A foxy looking guy stood waiting patiently for its arrival. The hunk wore a pin-stripped suit with a red power tie. He had a briefcase in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He looked up from his paper for a second, when I approached and smiled.
“Good morning,” I said with effervescence. Mr. Foxy Guy raised his head and nodded. I concluded this guy was an up-and-coming executive, no doubt. He was just too hot for words and I was having a hard time taking my eyes off his “I work out every day” body.
I continued to peek at him out of the corner of my eye. His reddish-brown wavy hair and perfectly shaped face had a bronzed glow from a summer’s tan. He looked up from his newspaper. He must have sensed I was giving him the sideways glance, because the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. He lowered his head and resumed reading. I avoided direct eye contact. I was embarrassed he’d caught me checking him out.
I began to daydream about being on some deserted island with this God-like creature, unaware the elevator had arrived. I quickly snapped to attention when I heard him speak.
“Are you getting in?” he said, holding the door open with his foot.
“Oh. Yes. Thanks.” The masculine scent of his aftershave penetrated my nostrils, as I breezed past him. Just standing next to him was making my heart do flip-flops.
Hmm, if this guy is any indication of who works here . . . . Mmm, nice. No wedding band on that left hand.
What am I doing for god’s sake? It’s only been a month since I broke my engagement . . . but then, I never said I didn’t like men—I just don’t want to be married to one.
“What floor?” he asked.
“Twenty please.”
“I’m headed in that same direction.”
He turned his attention away from me and back to his paper. The door closed and we started to rise. Without warning, the elevator sputtered and jerked to a screeching halt. I lost my balance and fell into Foxy Guy, sending my briefcase smack into his knee. His newspaper fell from his hand and scattered about, as his briefcase hit the floor with a thud.
He grimaced with pain from the force of impact, but managed to steady me with one hand while clutching his knee with the other.
“I am so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I guess,” his handsome face distorted from the pain. “I’m just coming back to work after recuperating from knee surgery.”
“Oh, no.” I pointed to the knee I’d just walloped. “Is that the one?”
He nodded and bent over to massage it. Helpless, I looked on with embarrassment knowing his discomfort was my fault, but I didn’t think saying something would make it any better.
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