9…Tridents
After filling out multiple papers and forms in Ms. Thomas's office, I am standing in front of the bank of elevators when I hear her say behind me, "Miss Ellis!"
She is jogging toward me down the hall, "I forgot to give you the form to take to the medical testing center. Just give them this when you go in." She hands it to me.
"Thank you," I say taking it.
"See you Monday week!" She turns back down the hall.
Lovely! I think to myself. I'm leaving here to go pee in a cup at some place not far away for the mandatory drug test. I've never had to do that before. But hey, I got the job, so I'll do whatever I need to!
I fish out the folder from my expensive bag and am in the process of putting the paper in it and the folder back into the bag when the elevator pings open in front on me.
I step into it, then look up.
There is a boy…a man…a god, standing near the front of the elevator next to a mail cart, taking up all the space. I almost run into him.
I gasp.
He has black hair curling around his neck and forehead with the deepest black eyes that ever were. He is holding a trident and I swear for a moment, I flash to a picture of him rising from the sea, dripping water off the tanned olive skin of his imagined bare chest, a blazing expression on his ravishing face.
He is like continents and cultures and countries all colliding into the most beautiful man I've ever seen.
My mouth drops open, dumbly. We stare at each other for a moment and I almost think I see a hint of recognition in his expression before he looks me up and down, one side of his full mouth twisting up in a sexy predatory grin that immediately makes me wish that mouth was touching mine.
Then several things happen in quick succession.
One, I take a step back onto the elevator threshold to keep from bumping into him. I feel my heel inexplicably sink down a few inches, causing me to waver on my feet, but I steady myself.
He takes a half step back to let me on the elevator—not really enough room, I'd still have to brush past him.
I step forward again, but my leg somehow doesn't comply. It is not with me at all.
I fall forward and the hand holding the bag, my right one, pushes the cart hard against the side wall of the elevator where it bangs with a loud crash, forcing the trident out of this sea god's hand as my bag sprawls onto the floor.
My other hand, seeking purchase, grasps his hip, hard. My full weight falling against him barely jostles him.
I try to stand up, but my leg just isn't there and I sink forward again, my right hand now grasping the other side of his hip.
I blink, wide-eyed at the zipper of his khakis.
I have face-planted about two inches from his crotch.
At least some of my long hair has come free from the loose bun and is trailing toward the floor. I look down at it, trying to keep my eyes anywhere but at his groin and see a ship pattern intricately embossed on the toes of his brown boots.
I can't understand how I got here.
I wrest my eyes away from his boots, to look back behind me toward my missing-in-action foot. The heel of one of my shoes is stuck somehow.
The elevator doors close on my foot. Then open again when they hit my heel. Then close…then open…like a fish gasping for air. This hits right at my ankle bone and hurts something fierce; I'm going to have an awful bruise.
My eyes move back to my hands on this man's hips, the only thing keeping me from going down entirely, and then travel upwards to see his head bent down toward me, a wicked glint in his eyes.
He makes no move to help me, the bastard, so I start climbing up his body with my hands, until I am at an angle where I can try to get my one unstuck leg bent under me, but I'm hampered by this tight pencil skirt.
He steps forward just enough so I can climb my hands up his hard stomach another few inches. And then another step forward and another half foot, and again, until my hands have climbed up to his chest level.
Finally, long ropy tanned arms reach slowly, insolently, forward to lift my shoulders, helping me to a near upright position. He walks me back, keeping me close to his body—his hard, muscled body—so I am standing again in the threshold of the elevator. I must be tripping the sensors fully now as the doors have stopped closing on me.
When I am relatively steady on my feet I release him, dropping my hands from his chest to reveal the embroidered patch of the mailroom uniform that reads, "Vince." I stare at it, not knowing exactly what else to do.
I am conscious that he keeps his hands on my shoulders. I swear I can feel a burn through the fabric of my jacket from where he's touching me.
I am close to six feet tall in these heels and I still have to look up slightly to meet his eyes. They are not black at all, but the deepest darkest blue.
Merde!
One of his hands lifts up from my shoulder, pushing an errant strand of hair behind my ear. A finger grazes my ear, making me shiver.
I am mesmerized by his eyes, by his unusual face, by his touch from a moment ago that still lingers on my ear even though he's dropped his hand. And that mouth!
He stares at me, unblinking, before a debauched grin spreads across his full lips. Arrogant man! He knows what he's doing. I can't look away.
Shock runs through my entire being as he lowers himself, kneeling in front of me. I can't think why he's doing that until my eyes follow him and I feel that same burning touch at my ankle. I gasp, jerking my foot back as a jolt runs up my leg, but of course my foot doesn't move. I almost knee him right in the face. My heel is still stuck in that small gap between the third floor and the elevator.
