“There’s no merry way for you to go on. We’re trapped in an elevator. We’re not going anywhere for a while.”

“Then we should stop talking. Right? We should conserve the air.” Panic hits me out of the blue. Why didn’t I think of that before I just went and sucked up all the oxygen with my blabber-fest. “Oh crap.”

But he just stands there and stares down at me with the slightest bit of amusement etched in the lines of his face. “What’s your name?”

“Jules.”

“Jules?”

“Julia Jilliland.”

“Wow,” he laughs the word out. “That’s a mouthful. Nice to meet you, Jules Jilliland of the mail room”—he sticks his hand out to shake mine and when our hands touch, his voice falters for a second—“I’m—uh—I’m—”

We both jump to our feet as the phone on the panel beside him rings harshly. His laugh is what resonates though—that and the warmth in my hand where his was moments before—when he brings the receiver to his ear.

“Should we be concerned that it took you this long to call? Cell service is shit in here so we’re depending on you to save our asses,” he says to whoever it is on the other end of the line with a laugh.

And I smile.

I hate that I do.

His nonchalance is as sexy as it is irritating. And of course now that he’s turned to face the panel, I get a more than ample look at his backside. A backside, I might add, that is complimented by a very fine ass.

It’s not like I expected any less. He’s got the glasses that are sexy as hell. The rolled up cuffs that show strong forearms. Eyes that question and suggest and are hotter than hell. A sense of humor that I pretend I don’t find funny. The nice ass . . . I mean, of course I get trapped in an elevator with perfection like him.

“Thank you. Yes, we’re fine. There could be worse ways to pass the time days before Christmas,” he jokes. “Can I assume we’ll be out before then? Christmas, that is? Because if not, Jules and I should probably start panicking more.” He nods when the person on the other end of the line says something and laughs. “That and we’d definitely need some Red Vines dropped down through the hatch.” Another chuckle. Another nod. “Thank you.”

When he hangs up the phone, he turns so that his shoulders lean against the wall, his hands are on the rail that lines the car, one ankle is crossed over the other, and his eyes right on me. “They’re working on it. They said it shouldn’t take much longer.”

“Red Vines?”

“Sustenance,” he says with a wink.

“Then you should have asked for Twizzlers.”