Stand-In Saturday (Love For Days #2) - Kirsty Moseley Page 0,10

minutes until some bike messenger guy comes in behind me and Donna has to stop to sign for some parcels.

I grin and tap on the marble counter as I send her a wink. “I’d better stop monopolising your time. I can’t wait to hear all about results day next time I come in!” I say as I walk towards the back of the lobby where the lifts are.

When I press the button, the doors open almost immediately. I step in and pull out my phone, mindlessly checking Twitter for anything new or retweet-worthy. Just as the lift doors are beginning to close, sounds of heels clacking quickly on the marbled floor in the lobby catch my attention.

“Oh, wait!” a female voice calls. More clacking sounds, closer now. “Hold the lift, please!”

I act on instinct, absentmindedly shoving my hand out and catching the heavy doors before they close, forcing them back open, my eyes barely lifting from my phone screen for more than a second.

“Ah, thanks so much!” There’s the faintest twang of an accent, but I don’t give it too much thought. The woman huffs a breath and steps into the lift.

“No problem. What floor?” I ask, flicking my eyes up to the panel on the wall.

“Oh, eight, please.”

I nod. That’s the same floor as me. I smile and look over at her, expecting it to be someone I’ve seen before if she works on my publisher’s floor; after all, I’ve been coming here regularly for the last five years, so I know almost everyone.

When my eyes land on her, I feel a jolt of surprise. I don’t know her, have never seen her here before, but oh hell, do I want to!

The girl isn’t looking at me. Instead, she’s frowning down and rummaging through a ridiculously massive handbag that dangles from the crook of her elbow, obviously trying to find something.

I take a moment to study her before she catches me.

She’s probably a little younger than me, mid-twenties maybe. Dark brown, almost-black hair falls in perfect, messy waves down to the centre of her back and frames her pretty face. Big, almond-shaped green eyes turn down slightly at the edges to give her an almost-exotic look; they’re rimmed with impossibly long black lashes. Her eyes are partially hidden behind a pair of designer horn-rimmed black glasses, perched on the bridge of her cute button nose. Glossy, full pink lips pout as she frowns in concentration, trying to locate the desired object from her handbag.

I gulp and let my eyes wander over the rest of her.

She’s quite tall—I’d guesstimate maybe five foot eight or nine with her shoes on. She’s wearing a fitted blood-red shirt, open at the throat, exposing the barest glimpse of cleavage, just enough to set my pulse racing. The shirt is tucked into the high waist of a black pencil skirt that clings to her shapely arse. She’s not too thin; instead, she’s curvy and soft, all feminine angles, with hips to hold on to and an arse to keep you up at night. Long, toned legs lead down to three-inch red stiletto heels that make my balls clench in approval.

Her outfit choice screams confident professional. It’s sexy and sophisticated yet somehow understated. She’s not the usual type of girl I go for. I typically gravitate towards cutesy, petite girls who are a little on the weird side—pocket rockets you can’t ignore.

But this girl … damn.

Dragging my eyes back up her body, I see she’s balancing a cardboard tray containing four takeaway drink cups on one hand. The sweet smell of flavoured coffee wafts up and makes me wish I’d thought to buy myself one from the café on the corner before coming to my meeting. The coffee from the machines here sucks, so I generally avoid it like the plague.

There’s no ring on her finger. She’s fair game.

Okay, Theo, time to work the magic. I crack metaphorical knuckles and prepare myself to chat her up. I have eight floors to get her to agree to go to dinner with me.

I open my mouth to introduce myself and hit her with one of my best lines and winning smiles, but before I can, the lights flicker overhead, and a grinding sound rumbles through the lift. The woman shuffles on her feet, her search through her bag abandoned now, and we both look up at the red number 3 that’s glowing above the door. A split second later, the lights go off completely, and the lift judders