As soon as I say those words, she stiffens and I want to take them back.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry. That was so stupid," I apologize.

She doesn't say anything but closes her eyes and tips her head backwards until it touches the wall of the elevator.

"No, no one died. It just felt like it," she says with her eyes closed. She sucks in a huge gulp of air, as if she is about to put her head underwater and is preparing to be without access to air for a while. The elevator's bright, harsh light lets me see her in stark relief. I can see two lines in-between her eyebrows that look like they've been carved by hours of unpleasant thoughts.

"My dad left when I was a sophomore in high school. He was suspected of a crime, and he disappeared right after it all went down." She pauses and looks up at me. "It was a financial crime."

"Damn. That's intense. What happened to your family? To him?" I ask, forgetting that no questions were allowed. But she doesn’t seem to notice or mind.

"Well, when he left, the FBI was looking for him because they thought he was involved in the fraud that led to his company's collapse. A lot of money disappeared with him, and he'd been their general counsel."

“The FBI?” I ask incredulously.

"He turned himself in six months ago."

I can’t hide my surprise, "Turned himself in? He's back? After how long?"

"Fifteen years," she answers for me.

I let out a long, low whistle.

"Damn. Did you know where he was?" I ask incredulously.

"We had no clue. We thought he'd run off with all that money and left us to pay the piper. Well, except my mother. She never lost faith in him. Even after they showed us surveillance video of him going into the bank and leaving with all that money. It was terrible. My sisters both fell apart, my mother acted like nothing was wrong. I watched all of that and felt responsible for them. Not by choice, but everyone else was losing it and I've sort of always been the calmest. The least worried. So, I held them while they cried. I watched my older sister look for a man to fill the void my dad left as soon as she could. My younger sister, she was such a Daddy’s girl." Her chuckle is dry and humorless. "His leaving did a real number on her. She became so jaded and shut us all out. It was crazy. And my mother," she tsks, "she built this shrine to him. Pictures everywhere. Like he was away on a business trip, or like he'd died and she was waiting for his resurrection. She stopped paying attention to me because she thought I was okay. And when I left for college a couple years after everything fell apart, my younger sister was the only one left to deal with her. I understood it was devastating for her. Her entire world shattered, her future was gone." She says the last statement with so much sadness that I expect her to say something more. But she doesn't.

" Jesus. So, is he in jail?"

"No. He was exonerated. He did leave but not because he'd done anything wrong. He was being blackmailed."

"What? By who?”

"It's such a long story, and I don't even know all the details. So much of it is still unclear. But he's free. He's home, and everyone’s happy to have him back. The years he was gone have been erased. My mother has forgiven him. We all have, I guess. But I wish..." She trails off, and I hear the unshed tears clogging her throat. I feel her shoulders draw up, and she pulls closer to me.

"Wish what?" I press my lips into her hair. It smells like the lilies my mother grows in the summer. I could stay here all night and breathe her in, support the warm weight of her body on mine and talk. I've never been one for a lot of words, but she makes it feel so easy.

"I wish he'd been there. It destroyed us, him being gone. He missed...everything. I missed him. So much. I had to be strong. For everyone. I gave everyone so much. I didn't save any for myself. No one seemed to notice that I fell apart." Her voice breaks, but she's not crying. She lets it out in a slow, stuttering exhale. "But that's life. Right? We're always giving, and before we know it, we're empty and we've filled everyone up."

"Is that what you do?" I ask her.

"You have no idea. I feel hollow," she sags a little as she says it.

"I see you so differently," I say, and she looks up at me with eyes full of plaintive wonder.

"Tell me. I want to know what you see that I can’t even feel."

I wonder how this woman, who is so vibrant, complex, and interesting could feel this way.

"Yes, I’ve caught glimpses of sadness. But, I also see strength, humor, kindness, and intelligence…I see...you."

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile playing on her lips.

"Really. Your expressions say so much. You're not very good at disguising how you're feeling." She gives me a keen, dubious look.

"Really? Hmm." She frowns plaintively. "Maybe it's the alcohol loosening my inhibitions. You’ve seen first-hand how it tends to do that,” she shoots me an embarrassed grimace. “Or maybe...I think maybe it's being here. In Ghana. It's not home, but it feels comfortable."

Or, maybe it's me, I want to say. Instead, I say, "That's how I feel about my family home. I travel a lot, but when I'm there, I feel a connection with the land that's almost like being plugged into a power source." I feel a longing for home right now. For grass and gray skies and cool weather.

