When I catch up to him, he's standing in front of the elevator, scrolling through his phone. He looks like he doesn't have a care in the world. Well, I'm about to change that.

"Hey, Harry," I call out as I approach.

He looks up, and when he sees me, he actually rolls his eyes at me and sighs wearily before he looks back at his phone. His dismissal stings something fierce. Without looking at me, he says, “Listen, if you're quick, you can get back to your fuckboy. He's sleeping on a chair right next to the bar."

"So, you're back to insulting me?" I snarl up at him. He doesn't bat an eye in the face of my fury.

"Just returning the favor, Emma." His tone is bored, but he's flushed, his eyes glinting like two flinty pieces of dark topaz as he looks me up and down.

He's angry. Good. I take a step closer to him so we are almost toe to toe.

"So, I was going to fuck him. So what? Why does it even matter? We're strangers! You don't know me, and I don't know you." My voice is raised, but I can't help it. My ears are ringing, my eyes hurt from holding back the tears that want to run free.

He doesn’t take his eyes off his phone.

"Oh, you can tell yourself that. I’m not sure that I even care anymore.”

I suck a breath as words hit me like a slap in the face. He finally looks at me, the anger in his eyes, fading when he takes in my expression. “You intrigue me,” he says. His voice is pained, like it’s the worst thing that could have happened to him. “In the rare moments where you let your guard fall, I see someone I’m desperate to talk to. I keep thinking, there’s a conversation we’re meant to have.” His laugh is dry and humorless. He rubs the back of his neck in agitation,

“You’re so goddam beautiful. I mean, at least to me you are. I can’t say what everyone else sees when they see you. But if they saw what I saw when I looked at you, they wouldn’t think you were an easy, forgettable fuck. I don't understand why you were prepared to take that drunk, barely coherent idiot to bed. I don't know why you would disrespect yourself like that. I don't know anything." He’s almost shouting now, and hasn’t paused to take a breath as all of this pours out of him. He pauses to take a breath. His anger and his candor render me speechless.

"I won’t involve myself with someone who doesn’t value honesty and who thinks sex is cheap. And since that seems to be your default, I'm done.”

My heart stops and I still can’t find words. But it doesn’t matter. He’s not finished.

He turns away from me and presses the elevator call button. “This is probably for the best. The more I get to know you, the less I like you.”

His back, the indifference in his voice, his dismissal, the truth of his words all rush at me, and I erupt.

"You don’t get to act like I’m a dirty whore just because I don’t think the act of fucking has to be some sort of emotional exchange. It’s a physical act. You can turn your nose up at me as much as you’d like. But we both know that you would fuck me the instant you though I’d let you.” I shout at his back.

"Not for all the tea in China," he returns. His easy dismissal, this casual rebuff is more humiliating than I can bear.

His voice is so cold, so cutting that I can’t stop the gasp that escapes me. The fact that he won't even look at me is making me angry to the point of irrationality. I want him to look at me again. I want him to touch me again. I want him to want me again.

"Fucking look at me when you're talking to me."

Before I can think better of it, I shove him. I’m surprised at myself. I haven't lifted a hand to another human being - not counting the fights I had with my sisters when we were kids - in my entire life.

I expect him to yell at me, maybe even shove me back. He doesn't even turn around.

"No. It’s looking at you that got me here in the first place. I’ve seen enough.”

And even though he’s not looking at me, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Lacking

The elevator dings its arrival. He steps inside. Without stopping to think, I do, too.

I'm unwilling to let him have the last word. He can’t ignore me.

"Are you following me?" he says as he presses the button for the top floor penthouse. He still hasn't looked at me. The elevator begins its ascent in a soundless rush. And with every floor we pass, I feel like I'm watching the sand drain from an hourglass. When he gets off this elevator, I know I probably won't see him again. He's really angry with me. And I hate how much that bothers me.

"Are you scared of me? I mean, you can't even bring yourself to look at me," I say to his profile, trying to provoke some sort of reaction from him.

“Scared of you?” He throws his head back and chuckles. I stare at his profile. My eyes travel down his sharp jawline and down his strong, tanned neck, wishing he’d meet my eyes.

His laughter stops abruptly, and he turns so quickly that I don't see it coming.

I hear my mother’s voice saying, "Be careful what you ask for, you might just get it." His eyes are ice cold, his luscious mouth set in a firm, stern line.

And I want to weep and beg him to smile at me again. I want the warmth back, I want him to laugh again, even if it's at my expense. Anything but that cold, disdainful stare. I watch the small muscle that hinges his strong jaw tremble as we watch each other, trying to see the truth behind the anger and hurt.

The silence is like a scalpel on the festering boil of my shame - it pours out of me. I’m drowning in it. And he’s bearing witness to it all. 

"What are you looking at?" I ask. I know I sound defensive, and as if they have a mind of their own, my arms cross over my chest.

"I don't know," he says quietly before he turns back to face the elevator doors.

My blood rushes in my ears as I step toward him. His eyes cut in my direction at my approach, but he still doesn't turn to face me.

"Really? You seemed to know when you were shoving your cock into my hand on the plane." I say softly, silkily.

His jaw clenches and he swallows hard, but still he won't look at me.

I step toward him again and put a hand on his arm. I'm not prepared for how the touch sends a whole herd of elephants thundering through my blood.

