That Mistletoe Moment (19 page)

CHAPTER 2

R
achel Sanders juggled rolls of wrapping paper in her arms. One slipped, and she pinned it between her chair and her hip before easing the bundle to the floor behind her desk.

“Thanks for buying that from Sally,” Rhonda said. “She came in second for total donations.”

“No problem.” Rachel smiled at her coworker, and slung her purse strap over her arm. “I'm glad to help out your daughter's school. And I won't gain five pounds from wrapping paper, not like the chocolate I bought from her last year.”

Rhonda wrinkled her nose. “That chocolate wasn't very good. I was hoping the school would get a new supplier this year.”

Circling her desk, Rachel headed for the office door. “It was chocolate. Even bad chocolate is good.”

“I thought that was supposed to be sex.”

Rachel didn't admit that it had been so long, she didn't remember whether that saying was true or not. “I'm heading down to the cafeteria. Do you want anything?”

“No thanks. I'm good.” Rhonda settled behind her desk. “Remember we have that meeting at two.”

Holding up her smartphone, Rachel nodded. “It's on my calendar. See you later.”

Bustling to the elevators, Rachel scanned the e-mails on her phone, and punched the Down button. She had twenty minutes to hit the cafeteria on the first floor of her building and get back to her office before the pile of projects on her desk tumbled into a pile of rubble. She loved her job at
Verve,
the premier magazine on family, home decorating, and relationships, but if she didn't stay two steps ahead, she'd be falling behind.

That was just the way it was in the media industry. And she wanted to get ahead. Go all the way to the top.

The doors hissed open, and Rachel stepped inside, frowning over the e-mail from her latest interview subject. Why would the woman cancel no—

She walked into a firm chest, her phone pinned between a man's hard muscles and her own body. Face hot, Rachel jerked back. “I'm sorry.” Raising her gaze, she met a pair of arctic-blue eyes. They widened ever so slightly, and Rachel darted a hand over her hair. Her ponytail seemed to still be in place. She'd eaten the last of her emergency chocolate two days ago so there shouldn't be any dark smears on her face. Why was he staring? She swallowed. “I should have watched where I was going.”

The surprise faded from his eyes, and he smiled. “What would be the fun in that? Having a beautiful woman crash into me made my morning.” Raising an arm, he stopped the doors from sliding closed on her. “Please, come on in. I promise I don't bite.” He flashed two rows of even white teeth, teeth that seemed quite able, and willing, to take a nip out of unsuspecting and gullible women.

Rachel sniffed. Good thing she was neither of those anymore. At twenty-four, she wasn't staring down middle age yet, but she was old enough to recognize a meaningless line when she heard one.

Stepping into the cab, she muttered a thanks and turned to stand next to the man. The button for the first floor was already lit, so she returned her focus to her phone.

“Text from your boyfriend?” Elevator Man asked.

Biting her lip, she shook her head. The only texts of that sort she'd been getting lately had been from a fake boyfriend service she'd signed up for seven months earlier. Her phony relationship had succeeded in getting her bosses to accept more of her story ideas, but she wasn't about to admit to a random hot guy that she paid $24.95 a month to receive some texts and voice mails.

And the man was hot. She glanced at his reflection in the metal elevator doors. Thick dark hair brushed the collar of his white dress shirt. A little longer than she usually liked, a bit more product than she thought men should use, but it worked for him. A hint of stubble covered his square jaw, just enough to make him look more bad boy than corporate stooge. The tailored three-piece suit he wore gave her a good idea of the body underneath. He was corded with muscle, big without being bulky. His entire body was tensed like a coil ready to spring.

She sighed. Usually her penchant for bad boys led her to unemployed jerks who rotated their time crashing at their friends' homes and their parents' basements. The naughty businessman fantasy was new for her. It was a good thing for her heart she was too busy to pursue it.

He caught her examining him in the mirrored doors. His smile was slow and knowing. She dropped her eyes back to her phone, cursing her fair Irish skin. Her flush told anyone paying attention when she was embarrassed, angry, or aroused.

