No, she hadn’t. She couldn’t remember her head from her hind end these days. She dug her heels out of her bag as the elevator stopped on fourteen, and the remaining three passengers got off. For one exciting second, she thought she was actually going to get privacy to hop around one-footed tugging her boot off, but then a man got on the elevator, stopping the door from closing with his foot.

Damn.

He was good-looking.

With dark hair, expensively cut. Pricey, but conservative gray suit. Shiny shoes. The Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm and a cup of coffee in his hand.

The kind of man who worked with her father, who always made her feel a bit inadequate, dismissed. Like her father himself had.

This man wasn’t dismissing her—he wasn’t even acknowledging her existence. He glanced at the number panel and gave a firm push to the eighteenth floor, which was already lit.

As if her pushing it wasn’t good enough. Somehow his pushing it would get them there faster.

Pompous you-know-what.

Mandy dropped her bag to the floor and held on to the handrail. Lifting her leg, she tugged a boot off and let it tumble on top of the bag. Then she hooked her toes into her shoe and hopped a little as she tried to push the heel in. The motion made her stomach heave.

Of course, even wiggling her pinky finger made her stomach heave these days. Forget complicated maneuvers like crossing her eyes or touching her toes.

Or putting on heels in a moving elevator.

She lost her balance and hit the wall with her shoulder. “Damn.”

The man glanced her way, but didn’t turn far enough to actually see her. His leg tapped impatiently. He watched the buttons climb floors, glanced at his watch, patted his pocket, probably making sure his mobile phone was still intact.

She had one pump partially on and one winter boot, and it looked as though it was going to stay that way unless she got some assistance. Setting her foot back down, she tried to ram her heel in. Nothing happened, so she let go of the handrail, bent over, and used two hands to wedge her heel in the shoe. All the blood in her upper body flooded into her face in a hot, dizzy rush.

“Oh, no.” This was bad.

Shiny black shoes turned toward her.

She was afraid to move. If she did, it was highly likely her breakfast of tea and toast would come hurtling up onto her shoe, her bag, and the tired mauve carpet.

“Is something wrong?” He had a hard voice, clipped, reserved. There was reluctance in his question.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened.