Hold on to Me

“You invited me to ride this death trap!” I narrow my own eyes and lean forward. “You didn’t have to get on it,” I remind, noticing the way her mouth moves. Before she can argue again, I move in her direction just a bit more, invading her personal space. I’m bathed in her rich floral scent and can hear the slight hitch in her breathing as I add, “But I’m damn glad you did.”

“So, I’m not hot now?” I quip, reveling in the fact her blush turns even darker. On her fair skin, it might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever witnessed. Bee sighs dramatically, relaxing even more. “Fishing for compliments, are we, Jordan?” she asks, referring to my last name. “No,” I confess easily. “I just enjoy watching you blush.” She brings her hand up to cover her left cheek. “You’re beautiful without it, but with it, your eyes change from a pretty hazel color to a darker green. It’s fascinating and quite breathtaking.”

After a few seconds, she opens her eyes and turns to meet my gaze. For fear of sounding like a woman or cliché, but the moment our eyes meet, I feel it in my soul. Something shifts inside me. My entire world tilts on its axis, and if I wasn’t sitting already, I’d sure in hell need to have a seat now.

“I’m going to set these on the floor, okay, beautiful?”

My moment of euphoria is short-lived, however, because mere seconds after the elevator car begins to climb, it bumps to a stop. Hard. I cry out and lurch to the side, my hip connecting with the handrail I’m trying to hold on to. A hand is there, holding on to my arm and keeping me from falling, but I pay it no attention. Everything inside me seizes as the fear grips hold. I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs refuse to work. I’m paralyzed as every fear I’ve ever had about elevators comes true. Holy shit. I’m going to die.

Holy. Shit. It’s Myles Jordan. Who is Myles Jordan, you ask? Only the most gorgeous boy I’ve ever seen. Except, he’s no longer a boy. Myles is all man now, hard in all the right places and with a scruffy jaw that makes me lick my lips like someone’s waving a big, fat chocolate chip cookie in front of my face. Myles was the boy in high school. You know the one. Quarterback of the football team, prom king, voted most likely to become a movie star, dated the head cheerleader. Don’t forget earned straight A’s and volunteered on Sundays at the food pantry. He also starred in every single one of my schoolgirl dreams that year. As a freshman to his senior stature, he sat confidently on the pedestal I placed him on, his name written in every color ink I had in my arsenal on page after page in my diary. With a heart around it. Hell, for an entire month, I secretly called myself Mrs. Bee Jordan.