The Dirty Series 2(36)

That’s where my mind is—blessedly free of Emerald—when I stride through my building’s lobby, extending a nod and a smile to the doorman as I wrap up a final phone call with Emily. There’s one elevator car about to head up, and I’ll be damned if I have to wait for the next one. Even though the doors are closing and are nearly shut, I stick my hand through the slight opening, putting my muscles to work, forcing the door to start reopening.

The woman standing inside the elevator lets out a sharp little gasp, before stepping back from the door as I step into the car.

Holy shit.

The creature standing in the elevator with me is absolutely gorgeous and I am stunned—stunned—that I haven’t seen her around the building before. She’s petite—she can’t be more than five foot four or so, and at just over six feet tall, I tower over her. But it’s her eyes that get me. An intense blue-gray, they’re sparkling and huge. Her cheeks are a little flushed, set off to perfection by her ash-blonde hair, which is swept back from her face, leaving a chic wave to frame her sharp jawline. She’s wearing a black sheath dress cut just above the knee, and it hugs every curve like it was made just for her. Her grip tightens on the handle of the designer purse she has tucked under her arm.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I say, my voice dropping a notch.

“Oh, it’s—it’s no problem,” she stammers, and when she smiles I forget all about the paperwork I have to do. I want to lean down and kiss her full lips right now, but I resist.

A glance at the elevator panel tells me that the button for the penthouse is already illuminated. I arch an eyebrow at her. “Were you going up to the penthouse?”

She looks from me to the panel, then laughs. “I must have hit the wrong button. No, I’m going to the eighth floor.” She reaches out with one delicate finger, but I beat her to it, our hands almost colliding in midair.

“Thank you,” she says, her eyes glued to my face. “Which floor are you going to?”

I cut my eyes over to the panel, then back to her face, and she turns a deeper shade of red.

“You live in the penthouse?”

“I do.” I extend my right hand to her. “Jett Brandon.” She sucks in a breath.

“Wow,” she says, another megawatt smile illuminating her face, and then her voice lowers. “I’m almost a little disappointed that I didn’t get to go all the way up.”

A voice is screaming at me in the back of my head not to make any moves. But fuck that—Emerald is in the past, and I want to wipe away every memory of her and replace it with something better. This woman is the perfect palate cleanser: totally fuckable and starry-eyed enough that I’m not going to have a problem getting her to sleep with me—or ending it when I’ve had my fill.

“Angelica Chandler,” she says, releasing the death grip on her purse to shake my hand. When her smooth skin touches mine, it sends a jolt of heat streaking up my arm, down my spine, and straight to my cock. Angelica bites her lip and looks away for a split second.

“Thursday night,” I say, as the elevator starts its smooth ascent upward. It’s not a question.

She does a double-take, then gives me a quizzical smile. “Thursday night?”

I step just a little bit closer to her, lowering my voice as if we’re in the middle of a crowded room. “I’m telling you we have a date for Thursday night. When I see something I want, I take it.” Then I step back. “You might have a different opinion.”

Angelica bites her lip again, and her breathing becomes more rapid. She lets her eyes rake over my suit-clad body. “Won’t your wife be upset?”

I have to laugh at that. “Sweetheart, I’m in control of my life. Not another woman. So we can get to know each other on Thursday night.”

“Can I get back to you on that?” she says, and her voice is low but sweet. “Jett Brandon,” she says, like she’s tasting the words in her mouth.

“Take my number,” I say, and am pleased when she shoves her hand into her purse, coming up moments later with her phone. I reel off my personal cell number. She types it in, and I notice that her hands are shaking.

The elevator car glides to a stop, and the tone sounds. But when the door slides open, Angelica doesn’t move. She just looks up at me, her phone still in her hand.

Finally, I have to break the moment. “Your floor,” I say with a roguish smile, and she startles, turns, and steps out.

As the doors slide closed, she raises a hand and gives me a little wave.

I’ll probably never hear from her—or see her—again.