I take a deep breath before I respond to him. But I realize a little too late how much of a terrible idea it is as his smell engulfs me and makes my brain foggy.
Clean, fresh, bone-jumping worthy.
Another deep inhale before I speak. “Yeah, I’m going to dinner since we have a free night and all.”
Wednesdays are relaxation days for crew and people like me who don’t have to do too much.
He presses the elevator button and turns toward me. “Few and far between with such a busy race schedule. Who are you going to dinner with?”
All right, back to asking about the date.
“Sophie, and uh, Liam…and Jax.” My execution is anything but smooth.
He remains silent as he checks out my outfit again, lingering on my legs before his eyes meet mine. I send a prayer for someone to get me out of here ASAP. The elevator takes forever, the lit-up button taunting me as I will it to come quicker.
“Hmm, I didn’t get an invite.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through it, searching for an invite that never happened. I use the opportunity to check him out. Powerful forearms taunt me, on full display because of his rolled-up button-down shirt, along with jeans that hug his tight ass and muscular legs. His dark hair is slicked back, not yet disturbed by his fingers. My teeth bite down on my bottom lip to suppress a groan.
His lips turn down as he locks his phone, making me feel both satisfied and sad for him. Is it possible to have such a mix? Noah screws up everything inside of me, including my common sense.
I shrug at his response, playing it off even though my heart races in my chest. “Maybe they thought you were busy. We’ll be sure to invite you next time.”
We won’t because there can’t be a next time.
The doors open. Thank the Lord. We both enter at the same time, brushing against each other. My body responds to the physical contact, desperately wanting more, but my brain makes a wise decision to situate myself in the opposite corner of the elevator.
“Yeah, maybe. Where are you having dinner then?” He runs a hand through his hair, now messing it up like I knew he would. I smirk at his signature style.
“I think it’s called Bouquet. An expensive place I assume based on the outfits Sophie picked out.” I bring his attention back to me. Crap.
He coughs. “Hmm.” One word that has a heavy weight to it, stifling us in this stuffy box.
He remains silent for the rest of the descent. Air charges as movie scenes of couples hooking up in elevators flash through my mind. My body presses up against the side of the cart, my hands gripping onto the cool handlebar as I rid the dirty thoughts from my head. Our closeness and the delicious fumes of his cologne wreak havoc on my body.
He glances over at me one more time before the doors open up to the lobby and I dart out. I peek over my shoulder and give him a quick wave, my spine tingling at his devilish smile, feeling his eyes on me as I power-walk to the group. The glint in his eye and the smile on his face promise more.
That’s a problem for future me.
Damn, I coined my new mantra.
We’re two drinks into the night. And dare I say, the date is turning out to be a fun time.
Liam whispers a few sweet nothings into Sophie’s ear. Every time he says something to her, she takes a chug of wine like a messed-up drinking game between the two of them.
Jax comes across as a nice guy. A bit withdrawn, but funny and edgy. Sophie’s daddy comment pops up in my head because I mean, come on, the guy is sexy. But honestly, does she think he does that? She wouldn’t say something that ridiculous if there wasn’t a little bit of truth in it.
Jax has curly hair he inherited from a combination of his “mum” and dad, who is one of the best black boxers from the United Kingdom. He gets his hazel eyes, sharp cheekbones, and pouty lips from his Swedish side. A total knockout with muscles and brains to match. I ask him about his family, but he closes himself off, switching the subject back to me.
Jax can check off most people’s hot-guy boxes, but I can’t figure out what doesn’t work for me. Maybe I don’t like tattoos? He tells me they cover his body, black ink peeking out from the collar of his button-down shirt. Intricate designs cover his knuckles and right hand. I ask about a couple of them, but there are too many to get into.
When he grabs my hand across the table, my body doesn’t respond to it; it’s the equivalent of holding a stranger’s hand. I frown at the lack of flutters in my stomach or racing heartbeat. By the time we order our entrees, I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t feel a sexual connection, which is fine because it puts less pressure on me. Friendship sounds like a good idea.