“Yes?”
Ugh. It’d be so much easier if he’d say, “Don’t worry about it. Let’s start over.” But this was real life. Of course he wouldn’t let me off the hook that easily. The edges of the to-go container dug into my palms as I gripped it for dear life. “I’m sorry for calling you”—I swallowed hard and managed to look him straight in the eye—“the devil.”
His lips mashed together, and it looked like he was holding back a laugh. “Technically, you called me the Antichrist.”
“Technicalities.”
“The devil’s in the detail.” A smug smirk etched across his lips. Damn him and those glorious dimples.
I groaned, and my feet ached to run anywhere far, far away, out of this damn elevator. “Okay, if I apologize another five times can we never mention anything involving Satan again?”
He chuckled and raised a hand, seeming to brush our previous interaction off, like it hadn’t been a big deal. “It’s refreshing to be insulted every once in a while. Everyone is a little too nice to me when they know I’m around.”
“I’m still really sorry. You’re not at all what I pictured.”
“No? And what did you picture?” His voice deepened, the question a challenge. If he weren’t my boss, I’d almost believe this brushed on the side of flirting.
A stick figure with an even larger stick deeply rooted up their ass. Someone with premature male pattern baldness. Someone that didn’t have delicious dimples or full sleeve tattoos.
This time I kept my thoughts to myself. “Just not you.”
Instead of the casual attire he’d worn the first time we met, a tailored black suit with a light blue button-up fit snug on his body, like a rich, Italian glove. There was a lot to be said for a man in a well-fitted suit. Such as yum, and I’d tap that like a friggin’ maple tree. Nothing quite got my salivary glands going like a hot guy dressed up. My gaze inconspicuously traveled to his arms, working down to where his hands were tucked into his pockets. Which then got me thinking about the man bulge threads on Pinterest, and how Brogan should really wear his pants a little tighter.
He cleared his throat.
Warning bells blared between my ears. Abort mission. Move your eyes up before he thinks you’re staring at his package. Which, let’s face it, I totally was.
This thought process should not be happening because, yeah, he happened to be my boss. A boss that I’d already made a crap first impression with, and an equally shitty second one by the way this was going. That was enough reason to stay the hell away from inserting him into my solo shower time entertainment.
Our gazes met in the mirror, and he lifted a suggestive brow, and that sly half smile ticked at the corner of his mouth. Yep, my boss just caught me checking him out. Yes, I was going to freak out in the bathroom as soon as I booked it off this elevator ride from hell.
The elevator picked this moment to have mercy on me and stopped at the fortieth floor. Brogan motioned for me to exit the car first.
I walked out, Brogan tailing close behind, when I realized I’d set my purse on the ground. I rushed back in, cradling the to-go container that held the two coffees, and reached down for my purse. The doors were still wide open, a minor miracle, and I bolted out.
Brogan stood there, waiting, while I booked it out of the elevator. I hadn’t gone one step before the door zoomed shut behind me. Phew. Made it.
We both started toward the conference room, but I was immediately tugged backward. What the…? The hairs rose on the back of my neck.
No, it couldn’t be.
I pulled harder, and a chill ran through me as I heard the distinct sound of fabric ripping.
Oh no.
Betsey, how could you do this to me? Didn’t she know that this was my favorite cardigan she had locked in her stupid Jaws of Life? I’d spent two hours in line on Black Friday and elbowed past old ladies to get this. I wanted to shake my fist at her. I wanted to do the Dawson ugly cry. I wanted my damn cardigan back.
I pulled a little harder and heard another rip. I’m sorry, Betsey, did I say Jaws of Life? I meant beautiful doors of metallic glory.
Brogan kept walking toward the conference room and called behind him, “You coming?” He looked over his shoulder and did a double take, his brows furrowing. “Everything all right?”
Totally okay. I often stood with my favorite Chanel cardigan in the elevator door just for kicks. “I’m great.”
“Then let’s get to the meeting. Can’t be late.” He jutted his thumb at the conference room and continued walking toward the sweet refuge that was just out of sweater-snag reach.