Not Home for the Holidays

The elevator is straight ahead, flanked by a row of gray and white marble columns. Garlands and potted poinsettias are everywhere. The greens are wrapped around the columns, the pots are beside the elevator doors and placed in exact locations along the walls. Classical music drifts through the air. The soles of my boots hit the tile floor with a smart smack and the echo of my walk follows me as I move closer to the elevator then stop. I push the up button. As I wait, I recognize the song. It’s Deck the Halls, but its barely recognizable in the very formal classical version.

Lights above blink and seconds later, the doors separate, revealing a man, standing squarely in the center of the car. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit, white and blue striped shirt, and coordinating blue tie. That may sound basic, but this guy is anything but average. Everything about him says attention to detail and tailor made. Even his face, with his deep brown eyes and perfectly positioned brown hair, looks custom made. Bespoke and perfect. When our gazes connect, I get the sensation that he’s looking at me. Not a glance. He’s really, really looking at me. A little something in me jumps. Well, maybe not so little. Something simmers through me, making me warm all over. Inside and out. I stand there too long, him looking at me and me staring back at him.

Me smoldering the whole time.

Copyright © 2019 Isabelle Drake

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