Her breath hitched. For a moment, neither of them spoke. His tall frame leaned against the side of the elevator, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his eyes—silver grey dark, intense, unwavering—told a different story. He wasn't just looking at her. He was drinking her in, like he'd been waiting for this moment. Waiting for her.
The air between them was electric, the hum of the elevator drowned out by the tension simmering between them.
Of all nights, it had to be now. Dressed in a sleek black dress that hugged every curve, her hair falling in soft waves, and the lingering scent of a sultry perfume, Nia felt exposed—not because of the dress, but because of the way he was watching her. As if he was holding back something dangerous.
She squared her shoulders, determined not to let him see the effect he was having on her. "Mr. Morris," she said coolly, keeping her tone professional.
