What If I Never (Necklace Trilogy 1)

She was good for me. And now she’s sick, too, and I haven’t seen her. I need to go see her.

“I’ll be here,” Tyler states, pulling me back into the moment. “Just make sure you are as well, Ms. Wright.”

We’re back to Ms. Wright. That doesn’t seem good. But as smart-mouthed as I was to him last night, respect matters. What is done in private shouldn’t always be done in public. Therefore, I simply say, “Absolutely,” before I shift my attention to meet Dash’s keen stare, the look in his eyes telling me he’s not pleased, and that’s not about me, but rather Tyler. But I’m also not sure if that’s about the present exchange or if I walked into something I should not have. Whatever the case, it’s time for me to leave.

“I’ll update you,” I assure Tyler again, offering a small nod and then parting the circle to rush to the elevator, willing myself not to stumble over my feet and fall down. I can see how that would go. Dash would help me. Tyler would watch in disdain.

Fortunately, I make it to the elevator without trips, twists, or falls. It even opens as I arrive, as if it were waiting on me. Luck is with me, for sure, thank goodness. I step inside and let out a breath of relief and too soon. It’s right then that the strap to my bag breaks and it crashes to the ground. I panic, no longer thinking about the two men who are now out of sight, but rather the company MacBook that has slammed to the floor.

Urgently, I squat to retrieve it, and as I do, a pair of familiar jean-clad legs step into my view. I blink and Dash Black is squatting in front of me.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I’ve turned international and New York Times bestselling author Dash Black into an elevator squatter.

I’m mortified.

The doors shut and I reach for the MacBook at the same time he reaches for it. Our hands collide, the results starting a sizzling dart up my arm that expands across my chest, and through my body. “I’m embarrassed right now,” is all I manage to say.

“Don’t be,” he says. “You’re human and really quite adorable.”

“Adorable,” I repeat, mortified all over again. Adorable is cute, and cute is not what a woman wants to be to a man. Suddenly all the more awkward, I reach for my bag, shoving a folder back inside, thankful the paperwork didn’t come out of it.

Eager to regain my dignity, I pop to my feet and Dash follows, straightening to his full height, easily juggling the MacBook as he opens it and tests the keyboard. “It’s alive,” he says, turning to the screen to face me.

“Oh, thank God,” I gush. “It’s not mine. It belongs to Hawk Legal.” I hold up my bag, the strap dangling. “How is this even possible? But I’m glad it happened here, not in my meeting with Millie.”

“True,” he says, his eyes lighting and his eyebrow wiggling as he adds, “I wouldn’t have been there to save the day. And no harm, no foul,” he adds, taking the bag from me and sliding the computer inside. “The computer isn’t broken, and more importantly, neither are you.”

It’s an innocent statement, but it hits me rather profoundly in how not true it is. I am broken. I’ve been running from that for a while and I have this sense that all that running stops here. I’m just not sure I’m ready.

“Lower level okay?” he asks, breaking me out of my little self-evaluating reverie, his fingers hovering over the elevator’s panel.

“Oh my gosh,” I say with a little laugh. “We’re not even moving. Yes, lower level, please. I’m headed to the garage.”

He punches the button and sets us in motion and then he’s facing me again. Unbidden, my eyes collide with his and the air expands between us and there is a ping in my chest, an awareness of Dash that I’ve never experienced with another man.

My lips are dry and I wet them and say, “You really do keep saving me. First in the elevator the other day, then with your jacket, and now, well, in the elevator again.”

“Always happy to help a damsel in distress. Any time, Allison.” He says my name like silk and sultry nights, and there is a zip in the air between us, or there is for me. Maybe not for him. Maybe I’m just—I don’t know what I am to him. Perhaps just a girl, just an adorable, cute girl, aka the girl a guy never wants to date, who keeps awkwardly, accidentally, stepping right smack into his path.

“Allie,” I say softly. “You can call me Allie.”

“Allie,” he repeats, and my name on this man’s tongue is an intimate suggestion. “Everything okay with you and Tyler?” he asks.