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1383 Words
~*JUNE*~
After four hours, eleven minutes, forty-six seconds, and three hundred milliseconds, the meeting finally came to an end.
I genuinely thought it was never going to end, but thankfully—for me and my sanity—it finally did.
Checking my watch, I saw it was already 3 p.m.
I’m heading home now to grab some food before I starve to death.
Mr. Macaulay had told us we could all head home early today since we had done a good job during the meeting.
Everyone else, at least. I’m pretty sure I did a disastrous job.
I let out a sigh so deep I feel it in my bones, the kind of exhale that comes from spending hours bracing for the next disaster to fall on your head.
Quickly arranging my desk, I pack my bag, shoving in my notebook, my pen, my phone—anything I can grab.
Before heading toward the elevator, I made sure Mr. Macaulay was nowhere in sight.
I didn’t want to run into him.
Not after what happened in that meeting. Not after he caught me staring at his c**k like a horny teenager who had never seen a man before.
I know he probably wants to see me so he can give me a scolding for what happened in the meeting, because apparently public humiliation wasn’t enough, he still needs a sequel.
Well, I’m not buying a ticket.
I’m not emotionally prepared for his disappointment special edition.
The sooner I get out of here, the better my chances of not running into him, and sparing myself an unforgettable lecture on how to exist like a functional secretary to him.
I scan the hallway twice, then a third time, like a criminal checking for cops before making a run for it.
Nothing.
No tall figure in a tailored suit. No cold grey eyes waiting to pin me in place.
Just an empty hallway, closed doors, and the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
I quickly dash to the elevator and press the call button, then wait, my thumb tapping against my thigh while my other hand grips my bag strap so tightly my knuckles turn white.
The silence stretches as I stand there, willing the elevator to hurry up.
The elevator finally arrives with a soft chime and the doors slide open.
It’s empty. Thank God.
I step inside and press the ground floor button, jabbing it twice as if it will somehow make it go faster.
The doors begin to close behind me, and I let out a sigh.
Just as they are about to shut completely, a hand shoots in between them, stopping them.
The doors jerk back open with that awful rubbery sound.
I lift my head to see who it is, and my eyes land on those familiar metallic grey eyes.
My breathing immediately seizes.
Mr. Macaulay.
I’m graced with his not-so-wanted presence.
He steps inside, and immediately his heady cedar scent, so strong and masculine, fills the space and… messes with my head.
As he moves further into the elevator, his scent short-circuits whatever is left of my brain.
Did he always smell this good?
I really want to lean closer and sniff him.
Sniff him?
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with my brain? Jesus.
No. I need to leave. Right now.
I can’t be in the same space as him for one more minute.
If I do, I am convinced I would actually suffocate to death.
Being in the same room with him for almost five hours was horror enough already.
And right now, my brain is acting completely uncooperative for reasons I can’t explain.
Like actually, completely crazy.
My heart is hammering, my palms are sweating, and my face keeps flushing every time I glance at him.
It makes no sense.
He is my boss. He is a total asshole.
And yet my body clearly missed the memo.
"I think I forgot something," I say.
The words tumble out of my mouth before my brain can catch up.
I rush for the elevator door, wanting out.
Just as I reach the door, it closes.
It f*****g closes.
Of course it does. Because why would anything in my life ever go smoothly.
I stand there with my hand still outstretched like an i***t, frozen mid-reach, watching the numbers on the panel glow red as it goes down.
And just like that, it's the two of us alone in the elevator again.
Slowly, I turn and find him already looking at me.
He doesn’t look away.
His eyes stay fixed on my face with that same unreadable expression that makes me feel like a bug under a microscope. No smirk this time. No raised eyebrow. Just those cold grey eyes watching me squirm.
I force a smile onto my lips.
It probably looks more like a grimace than anything else.
"Yeah… long day," I say, my voice coming out too high.
He says nothing.
Shut up, June, I mentally scream at myself.
What exactly am I trying to achieve by striking up a conversation with him?
I move to a corner and keep my eyes on the numbers as they go down.
Sixteenth floor.
Fifteenth floor.
I count in my head as the elevator goes down, three seconds per floor. Maybe less.
Time has never moved slower in my entire life.
The air feels thick, heavy, like wading through warm honey.
I can hear Mr. Macaulay breathing behind me, slow and steady, completely calm.
Not that his composure surprises me.
He’s not the one trapped in an elevator with a man who saw him staring at his erection. He’s just standing there, probably enjoying every second of my discomfort.
The elevator reaches the third floor, and I’m almost grateful.
I move toward the door, positioning myself so that the second it opens, I can dash out before he says anything to me.
He hasn’t said a word, which I am grateful for.
I honestly thought he would bring up what happened at the meeting, but surprisingly he hasn’t, and I’m not about to wait around for him to.
The numbers change.
Third floor.
Second floor.
The smile on my face grows wider.
The instant the elevator reaches the first floor, it suddenly shakes.
A violent lurch. A screech of metal on metal.
The lights flicker once, then twice, and the whole elevator drops a few inches with a sickening thud that sends my stomach straight into my throat.
I stumble back, my ankle twisting on the floor, a sharp bolt of pain shooting up my leg.
Just as I’m about to hit the ground, I close my eyes, waiting for the impact—then strong arms catch me.
Two hands lock around my waist, solid as iron, pulling me against a chest so hard I feel every ridge of muscle beneath his shirt.
I open my eyes. Mr. Macaulay.
He’s holding me upright, one arm braced across my lower back, the other steady at my hip, keeping me in place like I weigh nothing.
My side presses against his chest, his chin hovering near my ear.
I can feel the heat of him seeping through my clothes, the rapid thump of his heartbeat against my ribs.
Why is his heart beating so fast?
And why is it so loud I can actually hear it?
My body goes still.
I just stay there, staring at his face.
His grey eyes lock onto mine from beneath dark lashes, intense enough to burn right into me.
I open my mouth to say something, but the words die in my throat as I take in his features.
He’s handsome—disgustingly, infuriatingly handsome—even though he’s a certified prick.
"There has been an emergency and the elevator has stopped," a voice crackles through the speaker above us, tinny and distant. "The doors will remain closed until the issue has been resolved. Thank you for your patience."
I hear the words, but they don’t make sense at first.
Not with his hands still on my waist. Not with his breath warm against my temple. Not with my body melting into his like I belong to him.
Nothing about this moment makes sense.
Then it hits me.
I’m stuck in this elevator.
With… Mr. Macaulay.
- Writer
