“I see.” He presses his lips together and nods thoughtfully. “More or less embarrassing than you assuming I don’t speak English?”

The swift and violent death I was talking about earlier? I need it now. “I am so, so sorry about that. I really didn’t—”

“Watch out.”

I look around to see what he means right as some guy almost runs me over with his skateboard. It’s a close call: between the precious croissant I clearly feel ambivalent about and my bag, I nearly lose my balance, and that’s where Corporate Thor intervenes. He moves way quicker than anyone his size should be able to and slides between me and Skateboard Guy, straightening me with a hand around my biceps.

I glance up at him, nearly out of breath. He’s as towering as a Greenlandic mountain range, pressing me a bit against the window of the corner barbershop, and I think he’s saved my life. My professional life, of course. And now also my life life.

Oh shit. “What even is this morning?” I mutter to no one.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m clearly on a downward spiral of struggle and mortification, but . . .”

He keeps his eyes and the angles of his handsome, aggressive, unusual face on me. His expression is grave, unsmiling, but for a fraction of a second a thought runs through my head.

He’s amused. He finds me funny.

It’s a fleeting impression. It lingers a brief moment and dissolves the instant he lets go of my biceps. But I don’t think I imagined it. I’m almost sure I didn’t, because of what happens next.

“I think,” he says, his voice more delicious than Faye’s croissants could ever hope to be, “that I’d like to hear that long, embarrassing story of yours.”

Three

Present

I’m almost positive that the elevator is shrinking.

Nothing dramatic, really. But I estimate that every minute we spend in here, the car gets a couple of millimeters smaller. I’ve tucked myself into a corner, arms around my legs and forehead on my knees. Last I glanced up, Erik was in the opposite corner, looking fairly relaxed. Mile-long legs stretched out in front of him, sequoia-wide biceps crossed on his chest.

And, of course, the walls are looming over me. Pushing us closer and closer together. I shiver and curse power outages. The walls. Erik.

Myself.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

I lift my head. I’m wearing my usual work outfit of chinos and a nice blouse. Solid, neutral colors. Professional enough to be taken seriously; modest enough to convince the dudes I meet through work that my presence at any given meeting is to assess the efficacy of the biofiltration system design and not to provide them with “something cute to look at.” Being a woman in engineering can be tons and tons of fun.

Erik, though . . . Erik looks a bit different. He’s wearing jeans and a dark, soft sweater that stretches around his chest, and it seems unusual, given that in the past I’ve only ever seen him in a suit. Then again, I’ve only ever seen Erik twice before, technically on the same day.