Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Still a good distance away from the building, I slow my pace, hoping to go unnoticed, but I’m not so lucky. The soldier punches the elevator button and then turns, waving me forward. Oh, no. No. No. I’m wholly unprepared to meet anyone now. My ducks are so far from in a row, they’re quacking in the wrong direction. Trying to think fast, I quickly put on a show, juggling my files, and snagging my cell phone from my purse, as if it rang, then holding it up, and waving him off. The elevator doors open, and he hesitates a few moments before he finally steps inside and disappears.
Relief washes over me at his departure and I double step, determined to get to the darned elevator before another soldier appears. I’m there quickly, jabbing at the button, and relieved once again as the doors open quickly. Hurrying inside, I am soon sealed in a steel box, traveling downward, toward an underground facility which even after several trips over the past few days, still makes me more than a little uneasy. It’s a deep dive, beyond what feels normal and safe. I mean, I’m fine once I’m down there, but the trip down is just really unsettling.
When the doors open again, I dart out of the elevator only to run smack into a rock-hard chest. I gasp and my paperwork flies everywhere, while strong hands slide around my arms, steadying me from a fall. It’s then that I glance up to find myself staring into the most gorgeous pair of crystal-blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
I swallow hard and notice his long, raven hair tied at the back of his neck, rather than the standard buzz cut—a sure indicator he’s Special Ops. There’s a mix of both at this facility. He could be one of the two hundred GTECH soldiers stationed at the base or a Windwalker, I think, still in awe of what I’d seen above ground.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, aware that this is the man who tried to hold the elevator for me, which somehow makes this more unnerving. “I wasn’t watching where I was…” That’s all I have. I’ve lost the rest, my mouth incredibly dry, and with good reason. I’ve just realized that my legs are pressed intimately to his desert fatigues, and my conservative, military-issue skirt has managed to work its way halfway up my thighs. “Oh!”
I quickly take a step backward, righting my skirt in a flurry of panicked movement. When I’m put back together, at least on the outside, I hold up a hand. “That was—I hope I didn’t hurt you.” He arches a dark brow with obvious meaning. He’s a good six-feet-plus of incredibly hot man, all lethal muscle and mayhem while I’m a petite five-foot-four—on a good day with the right heels—and a hundred and ten pounds. I laugh at my ridiculous statement, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. “Okay,” I say, folding my arms in front of me. “Obviously, I didn’t hurt you. But, well…I’m still sorry.”
He stares down at me, his gaze steady, unblinking, the chiseled lines of his high cheekbones and square jaw expressionless. Except deep in those strikingly blue eyes, there is a tiny flicker of what I think might be amusement. “I’m not sorry,” he says, squatting down to pick up my files.
I blink at the odd response, tilting my head and then squatting down to face him. “What do you mean?” I ask, a lock of blonde hair falling haphazardly across my brow, free from the clip that was supposed to be holding it in place. “You’re not sorry?”
He gathers the last of my files, and then says, “I’m not sorry you ran into me. Have coffee with me.”
It isn’t a question. In fact, it almost borders on an order. And damn, if I don’t kind of like the way he gave me that near order. My heart flutters with the unexpected invitation. Have coffee with the hottest man I’ve ever met when my love life is non-existent? Why, yes, I think, but quickly chide myself. “I don’t know if that is appropriate for all kinds of reasons,” I say, thinking of my job working with the GTECHs, which he could well be. And for reasons I can’t explain, I add, “And I don’t even know your name,” as if that changes everything and explains my objection fully.
Besides, his name is on his uniform, at least his last name, which is Monroe.
The elevator behind us dings open, and I twist just enough to spy Katie Stein, Assistant Director of Science and Medicine for Project Zodius, appear in the opening. “You’re early, Addie,” she comments, definitive amusement lifting her tone. “Morning, Master Sergeant Monroe,” she adds, as she walks right past us, as if she’s found nothing significant or abnormal about me squatting on the hallway floor with a hot soldier in front of me doing the same.