The elevator dinged at the thirtieth floor, and she and Elevator Man stepped back to let a tall woman, made taller with her four-inch heels, onto the cab. She held a miniature pinscher tucked under one arm like a clutch. It didn't look happy in its pink leather collar.

Elevator Man's eyes flared. Leaning back in the corner, Rachel shook her head. Put a woman in a tight skirt in front of the man and his attention was already . . .

Whoa. Rachel blinked, but her eyes continued to water. Had the woman swum in a bottle of perfume? The scent was oppressive, obnoxious, and Rachel could taste it in the back of her throat.

Elevator Man pressed himself into Rachel's side. She would have scaled the wall to get away from the sickly sweet aroma if it would have helped, but that corner was the farthest they could go. The woman pressed the button for floor ten.

She and Elevator Man shared a horrified look. Twenty floors of this hell?

He leaned down, his lips a whisper's breath away from her ear. “I don't think I'm going to make it. Tell my mother I love her, and that I want her to go on a world cruise with the insurance money.”

Rachel shook her head and smiled. She wanted to respond, but that would involve opening her mouth and sucking in more of the foul air. She dug her nose into the crook of her arm. The cashmere blend tickled, but did little to block the smell.

“Do you think it's her or the dog?” he asked. As if knowing he was the subject of their whispered conversation, the little brown and black dog turned its head, its upper lip curling. Elevator Man glared back. “It's got to be both of them. They bathe together, and this is some horrible flea shampoo bubble bath they drown themselves in.”

His words were soft. Her snort, as the visual he planted grew in her head, was not. The woman glanced back at them.

Elevator Man pulled a handkerchief from his front breast pocket and handed it to Rachel. “She just lost her grandmother,” he explained.

She dabbed at her streaming eyes, and held the cloth beneath her nose. She probably did look like a grieving woman. Except for the smile hidden beneath the handkerchief. She could just make out the scent of fresh laundry detergent and Elevator Man's own subtle cologne over the woman's perfume. She breathed deep, grateful for the reprieve.

“It was tragic.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his side. “A gas leak. She never smelled it.”

Rachel started coughing. Her shoulders shook with laughter, and she glared at the man for putting her in this position. He tucked her into his chest and rubbed her back. “There, there. It will be all right, dear.”

Her hand fell to his waist, and she dug her nails in. She didn't think her blunt-cut manicure had much of an effect, not through his vest and shirt, but she didn't want him to think she was a complete pushover. He was hamming it up big-time, and why? So he could get a free grope?

But she didn't back away. Burrowing her nose between his jacket and his vest, she sighed. She'd found a little haven, and she'd have to be dragged out of it.

The doors slid open on ten. The woman with the dog murmured, “Sorry for your loss,” and stepped out.

When the doors slid shut, Rachel pushed away, but kept his handkerchief pressed to her face. She glared at him over the white linen. “My dead grandmother? Really?”

Pulling a business card out of his wallet, the man tried to use it as a little fan in front of his face. “Your dead grandmother is lucky. She couldn't smell.”

She bit back a smile. “Plus, she's fictional.”

“I'd give anything to be a fictional person right now if it meant I couldn't smell.” He leaned back against the wall. “Why do you women do that? Are you trying to attract men or repel them? No man wants to risk a chemical attack just to get near you.”

“Says the man who wears Bvlgari cologne.”

“In moderation.” Tapping the business card against his chin, he looked her up and down. “You like the way I smell? If you can recognize Bvlgari, you must.”

“Right now I'd like the way a sewage treatment plant smells. Anything that is other than this hell.” The elevator light hovered above the number one, never seeming to sink to the level. “God, please open the doors. Let us out of here.”

As if hearing her prayers, the elevator dinged and the doors eased open. Grabbing her elbow, the man hustled her out like the place was on fire. About twenty feet away, he stopped and bent over at the waist, hands on his knees. “Stale lobby air and pine never smelled so good.”