"Wow. I don't think I've felt that anywhere," she says, sadness coloring her words, and I feel a pull of sympathy for this woman.

"One day, you'll land somewhere and you'll know," I reassure her. I believe that in my marrow. I know where I belong.

"Maybe," she says, her tone noncommittal, and then she leans away from me and smiles brightly, falsely, and I know she's about to change the subject. I won't let her.

"I want to kiss you," I say, and her smile drops.

"I don't kiss," she says, her chin set in a stubborn tilt.

"That's ridiculous. Your mouth was made for kissing," I say, and she scowls.

"Can you hear yourself? My mouth was made for kissing?” she scoffs and rolls her eyes.

"Yes, it was," I say, undeterred, in fact more determined now. "It's the shape of a kiss, it's the color of a kiss, and that mouth was made to be kissed. I mean, it talks pretty well. And I've seen you eat and can see that it’s even pretty when you're chewing. But anyone's mouth can do that. Yours...it was made for kissing."

She pulls away from me as if I'm suddenly on fire and she's highly flammable.

"No kissing. I told you what I told you because we agreed to not push each other. We're strangers, let's keep it that way."

She shakes her head, hard and fast, and her curls bounce around her shoulders. "You don't want to know me. I promise you."

"Do you really think that you would have been able to tell a stranger what you told me?"

She crosses her arms across her chest and cocks her head at me. "That's the only reason I told you. You are a stranger," she says defensively. "There is nothing special between you and me."

"I didn't use the word ‘special’. But I do know that I've never found anyone so easy to talk to. It's a bonus that you're fucking sexy."

She takes a step back, eyes wide.

"You said not for all the tea in China," she says, her voice high with indignation.

"What the fuck has that got to do with you being sexy, you nutter? We're going to have to work on your listening comprehension."

She laughs. It’s an incredulous, genuine laugh, and I take a step towards her. Her laughter dies, like a flame snuffed by a quick, cool puff of air, and I pause.

Tonight has been a rollercoaster, maybe I'm pushing too hard, too fast.

"Are you uncomfortable with me? I know we've taken a lot of shots at each other, but I've been joking. Mostly," I say, trying to add some levity but worried that she's going to have another panic attack.

She shakes her head.

"So, what was it? Are you claustrophobic?" I ask, feeling slightly relieved.

"What?" she responds, audibly this time.

"Listen, you've got to expand your vocabulary. It's hard deciphering what you are saying when you don't use more than one word in a sentence. Maybe you should try reading more. That really helps. I've--"

"Oh my God. You're such an asshole. I am not illiterate. I am trying to decide if I should tell you. But now I want you to shut up, so I will."

She looks up at the sky in exasperation and then back at me. "I don't date. I don't flirt. I don't kiss. I don't make out. I just fuck. And I don't like intimacy. I...can't say why. But I haven't done any of that in five years."

I'm a little speechless. My dating history isn't exactly prolific, but looking at this beautiful, passionate, vibrant woman, I'm confused by what I'm hearing. She takes my silence for confusion and reaches out to touch me reassuringly.

"I'm not afraid of you. I don't think you're going to attack me. I don't want anything beyond this conversation. That's all I was prepared for tonight."

She tips her chin up and sets it at a determined angle and glares at me. As if daring me to push her further.

"I'm a stoic man. I was raised to be. I have a lot of obligations. Ones that my siblings don't share. They’ve been free to follow their whims, and my future is basically already decided. Or so I thought. Now, I know that there are some things we have complete control over, and some that we don’t. So, I worry about the things I can control. And, if I want something badly enough, even if it’s complicated or hard, I’ll find a way to have it. It’s mind over matter."

She puts her hand up, palm facing me, and starts to shake her head.

"I hope, I’m not the “something” you’re referring to.” She says, shaking her head. “I’m not complicated. This is just how I am. This is the life I’ve chosen. You don’t really want me. You’re just horny and away from home.” She sounds desperate, and I want to know why.

I step towards her again, and this time I don't stop when she looks wary.

"Why do you think that? You have no clue what I want. And I don't think you have any clue what you really want either."

Her eyes, those beautiful, golden eyes, flare at these words.

“And you’re confused.”

"I am not confused.” she snaps. At the same time, she takes a step, I think unconsciously, toward me.

"You're attracted to me," I remind her.

"I’m not. You're nosey," she curls her lip at me, but I can see her fighting a smile. I want to laugh in delight and relief. I can't believe we're laughing together after the way the evening started.

