Chapter 2

Before I can get too panicked about it, the elevator halts abruptly. I look up at the indicator to see where we’ve stopped. Instead of saying a number, the panel is blinking a bright red ER. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I imagine the letters stand for error, but I feel like it should mean emergency, because this is truly a disaster. Michael is going to go ballistic. Though, if he knew who I’m stuck with, he might feel differently. Speaking of Holt, if he’s concerned, he doesn’t show it. He pulls his phone out from his inside jacket pocket and types something. “Dinner is worth missing.” He doesn’t look up from his phone. When he’s finished his message, he puts his phone back. Either he has better cell service than I do, or he’s not concerned whether or not the message goes through. I hadn’t planned on eating anyway. No way am I messing up Zully’s makeup job. “I’m more concerned about missing the actual ceremony.” Holt turns to face me, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his back against the steel wall. “I don’t imagine it will start without me.” No other explanation. As if I’m supposed to know who he is, which I do, but still. It’s awfully presumptuous. Or that’s what it’s like to be a celebrity. “At the very most,” he continues, “you’ll miss the local awards.” My stomach drops. “I’m receiving one of those local awards.” I turn to mirror him, sighing as I press my back into the wall behind me. I don’t know if I’m more disappointed about potentially missing my moment in the sun or about Holt Sebastian not knowing who I am. But why would he know who I am? SNC has hundreds of stations across the country. Holt can’t know everyone who works for him. Even ones that are here tonight to be honored for excellence. He studies me a second, and I wonder if I was wrong, if he’ll recognize me now. But his gaze looks more predatory than perceptive, and all he says is, “Whoops.” Again, what did I expect? These events are probably everyday for him. He was born at the top of the ladder. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have to start from the bottom, what an achievement it is to even get up one rung. It occurs to me that this might be a perfect opportunity to introduce myself. That was the goal for the night, after all—make him get to know me. Make him remember me. But what if that’s too forward? Too eager? I’ll get the chance to meet him later. Or I will if I don’t miss the fucking ceremony. “Should we hit the emergency button?” “Hm?” “Do you think we should hit the emergency button?” He’s staring at me intensely, so I know he heard me, but it seems to take him a second before he comprehends my words. “Oh. I was too busy thinking about how tempting the zipper is on your dress.” Heat runs from my decolletage to my cheeks. Truthfully, it was the point of this outfit. A Dolce & Gabbana splurge that Michael picked out, the dress is a modern reinterpretation of a classic black sheath dress, with a double slider zipper that runs all the way from my cleavage to the bottom hem and another one that matches in the back. It means I can make the neckline—and the backline—as low as I’d like. Michael had suggested I go low enough to not be able to wear a bra. He said men would be thinking about unzipping me all night. I didn’t go quite as low as Michael had wanted, but apparently the dress has still done the trick. I guess that’s something to be happy about. I might be if I can get over my shock. The dress was supposed to be sensual so he’d remember me. I didn’t expect him to come on to me. I’m a stranger to him. A stranger except that he knows that I work for his company. Who would have the audacity to say something so forward? Oh. That’s right. He’s a Sebastian. “I suppose with your name, you don’t have to worry about Cancel Culture.” And I suppose that was probably a thought better left in my head instead of spoken aloud. He seems as surprised by my comment as I am. His brows raise, and his jaw flexes as though he’s considering. His shock gives me the opportunity to really look at him, and I was right—face-to-face, he’s devastating. His cheekbones are cut high, but not too sharp. A closely trimmed beard darkens his jaw, preventing him from looking too pretty, which he might otherwise. Especially since his skin is flawless. No makeup or photoshopping needed. And those eyes. They’re deep set under a severe brow line, but not so deep that his forehead overtakes his features. The color is unreal—a blue-gray that I wasn’t sure existed in nature. In fact, I’m not sure they aren’t contacts, and I almost take a step toward him to see before remembering that he’s Holt fucking Sebastian, and I’m practically a no one who needs to mind herself. “I guess I didn’t realize what I’d said was inappropriate.” By now, his expression has become more sly than mystified—most likely because I’ve been staring at him like a fangirl for the last thirty seconds—and of course he didn’t realize he was inappropriate. Privilege with a capital P. I mean, he is practically American royalty. With that in mind, I should probably backpedal on the accusation. “I’m sure I took—” He cuts me off. “If I’m going to be canceled anyway, I might as well say what I was really thinking.” I shouldn’t ask. I should not ask. “What were you really thinking?” He pushes off the wall and steps toward me. Two strides is all it takes before he’s right in front of me, practically caging me in. So close I can smell his wood and musk and citrus scent. “I was really thinking, I wonder if we’ll be stuck in here long enough for me to unzip her and find out what’s underneath.” His eyes flick down to my cleavage. This close, he has a good view. “Or what’s not underneath.” Holy. Fuck. This is what it’s like to be a celebrity. Not just the kind of confidence he exudes, but also the reaction it draws from me. I should be appalled—and a little bit, I am. I should feel threatened—and that I am, for sure. But the tremor of my pulse is not from fear—it’s from excitement. Ridiculous, I know. I don’t have time to examine it closely because just then, the elevator jolts into movement. “I guess not." Holt is still very much invading my personal space. His teeth graze his bottom lip. “Shame.” It’s only seconds before we reach the sixty-third floor. The doors open, and Holt steps out, abandoning me without a glance back, as if we hadn’t been stuck alone in an elevator together. As if he hadn’t said what he’d said. Done what he’d done.