by Layla Hagen
We walk into the clinic together, heading to the elevator. Max’s assigned training room is on the second floor. I press the button once we’re in the elevator, and as the doors close, we head upward with a jolt. I focus on the buttons, acutely aware of Max’s presence behind me. The space is tiny, almost claustrophobic, and even though my back is turned to Max, I can smell his cologne. The scent is a danger to my senses, instantly sending my thoughts into Dirtyland. The faster we get out of here, the better. But when the elevator finally comes to a stop, I know something is wrong. My fears are confirmed when the doors don’t open.
“Hell, no,” I exclaim, pushing the button that should open the doors. Nothing happens.
“Are we stuck?” Max asks.
“I think so, yeah.” With a tsk, I push the emergency button.
“How may I help you?” A female voice resounds through the speaker above the emergency button.
“We’re stuck in the elevator,” I inform her, adding the address of the clinic.
“All right,” the woman says. “A repair team is on their way.”
“How long will they need?” I ask.
“At the very least forty minutes.”
Max swears from behind me. I elbow him gently just as the woman says, “Did you say something, miss?”
“No. It’s fine. I’ll wait. We’ll wait. There is a patient with me inside the elevator. Are you sure there’s nothing you can do so the team gets here quicker?”
“Afraid not.”
“Okay.”
The line goes static, and unable to put it off much longer, I turn around to face Max. He leans against the wall opposite the elevator doors, his arms crossed over his chest, an uncharacteristic sour expression on his face.
“Max?” I ask tentatively.
“I hate small spaces,” he murmurs.
“Oh my God, that’s right. You do.”
Drops of sweat dot his temples and his gaze darts to the doors every few seconds. His hands are curled into tight fists at his sides. I know what I have to do—take his mind off it, make him focus on something that isn’t our location.
“How’s work?” I inquire.
Max doesn’t reply. His eyes travel up and down the doors before he finally slides down the elevator wall, assuming a sitting position on the floor. The instinct to hug him—comfort him in any way—is overwhelming. Briefly, I wonder if I can use the need to calm him down as an excuse to kiss him. But that would be a bad, bad idea. I join him on the floor wordlessly.
“Stressful at the moment. We’re preparing for a show. We do those regularly to present the new collections.”
“I know, I’ve read about it in magazines. Pippa is the designer. How is she?” I ask, melancholy hitting me mercilessly as I think about the eldest Bennett sister. She was always a warm presence in the Bennett household, even when she was being a spitfire because someone crossed her. I adored her.
“Happily married and pregnant with twin girls.”
“No way. Wow. How far along is she?”
“Around seven months. Yesterday the girls kicked her constantly while she was listening to music in her office. Now she’s convinced they will be musicians.”
“I’m banking on soccer players,” I say thoughtfully. “All of you loved playing soccer.”
“That’s what I told her, too.” He winks at me, and I’m sure women worldwide would drop their panties at that wink. Not me, though. My panties are firmly in place.
“Can’t wait for them to be born,” he continues. “I’ll make it my mission to teach them how to prank everyone.”
If I thought his wink was heat inducing, his words are atomic, albeit in a different way—pulling at my heartstrings. Max might think he’s not father material, but I disagree. I think he is, just doesn’t know it yet.
“Do they already have names?” I inquire.
“Mia and Elena.”
“Those are beautiful names.”
Max nods, and I’m pleased to observe that he seems more at ease than before. His breathing pattern is calmer, even though his hands are still curled into fists. He also eyes the floor right next to me from time to time, which is a telltale sign he’s not completely at ease. Almost driven by a will of its own, my hand inches closer to his, reaching for him. I touch the back of his hand with my fingers. At first, nothing happens, but then he opens his fist, letting me in. Having my hand in his feels familiar and new at the same time, which I suppose is the perfect way to sum up our renewed friendship. Trying to ignore the way my body hums at his nearness, I scoot even closer to him, until my left hip touches his right hip. Max moves our intertwined hands on his lap.
“I think it’s every man’s fantasy to be stuck with a woman in an elevator,” Max says. “And when it happens to me, I’m nearly having a damn panic attack.”
“I’d say you’re doing fine, Bennett. You scared me a little in the beginning, but now you’re looking good. I knew I had to get you to talk in order to distract you.”
“You’re a distraction all by yourself. Especially since your skirt slid up when you sat.”
“Oh crap.” I inspect my skirt, and sure enough, it slid up my thighs. Damn me and my habit of wearing skirts on the way to work and only changing into training gear at the clinic. My ass is not hanging out, but there’s enough to see if you look closely. And Max definitely is looking closely. That’s why he was peering down regularly. It wasn’t a sign of nervousness. It was a sign of him being a pervert. I’ve been so focused on him, I didn’t even notice my panties are almost on display. Hastily I cover myself, pulling at my skirt and wishing it were longer. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“And ruin all my fun? I’m not stupid.”
“I, on the other hand, am an idiot. A complete and utter idiot.”
“No, you’re not.” He opens his mouth as if he would like to add more, but then closes it again.