My mind brings up those ubiquitous messages blaring all over the London tube stations and I think I say out loud, "Mind the gap," before willing myself to…Shut. The. Hell. Up.
He unbuckles the ankle strap then gently grasps my ankle to pry my foot out of the shoe, making me shudder. The pain in my ankle is immediately gone, replaced by a tingling sensation from his touch.
I step forward, faltering a little, my hand leaning momentarily on his bent back as I move further into the elevator. As I turn around to watch him, I notice that his mail cart—the one that I slammed into the elevator wall when I tripped—does indeed have an upright Poseidon trident as its handle.
He is still bent down, trying to wrench my shoe out of the gap, but I know the heel is in a kind of hourglass shape—the bottom of it is wider than the middle. It seems stuck tight in there.
I watch his muscles flex. He has a dark leather bracelet, a sort of cuff on his wrist that somehow accents the masculinity of his arms.
Without looking up he says softly, "Your name?"
This is the first I've heard him speak and his voice is like a touch, a lick.
I literally have to shake my head to gather myself enough to answer. Conscious of what has just transpired, and watching him kneeling with my shoe, I try for humor. "Cinde…" I'm about to say, "Cinderella," but I stop mid-word, as the elevator starts making a horrible buzzing alarm sound, probably because the doors have been open too long.
It is loud.
His muscles flex delectably as he tries harder to free the shoe. Two heads emerge from offices down the hall, looking toward us as the shoe comes up with something like a popping sound, which I probably made up in my head because there is no way I could hear it or anything else over the shrill buzzing of the elevator.
This man does not notice that the heel did not come with the shoe and I am not quick enough to say anything. He follows my gaze, and tries to grab the heel, but it's too late. I watch it disappear into the gap as the elevator doors close and the alarm stops.
"Damn. I liked those shoes," I say forlornly.
He gazes down at my legs, then up to my face as he stands, raising an eyebrow suggestively as I feel the elevator descend. "Me, too."
I find my eyes swiveling up to his again.
Holy Mother of God! This man is so…I don't know; I can't find the words in any language. I am lost in his eyes. All the atmosphere between us, all the air in this small space seems alive with fluttery unseen things. As I breathe them in, my heart beats wildly, taking flight.
"So…Cinda…Is that short for Lucinda?" He says this so softly and sensually, that it makes me want to hear those lips shape my real name.
I look at him dumbly, first shaking then nodding my head. It's all I can do. He obviously didn't get the interrupted Cinderella joke.
I abruptly stoop to pick up my bag from the floor, just to break the eye contact, but it has somehow ended up under the cart with just the handles sticking out. I grab one handle to pull it up and it catches on the bottom of the cart. I pull harder and the cart just bangs on my hip and around the side and back of the elevator until, finally, the bag pulls free. I waver on my feet as I try to stand back up and he catches me. Again.
I gasp from the contact of his hands on my waist. I am too embarrassed to look at him. My face has got to be so beyond bright red.
"Your last name?"
"Grace," I blurt out, trying to pick up the thread of humor again, but I'm just too mortified to give it a comical spin.
He releases me. "Do you work here?"
I nod, unable or unwilling to find the words to explain that this will actually be true in a week and a half. Of course my eyes tack right to his again. He is staring, disconcerted, frowning in concentration like he's trying to place meeting me before.
I may not know much, but one thing I'm sure of is that if I'd ever met this man, I could never, would never, forget him. I don't say anything else, but just stare back, drinking him in. His face is more unusual than strictly beautiful—strong jaw, fathomless piercing eyes, dark lashes, golden skin. The elevator doors slide open to the first floor and thankfully there is no one waiting to get on.
I limp out of the elevator, humiliation washing over me again as I know he is watching my ungainly gait. I spy those nautical rope chairs in the lobby ahead where I can stop to change my shoes to those flats I thankfully brought, and I galumph toward them, wishing the elevator doors would close behind me.
I hear that sexy voice call out, "Cinda?"
I keep going.
"Cinda Grace."
Oh, right. He means me.
I stop, clomping around gracelessly to turn toward him.
His hand is holding the elevator door open.
His face is serious, scowling even.
He says softly, admonishingly, "Next time…at least buy me dinner first."
My eyes widen in shock and awe.
I press my lips together to hold back my astonishment and extreme embarrassment.
That! I exclaim to myself, was a damn good line!
He releases his hand from the elevator door, moving it to curl around the trident handle, a glimmer of that arrogant smirk returning to his ravishing face.
As the doors close, I notice that, swinging from his other hand, is my heelless shoe.
