Page 28 of Stuck

The doors shut—and we started moving upwards. I winced. “Someone beat me to it.”

He inclined his head and gave the faintest “don’t worry, it happens” smile. “Are you feeling better?”

I opened my mouth to remind him it was Fiona who’d been unwell, before remembering that was the lie I’d told Jane, whereas the lie he was referring to was the one I’d told Don, when I pulled a sickie on Wednesday.

This pickle I found myself in was well and truly pickling.

“Yes, thank you, much better.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You look well.”

The lift stopped on the forty-seventh floor, and a man in a branded polo shirt from the advertising company that resided on that level got in and leant past me to poke at the buttons. I said hi; he said hi; Darcy glowered. I tried not to smile about that, but I was starting to find his commitment to sullenness almost endearing. I wondered whether he even knew he was doing it.

The lift stopped again two floors down, and the stranger stepped forwards, ready to leave.

“Lazy, I know, but I don’t like the stairs in this place,” he said uncomfortably when he caught my eye.

“Oh, no need to explain—neither do I,” I said emphatically.

He let out a relieved laugh and went on his way.

“You don’t like heights?” Darcy asked.

“Terrified of them.”

“Good job you’re so short, then,” he said, deadpan.

I stared at him in astonishment for a moment before letting out a rush of stunned laughter. Who’d have thought the man had the capacity for teasing? “I’m not that short. You’re just stupidly tall.”

“Stupidly?”

“Yes,” I said, grinning, as the lift arrived back on floor thirty-six and the doors opened to nobody, thanks to our previous summons. I pressed the button for the ground floor again. “Are you coming out for drinks tonight?”

“No, not tonight.”

“Hot date?” The whisper of discomfort that idea provoked in me was a surprise.

“Not exactly, no.”

“Ouch. Best not tell her that.”

“There is no her.”

“Him, then.”

“I’m not…” He shook his head, looking flustered. “It’s not a date, Elizabeth. I’m volunteering.”

“Oh! Sorry.” Oops.

He gave another of his vague smiles and shook his head, dismissing the need for an apology.

“So, what’s the gig? Do you coach, same as Bingley?”

If I wasn’t already a connoisseur of his scowls, I might not have noticed the difference, but to me, the way Darcy’s brows drew together at my question looked a lot less like his usual disdain and a lot more like uneasiness.

“It’s a suicide prevention helpline.”

“Oh wow. That’s…” Not what I was expecting. “That’s amazing. And heavy. How did you get into doing that?”