Liza curled her toes inward. “Twenty-six with a master’s degree. And, dude, thirtysomething’s not that old.”

“I’m old enough to have never uttered the word ‘dude’ in serious conversation.”

“All that tells me is that you’re missing out on America’s most zeitgeisty phrases.” Dorsey pulled open the stairwell door, and Liza stepped out of the office—bare feet cold against the polished cement floor.

“How did you know I was down here?” Liza asked. She was sure she had slipped out undetected. Again, she wondered, had he been watching me?

“The chair wasn’t pushed in,” Dorsey said blankly, ushering her toward the stairs.

“See, you would have been great at this game!” Liza bounced good-naturedly up the steps. The game and the quick nap had worked wonders for her mood and had gotten her mind off that embarrassing shirt business. “Do you think you can beat me to the next floor, old-timer?” Liza challenged.

“Of course I can. But I don’t want to—”

Liza jetted up the flight of stairs before he could finish. A throaty laugh escaped her when she saw him quickly step, then break into an all-out sprint up the flight of stairs. He caught up with her effortlessly, his long legs doubling and tripling the steps. Dorsey never lost his momentum once he reached the top and stumbled up the stairs behind Liza, nearly tripping to avoid her bare feet. He looked as if he would totter for a minute and pulled Liza close to him, using her to steady himself.

“You’re going down with me!” he said. His laugh was small and rusty—unused, Liza guessed. The way his arms wrapped around her, the way his lopsided smile lit up his features, beautiful.

She bit her lip. Squirming in his grasp, she was prepared to tease him for losing but found a look in his eyes that stopped her cold. The grip on her waist changed from slight to firm. Things seemed to go in slow motion from here. Something had flared up in him—the gleam in his dark eyes, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, spelled trouble. How could he not see her pulse jumping out of her throat? Up close, he seemed impossibly tall, with a shadowy beard already growing in. She wanted to reach up and stroke the dark whiskers, anticipating that bristled feel. It was the second time in as many hours that she found herself pressed against his body, and the effect was drugging. She leaned in, waiting for something, waiting for him. Dorsey looked down at her, and the surrounding air seemed to bubble up like they were two trinkets at the bottom of a glass of champagne.