He inhales sharply at my touch, and his head swings slowly in my direction.

"What are you doing?" His voice is low with warning, his eyes trained on my hand.

I step closer, and just then the elevator door dings. A crowd of almost ten people step on. They're all talking once, and they crowd around us, forcing me closer to him. Their raucous laughter provides a perfect backdrop to the absolute silence inside my head.

I look up at him through my lashes. He's staring straight ahead, the cool, enigmatic expression in his eyes is betrayed by the harsh rise and fall of his chest.

I slip my hand up his arm and round his well-muscled shoulder. I pause and glance at him again. He's closed his eyes, his indecision and anger stretched taught across his face. But he doesn't say anything, he doesn't move as my hand travels down from his shoulder to caress his pectoral muscle. He flinches as my cool hand touches his heated, cotton clad chest.

When it passes the center of his chest, I can feel the telltale thumping of his heart. My fingers skate to the right, and just before I reach his nipple, his hand comes up and grabs my wrist in a grasp so tight that I couldn't move it if I tried.

The doors shut, and we're alone again.

"Stop," he whispers. It’s a warning and it causes a curl of fear in the pit of my belly that should give me pause.

But my good sense has left me. All I want now is to prove him wrong.

I press my body into his side. My breasts yield to the hard muscle of his arm, I let my pelvis press into the side of his hip, and I bring my mouth down and let my lips skim his shoulder.

His eyes close, and his rigid posture eases.

"Not for all the tea in China?" I ask.

He looks down at me then, his posture gaining its tight, controlled stance again.

He has a look of challenge in his dark eyes. They are hooded, and his mouth, which has been set in a stern line, is slightly tipped up at the corners.

"Not for anything," he returns silkily, but in a voice so cold, it freezes everything. His grip loosens, and his voice has lost some of its frost when he says, “Except… the real you. Not this character you’re playing.”

I'm rendered so completely speechless by his cold rejection that it takes me a moment to notice the elevator isn't moving.

I want to get off this elevator. Away from him. From his beauty and his idealism. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be brought to your knees by loss. He would never understand the things I’ve had to do. When I think about my life...No, I can’t let myself go there. Not now, not in front of him.

I want to be alone, I shouldn’t have come after him. I can’t handle this.

My head starts to spin, and I want to lie down.

"I've had too much to drink. I feel sick," I mumble.

“Don’t you fucking throw up.” He warns.

“I’m not going to throw up, I just need to get off.”

The elevator feels like it's moving at a snail's pace, and I press the button for his floor. Repeatedly.

The elevator comes to a sudden, jerking halt. A cry escapes me as it sends me flying toward him. He catches me but sets me away almost immediately.

"Great, what did you do?" he snaps as he peers at the elevator's panel of call buttons.

"I didn't do anything, it’s not my fault," I plead miserably.

I cannot be stuck in an elevator with this man.

He stands up to his full height and peers down his haughty nose at me. "Well, one minute I was on my way up to my room, and more importantly on my way to being away from you, and then you start overzealously pressing buttons, and now the elevator is stuck."

I walk past him to look at the panel myself. "Don't these things normally have a phone?" I ask as I scan the smooth surface of the wall.

"I don't know. I've never needed to know anything like that because I've never been in an elevator with a mad woman who caused it to break down," he says snidely as he reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out his mobile phone. "Shit, of course. No service," he gives me an irritated glance and says. "Check yours, too. It's the least you can do. Seeing as how this is your fault. We need to call down to the front desk and ask for help."

I’m annoyed with myself for my lack of action, and I pull my phone out of my small cross body purse and find that I don't have service either. I drop the useless device back into my purse and stalk to the corner of the elevator. I glare at him.

He meets my glare and scowls. "You're like a bad luck charm. Let's hope they're aware of the problem and are working on fixing it."

I ignore him and close my eyes and take deep breaths. I start to count backwards from one hundred in my head as the reality of my circumstance starts to sink in.

I'm alone, in an enclosed space with a man who can't stand me. I have no way of getting out. What was I thinking getting on this elevator with him? I try to squeeze myself into the corner, as far away from him as possible. My entire body flushes as blood surges, my breathing is labored and I run my hands through my hair, trying to find a thought that might calm me.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice brusque. My eyes snap open and find him watching me, his eyes still irritated but now tinged with some concern. "Are you claustrophobic or something?" He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I freeze. My blood runs cold, and I can't remember where I am.

I look at his hand, so large that it completely covers my shoulder. It's also suddenly too heavy. I can't bear the weight. My heart is beating so fast that I'm sure it's going to rupture. I hear myself whimper. He drops his hand and takes a step back. I close my eyes again and count backward from ten.

He continues talking. "Hey. You need to breathe."

I try to speak, but my mouth won't move. I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs won't cooperate, and I clutch my throat as they burn with the effort it's taking for me to get air into them. I haven't had an attack like this in almost three years. I can't believe it's happening to me now. When I can't hide it or do anything to stop it.

"Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. Or touched you. I promise I'm not going to hurt you."

I'm not going to hurt you.

Instead of his voice, I hear those words spoken by a voice that I usually only hear in my nightmares. It sets my panic into overdrive. I can feel my head spinning and my eyes lose their focus. I can't move. I can't breathe. All I can do is sit here, helpless and unable to save myself. Again.