She stares at my outstretched palm before she slips her fingers into my hand.
A simple gesture. But my brain doesn’t care.
Zip.
Zap.
Her skin is warm. Her grip is delicate. Petite. And I feel a quick shiver, wondering if it’s me imagining it, or if it’s her.
“Thanks.”
I clear my throat. “Ready?”
She nods, letting go of my hand and smoothing down her top with a breath. “Yeah.”
Inside the lobby, we’re greeted by the spa like smell of eucalyptus and a sleek glass elevator. A few other patrons pile in with us—two women in cocktail dresses, a guy in a blazer wearing a backwards baseball cap, another guy wearing sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun has set.
Suddenly, we’re back in a box made for sardines.
I let Poppy step in first and stuff myself in beside her, our bodies pressing together again.
This. Elevator. Is. Miniscule.
The doors close.
The floor vibrates.
And thank fucking god, we begin our ascent.
Poppy stares at the number above the door, exhaling slowly, probably counting the floors. Sixty…
Sixty-four…
Sixty-eight.
Her hip bumps mine with every subtle sway of the elevator.
Seventy floors feels like a thousand.
poppy
. . .
“My body is on fire,” I whisper into Nova’s ear the second she pulls me into her arms, hugging me like I haven’t spent the last fifteen minutes in a confined space with her fiancé’sveryhot former roommate. “I could kill you.”
“Is that so?” She laughs into my hair, arms wrapped around my shoulders. “What did I do now?”
“Turner,” I whisper like it’s a curse and a confession all at once. “He’s so…”
Hot.
Sexy.
Built like a damn Greek godwith a jawline carved by angels. A walking, talking sin.
I throw my hands up in defeat because language has officially left the building. “I’m moving out.”
There. I said it. Let the record reflect that I was brave! That I fought the good fight!That I lasted a whole twenty-four hours before the sexual tension became a health hazard.
