conversation.
Nothing. My brain felt like a sieve, completely void of social pleasantries. And she still didn’t exit the lift.
The moment needed to end. I was bloody awful at small talk, and close up, she was even more attractive than I’d expected. Several inches shorter than I, but by no means short, Ruby was willowy and toned, with short, playfully mussed golden hair, sun-kissed cheeks . . . and a truly perfect mouth.
Ruby was rather exquisite. On some strange instinct, I held my breath.
She shrugged a little, smiling. “I’m from the States but I’ve never been to New York. I’m really excited.”
“Ah. Well . . .” I searched for a good response, looking around the small space before eventually settling on “That’s good.”
I groaned inwardly. That was bad, even for me.
Her eyes were enormous, green and so clear I registered with one glance down at them that she was unlikely to be a very good liar: her entire world spilled out her through those eyes, and right now she was an anxious heap.
I was a VP at the firm. Of course she was nervous around me.
“Will we meet at the airport on Monday morning?” she asked, looking back up. Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips and I fixed my attention to the middle of her forehead.
“Yes, I believe so,” I began and then stopped. Was I meant to arrange a car for the two of us? Dear God, if three minutes in a lift was this bad, I couldn’t fathom how claustrophobic the forty-five-minute commute to Heathrow would feel. “Unless—”
“I don’t—”
“You—”
“Oh, sorry,” she said, cheeks bright. “I interrupted you. Go ahead.”
I sighed. “Please, go ahead.”
This was abysmal. I longed for her to move aside to simply let me pass. Or, for the ground to open up, swallow me whole.
“I can just meet you at the airport.” She hitched her satchel higher over her shoulder, gesturing inexplicably behind her. “At the gate, I mean. It’ll be really early, you don’t need to—”
“I won’t. That is, I wouldn’t.”
She blinked, understandably confused. I’d completely lost track of what we were even talking about. “Okay. Good. Of course, you . . . wouldn’t.”
I looked over her shoulder to the blessed freedom beyond and then back to her. “That’ll be fine.”
The door to the lift began to buzz in warning as I continued to hold it ajar, a shrill soundtrack to what had to be one of the most awkward encounters ever.
“So I’ll see you Monday.” Her voice wavered with nerves, and I felt a cold sweat prick at the back of my neck. “I’m really looking forward to it,” she said.
“Right. Good.”
With a little tilt of her head, and a final blush that exploded rather sweetly across her cheeks, she stepped off the lift.
Without really intending to, my eyes drifted to her backside as she went. It was round, high, perfectly shaped in her smooth, dark skirt. I could imagine the curve of it in my palm, could still smell the whiff of rose water she left in her wake.
I stepped out into the dark lobby and followed her toward the exit. Without effort, my mind drifted to thoughts of how her breasts would fill my hands, the feel of her mouth on me, my palms on her backside. I wasn’t rubbish in bed, was I? And even though Portia had generally treated sex as a favor to me, she had never once failed to enjoy—
This unconscious flash of interest was quashed when Tony emerged from the stairwell, giving me a wink and a little wiggle of his brow, murmuring, “Shagfest,” as Ruby rounded the corner. Left in its place was a sour twinge of shame for letting his earlier suggestion worm its way into my head.