Wow. My little ball player was quite the fox.
I’d only seen her from the back before the lights went out. Now, I was staring into her beautiful, big brown eyes, feeling like this elevator mishap wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
She cleared her throat. “The lights came back, but we’re still stuck.”
I clicked on some of the buttons. “Seems that way. But this is a step in the right direction. I bet this thing will be moving in no time.”
And by this thing moving, I do not mean my dick, although I could have sworn I felt it twitch when she just licked her beautiful full lips.
Do that again.
Fuck.
She is beautiful.
My eyes travelled down the length of her body then back up again, loving how the small buttons on her conservative blouse formed a path up to her delicate neck. I wouldn’t have minded sucking on that skin.
Maybe I could entice her to play hooky with me.
“Where are you headed once we get out of here?” I asked.
“The thirty-fourth floor,” she said.
What?
What is she doing going up to my floor?
I know she doesn’t work for me. I would have remembered that face, those eyes.
“What kind of business you have going on up there?”
“I actually have the pleasure of interviewing Mister Moneybags himself.”
My stomach sank.
Ohhhh.
This didn’t bode well for me.
I swallowed then cocked my head to the side and played dumb. “Who?”
“The elusive Dexter Truitt. He’s the CEO of Montague Enterprises. They occupy the entire top floor.”
Trying to seem like I was not seriously about to lose my shit, I asked, “Why do you call him Mister Moneybags?”
“I just picture him to be this crabby, money-hungry asshole, I guess. Sounds like a fitting name. Of course, I don’t actually know him.”
“Why do you think that way about him, then?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t assume the worst about people until you get to know them.” Even though I knew the answer, I asked, “Why are you interviewing him anyway?”
“I work for a business magazine, Finance Times. I was assigned to cover an exclusive we snagged. It’s about Truitt’s ‘coming out’ of sorts. He’s always kept very private after taking over the company from his father, not wanting to be photographed or interviewed. His ability to keep himself pretty much a mystery has been impeccable. When I found out that we would be granted his first interview, I jumped at the opportunity to volunteer.”
“Why is that? I mean, if you don’t like the guy…”
“I think it will be fun to grill him.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who typically gets off on making other people sweat, especially considering your panic issues.”
“Well, believe me when I say I will get my shit together for this. I am not letting this opportunity pass me by.”
“You know you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. You’ve already determined that you think this guy is an asshole, and you’ve never even met him. Just because someone is rich and powerful doesn’t make them a bad person.”
“It’s not just that.”
“What is it, then?”
“Let’s just say, I’ve done my homework for this interview, and I have first-hand knowledge the guy’s an asshole. It’s too much to get into.”
Fuck. My pulse was starting to race. I needed to know why she had such preconceived notions about me. She definitely couldn’t have suspected that I was Dexter Truitt, given the casual clothes I was wearing after the gym. I looked like a fucking bike messenger instead of the CEO of a multi-million-dollar empire.
My office had its own shower and closet, and I’d planned to change as soon as I got upstairs. I guess I would’ve been late for the interview.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Bianca.”
“Bianca what?”
“Bianca George.”
That was the name of the reporter I was meeting with.
“Nice to meet you, Bianca.”
“And you are?”
What was my name?
Do I tell her that the interview with Mister Moneybags actually started from the moment she got into the elevator, or do I play along and pretend to be the down-to-earth guy she’s beginning to open up to? The latter sounded like a hell of a lot more fun.
My name.
My name.
I stared down at the piece of mail I’d picked up after the gym this morning. It was laying on the elevator floor next to her metal balls.
Envelope.
Brand of envelopes.
Mead.
Reed.
I looked over at the elevator doors.
The Doors.
Jim Morrison.
Jim.
James.
Jay.
Reed. Jay Reed.
“Jay Reed.”
“Nice to meet you, Jay.”
“Likewise, Bianca.”
A voice rang over the intercom. “This is Chuck Sansone from building maintenance. Is someone there?”
“Yes!” Bianca answered. “We’re in here! We’re stuck!”
“We just wanted to let you know that we should have you out of there in no time. You’re in no danger, and we have a crew working on it.”
She looked extremely relieved when she shouted, “Thank you. Thank you so much! Please keep us posted.”
“Will do.”
I, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to stay in this confined space with her. I needed to get to the bottom of why she hated me, but a part of me was also really enjoying playing Jay, the everyday guy whom she likely had no fucked-up, preconceived notions about.
“What do you do, Jay?”
It was the only thing I could think of based on my attire. “I own my own bike messenger service. I’m headed to the twenty-sixth floor.”
“Oh, that explains the package.”
“Because I’m well-endowed?”
She blushed a little. “No, the envelope there.” It pleased me that she was finally going along with my sense of humor.
“I know. Just messing with that pretty little head again.”