I remain silent, watching the vein pulsing at the base of his neck. Up close, I can smell his scent beneath the cologne, and it’s intoxicating, awakening every single cell in my body. Unexpectedly, he turns my palm up, tracing the almost invisible white line at the base.
“The scar almost faded,” he murmurs. “Did you tell anyone how you really got it?” he inquires.
“No, I kept our secret. Did you?” On the night before Grams and I moved to Montana, I snuck out of my house to meet Max for a farewell walk around the places we used to hang around. I cut my palm badly in the process.
“I don’t kiss and tell, Emilia.” I don’t know if it’s the fact that he used kiss and Emilia in the same sentence, or that his tone is low and husky, but a delicious shiver slithers down my spine.
“You call me Emilia a lot lately.”
“Jonesie doesn’t fit you anymore, does it?” With his thumb, he draws little circles at the base of my palm, driving me crazy. How can a gesture so innocent stir so many sinful sensations inside of me? My breath hitches as I hear Max swallowing hard. Risking a glance at him, I notice his jaw is clenched, as if he is exerting the utmost self-control. Raising my hand, he places a kiss on my scar. The contact sends a jolt directly to my center.
I let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a groan, energy strumming through me. Max turns his head toward me, focusing on my mouth. He is so close. I’d barely have to tip my head, and.... Almost involuntarily, I lick my lower lip.
A groan reverberates from deep inside Max. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Shaking my head, I become acutely aware that our hands are still intertwined. Worse still, we’re both shaking. To someone watching us, it wouldn’t be noticeable. But I can feel it in my bones. Our last vestiges of control are about to give in. I pry my hand out of his and push myself further away in an attempt to put some distance between us, but as soon as I move my ass, my damn skirt slides upward again.
“Fucking hell,” Max exclaims, his gaze following the hem of my skirt as if he wants to set it on fire. Cursing, I cover myself again. He snaps his gaze away, staring
at the door instead. “Earthquake, flood, waxing.”
“What?” I ask, wondering if he’s lost his mind.
“I’m trying to focus on evil things to distract myself.”
I snort. “How are earthquake, flood, and waxing in the same category? Wait! What would you know about waxing?”
“I pissed off Alice badly once. Her revenge was cruel.”
Before I have a chance to ask more, voices from the other side of the doors startle us both.
“We’re going to force the doors open,” a deep, manly voice informs us.
“Okay. What does that mean?” I ask. Max and I pry ourselves up off the floor in unison.
“You’re in between floors now, so we’ll have to pull you up.”
Max curses and my stomach dips. I might not be claustrophobic, but the thought of exiting an elevator that is between floors makes me uneasy.
“Can’t you fix it first, and let us out when it’s on one of the floors?” I inquire.
“It can last hours, I’m afraid,” the man answers. Well, between being stuck with Max in here and being pulled out, the latter feels safer. I’m pretty sure that in a few hours, he and I will both run out of evil things to distract ourselves with.
Max seems to be thinking along the same lines, because even though he’s pale, he says loudly, “Go ahead.”
We both wait in silence for the man to open the doors, and I breathe out in relief when I see that our position is not too bad. The upper floor is at roughly the same level with my navel, so I’ll only have to push myself up a little to crawl out.
“Do you need any help, ma’am?” the mechanic asks.
“Thank you, I’ve got this,” I say confidently, placing my palms firmly on the floor. Just as I’m about to push myself up, I notice Max is holding the lower hem of my skirt between his fingers.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
Max motions with his head toward the mechanic, who’s a few feet away. Then he whispers, “Making sure that guy over there doesn’t take a peek at your ass. Trust me, by the time you get out, your skirt will be up and around your waist.”
I’d argue with him if I didn’t just experience how undependable my skirt is.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Several minutes later, both Max and I are safely outside on the second floor.
“Oh shoot.” I glance at the clock hanging over the elevator. “My next appointment will be here in ten minutes. We—”
“Can reschedule,” Max says.
Something shifted between us while we were stuck in there. I can’t quite point out what, but I feel it in my bones. Looking up at Max, I’m certain he does too.
“Thanks for being a distraction inside there,” he says.
“Thanks for having my back when we got out. Or more accurately, my ass.”
Max grins widely. “I’ll always have your ass, Emilia. Always.”
As he leaves, he gives me a wink—one of those winks—and I’m fairly sure my panties just shifted a few inches lower on my hips.
Chapter Eight
Emilia
Over the next week, the tension between us grows so thick it’s almost palpable. Remarkably, we keep things light during the training sessions, focusing on his exercises and reminiscing about childhood memories. But in between sessions, we frequently send text messages to each other, and that’s when the blips in our control show.
I could stop texting him, of course, but I can’t help myself. Whenever something funny occurs, he’s the first person I want to share it with.
Right now I fiddle with my phone, wondering if it would be inappropriate to snap a picture of what is happening in front of me and send it to Max. I’m attending a seminar on rehabilitation, hosted by a highly reputable name in the field. He’s constantly doing research on techniques, and I’ve learned a lot from his seminars in the past.
I make a point to keep up-to-date with the latest research even though the clinic isn’t paying for all of the seminars I attend. Still, I consider this an investment in my future and the well-being of my patients.
