I hesitate.
He tucks his cigarette pack into his slacks and easily, like it means nothing, reaches out to pull me a few feet closer to the edge. “See? Nothing to fear.”
His pleasantly deep voice seems to sink into my stomach like an anchor, sending a little prick all over. I shiver. And then I realize this guy, this stranger, is touching me. His hand is on my waist, curving around me.
Um, hello, move, Livvy? I’m not the kind of girl who lets guys this close without a proper date.
I squirm a little. But his hands are strong. “You can let go of me.”
“Can I really?” His eyes are still dancing.
“Yes, um. You can.” I’m shaking. There’s more amusement on his face.
He looks down at his hand, smiling, and raises his eyes with pure mischief. “Are you sure?” He scans me as if to make sure I’ve got my footing.
I nod. “I’m okay.”
He lets go, looks at me with that same puzzled smile, then at his watch. “And I’m late.”
I exhale and nod. “I’ll just stay up here for a bit.”
He pulls out his pack of cigarettes and sets it on the ledge, then winks at me, and walks away.
I stare at the cigarettes. I take one step, and another, and even if everything I ever wanted were waiting for me, sitting up on that ledge, I couldn’t reach it if I wanted to.
I tell myself I’m not going upstairs today. But I find myself wandering up the elevators the next day, and up onto the terrace before I head home. It’s not the terrace that has been niggling at my curiosity nonstop.
It’s Hot Smoker Guy.
I’m not a girl who thinks a lot about guys. I hardly thought about them all through college, I was too busy trying to graduate. So this curiosity is a bit of a first, and maybe just a tad worrisome too.
He’s wearing a blue polo today. It’s kind of ballsy that he doesn’t care about being fired because he’s not wearing the requisite black-and-white or gray uniform everyone in the company wears. He is most definitely the mail guy.
“You don’t care about the dress code either, huh?” I say.
He lifts a brow, apparently amused by the tone of approval in my voice.
“You’re wearing a polo today, and the other time no jacket.”
It seems impossible, but his eyes sparkle even more. “You know all about my dress habits?”
He seems amused and delighted by that, and for some reason, it makes me flush.
He turns the chair and sits before me, arms draped over the chair back. “What’s the problem with the dress code? Looks to me you wear it very well.”
I roll my eyes.
He’s laughing at me.
“It’s boring, that’s what.” I signal to him and his don’t-give-a-shit attitude. “I just wish I had your balls.”
“Where exactly do you want them?”
I laugh, then flush. Oh god.
He laughs too. “I’m sorry, that was completely out of line,” he says shifting forward in the chair. “I couldn’t resist.”
“You know what? You really should,” I say with a little frown. “Does anyone fall for those antics?”
“You’d be surprised how many women fall for my . . . antics.”
I eye him dubiously. “If you say so.” He has his charm and that face does him plenty of favors but the guy seems to have a gargantuan ego already, I’m not about to feed it any more. “And I meant the balls to not wear . . . the required clothing. How do you get away with it?”
“My special antics include charming my way past reception.”
“It would help if the receptionists were male and maybe I could charm them.”
He eyes me. “I’d bet on it.”
“Seriously. It’s one thing to be a perfectionist and another to be anal. Come on!” I sigh. “I don’t want to disappoint my brother, though. He got me this job. But I intend to be the one to keep it.”
He lifts his brows, scrutinizing me suddenly.
As if he just realized something life-altering.
I wonder if he has any ambitions other than being the mail guy. He’s not putting out the vibes of someone desperate to climb the ladder of success.
I’m so busy wondering that I don’t realize he’s frowning thoughtfully as he stares down at his cigarette. He laughs softly, as if to himself, and then he rises from his chair, takes a step back and says, “Good night.”
He grabs a jacket and his phone and keys, and walks out.
Did I say something wrong?
The next day, I spot him in the elevator.
The coworker who boards with us spots him too, and the instant she sees him, her spine shoots up straight. I’m surprised she’s not fluffing her hair, though I don’t blame her one bit. I suppress the urge to primp myself too. She nods politely at him as we ride to our floors. Hot Smoker Guy nods back, then looks at me. He doesn’t nod. Just stares. I smile. We’re left alone.
I’m impressed that my unambitious mail guy broke out the best suit he owns, dark black, and a tie that’s just killer. Nobody would wear a red tie here unless they’re interviewing, it would need to be silver or black.
“Look at you! Are you here for an interview?” I ask when we’re alone. “You broke out your best suit.”
He starts to laugh, then rubs his face with one hand and shakes his head.
“We’re matching.” I point to the red scarf I’m wearing as a hair band, my one small rebellion against the dress code.
“Yeah, I’ll have to do something about that,” he says as he reaches out and tugs the scarf loose, tucking it into his pocket. Just like that. He crosses his arms in a nonchalant stance and stares at the climbing numbers.