Bianca was still blushing. The lights coming on seemed to have been a game changer. She was definitely attracted to me. Sometimes, you just know. When she caught me staring at her, she batted her eyelashes and looked down at the ground.
Oh, yeah. I was definitely having an effect on her.
“How did you get into this field? Interviewing men you hate?”
“Well, I used to work as a trader on Wall Street.”
“How does that lead to reporting?”
“It doesn’t. It leads to a near nervous breakdown, which, therefore, leads to reporting. I figure, at least I’m still utilizing my degree somewhat, working for a business magazine.”
“How long do you think your interview will take?”
“Well, I’m already late. So, who knows if it’s still happening.”
“I’m sure he’ll understand, given the circumstances.”
“For all I know, he knew I was coming up and rigged this whole mechanical issue. Maybe he got cold feet about doing his first interview.”
“I think that’s a bit of a stretch. He would’ve just called and cancelled rather than tampering with elevator wires. I think you’re a bit paranoid, Georgy Girl. But lucky for you, I think I have the cure for that.”
“Does it involve your package?”
I bent my head back and chuckled. “It involves neither my package nor your balls.”
“What’s the cure for my paranoia?”
“Cronuts.”
“Whose nuts?”
“Cronuts.” I laughed. “They’re these half-donut, half-croissant thingies.”
“Oh, I think I saw them on the news, from that bakery on Spring Street?”
“Yup. They’re so friggin’ good. Want to get some for breakfast after your interview?”
Bianca nodded. “I’d like that.”
Fuck yeah.
She added, “If we ever get out of here.”
Almost as soon as she’d said it, the floor swayed a bit before building maintenance came on the intercom to let us know the elevator had been fixed.
I pressed the buttons for our respective floors and, lo and behold, we were moving. It was bittersweet.
When we arrived at my fake destination, I stood in between the doors to keep them from shutting. “How do I get in touch with you when you’re done?”
Bianca squinted her eyes at me. “Why don’t you carry a phone, anyway?”
“Long story. Maybe when you tell me your Mister Moneybags dirt, I’ll let you know why I don’t carry one.”
The truth was, I’d stupidly left my phone at Caroline’s last night. I wasn’t going to tell Bianca that my phone was at the apartment of my long-time, casual fuck buddy.
“I’ll meet you out front,” I said.
“How will you know when I’m finished?”
“I’ll just wait for you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I can browse some of the magazines in the stand out there. Maybe I’ll see what Bianca George has to say in the latest issue of Finance Times.” I winked.
“Okay.” She smiled. “See you soon.”
When the elevator closed, my heart was pumping. I immediately made my way to the front desk of this random company and flirted with the receptionist just so she would let me borrow her phone.
I used it to ring my secretary.
“Hi, Josephine. As you know, there’s a Bianca George from Finance Times coming to interview me this morning. I need you to keep her waiting initially for about forty-five minutes. When the time is up, then and only then, please inform her that I will no longer be able to make today’s interview. Let her know I’ll be in touch via email to reschedule.”
“Why have her wait at all? I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand, okay? You just need to do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Despite the fact that I’d left my personal cell at Caroline’s, I had a business phone I kept in my office.
“Can you also have someone run my phone down to the twenty-sixth floor right away? I’ll be waiting outside of the elevator. It’s charging on my desk.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Needing to make the most of those forty-five minutes, I first had to find me a fucking bike. What good was a bike messenger without one?
“One more thing, Josephine. Can you please Google the nearest Manhattan bike shop located closest to our building?”
She gave me the name of a place about ten minutes away. My driver wasn’t in range, so after my phone was delivered, I cabbed it over there and purchased a bike that the salesperson swore would befit a bike messenger, except I doubted a messenger would need the tandem version I’d purchased. I’d figure out how to explain that to her when the time came.
Wearing my newly purchased helmet, I anxiously waited outside my building. When I saw her emerge, she looked downright pissed.
“What happened?”
“The asshole stood me up.”
“He didn’t give a reason?”
“Nope. They made me wait only to tell me he had to cancel. He’s supposedly going to reschedule, but I don’t buy it.”
Handing her the second helmet I’d bought, I said, “You know what? Fuck him.”
And I do mean that literally and figuratively.
“You’re right. Fuck him.”
“Do you have to be back to work?”
“No, I’m blowing off the rest of the day after this crap,” she said.
I nudged my head. “Get on the back.”
She examined the bike. “Why do you drive a double-seated one?”
“I have multiple bikes. This is for when I need a helper. Luck just had it that my normal bike blew a tire, so I happened to be using this one today. Seems like fate to me. Because today you’re my helper, Bianca George. Now put that helmet on.”
She positioned herself on the back, and we began to pedal away in unison.
I spoke behind my shoulder. “First stop, Cronuts.”
She spoke through the wind, “What’s the second stop?”
“Wherever the day takes us, Georgy Girl.”