“See? I told you it was your fault,” I accuse just to break my own fascination with the whole of him— the curve of his lips, the strength in his hands, the blue of his eyes, the sexiness of his glasses, the line of his jaw.

His chuckle is low and even. “Your shit day is definitely my fault. I told the prick to empty your accounts and dump you. I told the asshole to rear-end you. And I for sure made that patch of snow freeze to ice just so you’d slip on it.” His expression is serious as he fights his grin to try and make me smile. “Whew. Not even a crack of a smile. There must be more then.”

“Not only did I get dumped by the asshole—”

“The asshole was the driver, the ex is the prick,” he corrects in a professional voice followed with a nod for me to continue.

“Thank you.” I roll my eyes. “So not only did I get dumped by the prick, crashed into by the asshole, and have ice in my pants, but when I showed up to work downstairs—mind you I called three times to tell them about my accident—I got a Merry Fucking Christmas, you’re fired.”

“No!” he gasps playfully but only after my eyes fill with tears and my bottom lip starts to quiver he realizes I’m dead serious. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing.” I sniff, trying to fight them back but lose the battle as one slips down my cheek. “It’s just . . .” I throw my hands up in defeat. “It’s Christmas in two days. All I wanted from Alex—”

“Alex?”

“The prick,” I hiccup over the word, fighting back the downpour of emotions that are threatening to spill out. “All I wanted was to feel special. My only wish was for dinner at Tavern on the Green so I could pretend to feel like I belonged here in this city. Like I was one of those who work on the fifteenth floor . . . and—and—never mind. Just . . . oh my god.” I bury my face in my hands as embarrassment hits me squarely in the solar plexus.

“What?” he asks, concern in his voice although I’m certain he’s more worried about being trapped for much longer in an elevator with Crazy-Emotional-Mail-Room-Girl.

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head and pretend like I don’t have tear tracks on my cheeks. “Here I am trapped in an elevator spilling my heart out to some guy who doesn’t care in the least like some idiot. I’ll just collect my packages and be on my merry way.”

I scramble to swipe a tear away with one hand while picking up a small box and stack it with another. Swipe. Stack. Swipe. Stack.

“There’s one problem,” he says after a few moments and has my attention pulling back up to him.

“What’s that?”