"Fine. But you told me that our meeting was fate. Now you seek to deny this ‘fate’ you used as your reasoning for us to share our most intimate thoughts." I respond. I'm having more fun right now than I can ever remember having in a long time. And I've certainly never enjoyed a woman's company so much before.

" I didn't say that it wasn't fate, but fate was only for the conversation. Nothing more," she bites back, taking a step, I think unconsciously, toward me.

"I don't believe you," I return, knowing that my amusement is obvious in my voice.

"I don't care.” She says in a husky voice, as she takes another step, bringing us close enough to touch. We stand there, the only noise is the faint buzz from the fluorescent light of the elevator. Her eyes are squarely on my chest. She trails a finger down my chest, stopping at my belly button. Her finger traces a circle around my belly button and I stop breathing. I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest and her hard swallow is audible.

I move my hand up her shoulder and onto the nape of her neck. It's warm and the tangle of curls my fingers meet are impossibly soft. I scan her face, taking in every single detail.

"Your make up is smudged and you smell like a brewery, but fuck if I don't want to kiss you."

She shakes her head and peers up at me, her golden eyes perplexed. "Does being a jerk actually work for you? Do you meet women by insulting them? I think that's the least romantic thing I've ever heard."

"I'm not a romantic. I'm honest."

She pulls her plump lower lip into her mouth and bites it. I watch as she assaults the soft flesh with her teeth. For the first time, I notice that she has a tiny gap between her two front teeth. The rise and fall of her chest speeds up and her eyes remain fixed on my lips.

"I want to kiss you," I repeat and her eyes widen, her pupils dilating slightly. She swallows audibly. "And I think that despite not kissing anyone for five years, you might want to kiss me too," I say softly while my hand massages the nape of her neck. I cup her waist with my free hand and marvel at how perfectly it curves into my grasp. Her shirt is thin and I can feel how warm her skin is underneath it. Her breath hitches as I let my fingers explore, drawing lazy patterns on her side as I watch her face flush in response.

"God. I do," she murmurs and steps closer to me. Only a few inches separate us now, but I need her closer. I tug her, not forcefully enough to move her, but so she knows what I want. She complies, taking another step towards me, but she keeps us a hair’s breadth away from touching. It's enough. I can feel her anticipation; it's rising with mine. I dip my head and run my nose up the side of hers. Her eyes close, and her lips part.

"Say yes," I whisper.

"Yes." The word drifts out of her mouth in a shuddered exhale. And despite the now sultry temperature in the space that's both trapped and freed us, she shivers. Before I can move, she tilts her head forward a fraction and our lips touch. Her tongue darts out right away and licks the center of my bottom lip.

Fuck.

My hand drags up her nape to the hinge of her delicate jaw and I caress it, coax it, until I feel the tension in it loosen.

"Let me make you feel..." I trace the underside of her mouth, "good." Her tongue darts out, and she breathes into my mouth at the same time she licks my lips again, this time more assertively.

I don't wait for her to make another move, and I capture her lips between mine. I revel in how soft, willing and open this kiss is. How intimate and natural it feels to be with her. She tastes like gin and soda and fucking fate. Her fingers flutter at my side before she sinks them into me, holding on for all she's worth.

We meld together, our mouths, our bodies, our breaths, everything fuses, and the kiss takes on a life of its own.

My hands skim her ribs, and I can feel the places on her thin cotton dress that are still damp with sweat. She gasps, and her nails rake up my back as I savor the feel of her - warm, soft, but so fucking resolute. My fingers dance up her torso. Her hands move, too. One grabs my ass and dives into my hair, holding me in place.

We kiss each other like we might never be rescued. Like we might die in the elevator and this might be the last time we ever kiss anyone again.

Her tongue slides alongside mine. If it's not the sweetest sensation I've ever felt, then I don’t know what is. I kiss her until it's not enough and I need to taste more of her.

My lips leave hers and trail down her cheeks, to her jaw and the soft underside of it. I nip her neck when she throws her head back to expose it.

"Oh my God. Yes. I've never...oh God," she whispers as she tries to fuse us together. Her body presses so close to mine that air couldn't pass between us. I can feel every single thrum, every demand she's making. Right now, I’d give her anything she asked for.

I cup her breast, my thumb caressing the skin around her nipple, relishing in how pliant she is. How with each pass of my thumb, she arches into me. And just as my thumbnail scrapes the hard peak of her nipple, she pulls away abruptly. Her breath comes out in pants, and she stares at me with glazed, wide eyes that are the color of molten fire.