Rachel had to agree. The high-rise's Christmas tree had gone up last week, and the aroma of fresh pine needles was as soothing to her abused nose as a massage was to tired muscles.

She dabbed under her eyes, and folded the handkerchief. She held it out to him. “Thanks. I'm sorry there's some mascara on it. Make sure to use bleach.”

Slowly, he straightened. He was tall, probably stood a half foot taller than her own five-six. Now that they were no longer in a survival situation, she felt oddly shy. His gaze seemed too probing, his smile too familiar. Like he knew all her secrets. Like he could see under her clothes.

His smile was definitely predatory, and her mouth dried up. Reaching out, he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the cafeteria. “You can buy me lunch to make up for it.”

“What?” She tripped after him. The fingers wrapped around her hand were firm. She ignored the light tingle that skittered over her skin. “You made me laugh, which made me cry more. Any stains are on you.”

“You're right. I should buy you lunch.” He stopped in the middle of the open cafeteria doors and stepped behind her, placing his hands on her hips. Rachel's breath caught in her throat. She could feel the heat of him on her back. His breath slid beneath her ponytail and caressed the back of her neck. “Do you feel like Japanese, Italian, Mexican, or American?” He turned her to face each counter as he asked.

Her mind blanked. Did she like Japanese? She couldn't remember. It had been a while since she'd let a man stand so close, let alone a complete stranger. He really did smell good.

“Mexican,” she said. She'd planned on getting a salad for lunch, but nerves overcame her intent.
Verve
had run an article last February. Most men polled said they didn't like it when women ordered salads. Claimed to appreciate a woman who had a real appetite.

Of course, those same men didn't appreciate when a woman had real curves from indulging in that real appetite.

Taking the handkerchief from her grip, he threaded his fingers through hers and led her over to the Mexican counter. She cursed herself the whole way. What did she care what some random stranger thought about her?

The cheese enchiladas did look good, though. Smelled even better. Smiling at the man behind the counter, she pointed at the dish. When he handed her the steaming plate, she inhaled deeply. Her stomach gurgled in anticipation.

Elevator Man took her plate and put it on his tray with his own meal. Okay, that nickname had to change. When he pulled out his wallet at the cashier's station, she laid her hand on his arm. “I can't let a man buy me lunch when I don't even know his name. I think there's a rule about that.”

“And do you always follow the rules?” At her raised eyebrow, he sighed. “Gabe Harris—” He cleared his throat. “I'm Gabe Harris. And you are?”

“Rachel Sanders. Nice to meet you.” She picked up the drinks that didn't fit on the tray. “Thanks for lunch.”

“My pleasure.” Gabe nodded his head at a table in the corner, and she followed him over. It was a nice view to walk behind. Better than from the top of the St. Louis Arch. Broad shoulders narrowed down to a trim waist. When he bent to rest the tray on the table, his wool business jacket rose, giving her a glimpse of one very fine ass. High and tight and just begging for a little squeeze.

No, she told her fingers firmly. No touching the tasty stranger's butt. Plopping into her chair, she looked around the table and sighed. “We forgot silverware.”

He laid a broad palm on her shoulder and pressed her back into her seat. “Got it covered.” Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out two napkin-wrapped rolls of plasticware and placed one in front of her.

“What else do you have in that pocket?” she teased. “So far, its contents have been very useful to me.”

He smiled, the hint of a dimple appearing in his left cheek. It was the first real smile Gabe had shown her. No flirt, no smolder, just genuine amusement.

It was gone so fast it gave Rachel whiplash. The practiced smile replaced it. Just as pretty. Showed just the right amount of teeth. But it held no true warmth.

Rachel lowered her gaze and cut into her enchiladas with the back of her fork. She hated the pretenses when you first met a guy. Always trying to act like a different, better person. The pressure. Another reason she loved the Build-A-Boyfriend service. The past seven months she'd had a break from the awkwardness of first dates.

But this wasn't a first date. Gabe could be a salesman for all she knew, holding an entire arsenal of fake smiles, and it wouldn't matter to her.