Unfortunately, this particular seminar is one mishap away from earning the title epic failure. The host started off by apologizing for having a sore throat, and thus being unable to present his findings himself. He left that task up to his assistant, who is clearly unfit for this. He mumbled and stumbled through his presentation, spending more time apologizing for said mishaps than actually talking about the subject. When he nervously knocks a glass of water over his notes, I almost give up. He insists on a five-minute break while he prints out a fresh set of notes. As soon as he dismisses us, I leap from my seat, taking advantage of this to stretch my legs.
“Well, this is a waste of time,” Florence says, following me out of the room. She is a therapist too, working at a clinic outside of San Francisco, and we regularly meet at seminars. I like her. “I might as well leave now.”
“I’ll give him another chance,” I say. “Let’s grab something to drink.”
While we help ourselves to drinks from the small buffet outside, Florence says, “You look different. More radiant. Is your grandmother better?”
My stomach plummets. “No, not at all. She’s hanging in there.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
We nurse our drinks, standing near a floor-to-ceiling window.
“Hmm… care to share the secret to your newfound glow?” she asks. “Is it a man?”
I laugh nervously, tapping my fingers on my glass of orange juice. “No, it’s not.”
Florence gives me a look full of meaning. “If you say so.” She looks at me expectantly, but I simply continue to nurse my drink. Thankfully, before the silence becomes too awkward, the break ends and we’re ushered back into the seminar room.
As the assistant starts mumbling through the presentation again, my phone vibrates with an incoming message from Max.
Max: I just had someone spill an entire glass of wine and the contents of their plate on my shirt. Please tell me you’re having a better evening. How’s the seminar going?
The corners of my lips lift in a smile, butterflies roaming around in my stomach. He remembered about my seminar!
Emilia: Dreadful. I’m watching the guy’s assistant make a fool of himself. Your evening MUST be more interesting. You’re at the rehearsal for the show after all. I pause, unsure whether I really want to know the answer to my next question. Do you have your eyes on a model?
Max: It actually was a model who spilled her dinner on me. On the plus side, she eats. I think she’s the only one from the gang who does. I swear these girls are a mystery to me. How do they survive? They must be aliens.
Emilia: Don’t be an ass. Looking runway-ready requires sacrifices.
Max: I’m still going with aliens.
He still hasn’t answered my original question though. My throat is dry as I hover with my fingers over the screen. Should I ask again? What if he was deliberately avoiding giving me a straight answer? Shaking my head, I chastise myself. Max can do whatever he wants, and it shouldn’t bother me. I shove my phone away, only to immediately grab it again.
Emilia: Do you have your eyes set on any alien? Taking one home with you tonight?
I swear I’m holding my breath waiting for his answer.
Max: Nah, just came here for work. Who do you take me for?
Instead of replying to him, I place my phone on the table and direct my attention to the front. The guy finally got to an important part, and I’m taking notes like crazy. I knew it would be worthwhile to stick around. After several minutes, an incoming message pops on the screen of my phone.
Max: Jonesie, you can’t leave me hanging like this after almost insulting me.
Emilia: No offense
I press Send by mistake before finishing my sentence. Max writes back immediately.
Max: I have a feeling I’m about to be offended.
Emilia: I have three weeks of sessions as proof that y
ou suffer from acute wandering eyes syndrome.
Max: You’re not so innocent yourself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your eyes doing some wandering too.
Emilia: Hey, eye muscles must be trained too from time to time.
Max: Me ogling you is classified as acute eye-wandering syndrome, while you ogling me falls in the category of eye training. That’s a double standard right there.
I grin like an idiot as I hover my fingers over my phone, unsure what to write back. I saw him two days ago, and I’ll see him again on Saturday, albeit outside of the clinic. We’re going to have a long, lazy breakfast together. Ridiculous as it sounds, I wish I’d seen him today too. It’s like a switch went on inside of me, and I yearn to make up in a few weeks for the years we’ve been apart. A screeching sound behind me jolts me from my thoughts. When I look up from my phone, I realize that the room is far emptier than when I last looked around. The screeching sound came from two chairs being pushed back as their occupants rose from their seats.
Emilia: Officially more than half of the attendees have left the room. I’ll stick until the end, though.
Max: Of course you will. You and I have that in common. Determination.
Trying to ignore the flip my stomach gives as I reread the words You and I, I type back quickly.
Emilia: How do you know I’m determined? And DON’T mention that time I walked home from the fair in high heels just to prove I could. That wasn’t determination, it was stupidity.
I had just turned twelve, which meant that heels and lipstick were the height of sophistication in my mind. I had giant feet for my small frame (still do), and Grams’s shoes fit me perfectly. So one day I snuck out of the house wearing her favorite pair. In retrospect, I looked like an absolute idiot walking in them, but I was ridiculously proud. Until the balls of my feet started burning. I had gone with some of the Bennett siblings, Max included, to a junkyard sale nearby. I insisted on wearing the stupid shoes until I got home. My feet were burning, and I broke a heel. Grandma didn’t speak to me for three days, and I walked in flats for a week.
Max: No, I was referring to that summer you spent hours a day trying to shoot hoops.