"Was that too much?" I ask, desperately sorry that I didn't go slower.

"No, did you hear that?" she says as she steps to the elevator's closed doors.

"Hear what?" And then I hear it. There is a clanking, a groaning of metal, and the sound of some sort of drill.

The rescue party is here. What fucking ridiculous timing.

"Hey! We're in here!" she shouts loudly at the door.

"I'm pretty sure they know someone is in here because they are attempting to pry the doors open."

She looks over her shoulder just long enough to give me a withering glare.

But she doesn’t yell out again. We both stand there, staring at the doors as they slowly start to open. I feel like the moment is slipping from between my fingers. I grab her shoulders and spin her around to face me. Her eyes are darting back to watch the door. “Harry, the doors are almo--” she protests but I cut her off.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" I ask.

Her eyes widen and she stares at me, doubt pouring from every pore of her being.

"I don't know. We’ve been rescued.” She looks around the elevator before she looks back at me, “Doesn’t it feel a little like we were saved by the bell. I mean, maybe the universe just saved us from making a mistake," she stammers.

"Listen, all this fate and universe shit is getting annoying. Either you want to see me again or you don't. Own it," I bite back, unable to hide my frustration.

Her shoulders sag, and then the doors open wide enough for a hand to reach inside the elevator. My limited French tells me that they are asking us to give them a few more minutes and that we are stuck between the 4^th and 5^th floors of the building.

"I do, but I'm not good at being impulsive. I really wasn't prepared for any of this. Give me a minute," she begs making me feel guilty for pushing her.

"When did you say you were heading back to Accra?" I ask her.

"We have five more days,” she responds, her voice less steady than I've heard it sound since we started talking.

"Well, then sleep on it and meet me for breakfast tomorrow. I am sure that you'll be thinking clearly in the morning and realize that we didn't meet and have this evening for no reason."

She considers me, her head tipped to the side, her eyes contemplative.

"Okay, that sounds fair. But you have to promise to live with whatever my decision is. No pushing me, and no cold feet on your part," she finally responds.

"Fine, now let's get the fuck out of this death trap. And next time, let's take the stairs. You clearly can't be trusted in elevators."

She punches me in the arm and then turns around to pay attention to our rescuers. Soon, they are hauling her out of the elevator and I get a prime view of her thighs and ass as she is lifted out.

I refuse to be lifted out and haul myself up. By the time I'm standing in the hallway, she's reading text messages on her phone. I walk over to stand next to her, and she puts her phone away as I approach. She looks up at me, an easy smile on her lips.

"Okay, macho man. We survived that ordeal. I'm exhausted, and it's late. Bambi's losing her mind worried about me. I'll meet you for breakfast tomorrow, okay?"

I nod as I watch her. Her lips look bee stung, and I feel a rush of satisfaction knowing that it was my kiss that caused it. "You sure you don't want to go upstairs with me?" I ask her. She groans and rolls her eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure. Tomorrow," she says as she starts to walk backwards down the hall.

She winks at me, gives me a little wave, and then she's leaving. I watch as she turns the corner and then turn to head to the stairs. I have to stop myself from calling out to her. I want her to stay. I don't know what happened tonight, but I liked it. As I climb the stairs to the top floor, I think about what she told me. Her father, her family, the disconnect that's happened and how they all seem to be knitting back together without her. I think about what I told her. I don't think even I knew how deep my resentment toward Zara ran. I don't know if I really hate her, but it felt good to get it out. I know I didn't treat that relationship properly, but now I know it was because it was forced on us and not one I chose. I'd accepted that because I was the heir to my father's title. I had to give up the things I wanted to be worthy of it. But my father hadn't. He'd married my mother despite the fact that her family wasn't English. Granted, she's a French blue blood, but I know it still caused a stir.

I wonder how they would react to her. She's American. She's biracial. I think, anyway. I don't know anyone like that in our circles. Inbreeding is more the order of the day than anything.

I give myself a mental kick. None of that matters. I want to fuck her, I want to spend time with her. But the likelihood that I'll see her again once we leave here is slim to none, especially given how reluctant she is even to kiss. I frown at this and unlock the door to my suite, not liking the way that thought settles. Leave it to me to meet a woman I'm interested in halfway around the world and have her live on a different continent.

But then I remember that I'm the first man she's kissed in five years and that it was a fucking amazing kiss.