Angelica hated three things: elevators, Christmas, and her ex–husband. Just her luck, she mused, to be spending Christmas Eve stuck between floors in an elevator.
At least it was on a cruise ship, and not with her ex.
In fact, the man slouched against the mirrored wall was his direct opposite. Young, younger than her, with that palpable aura of fuck–you that was both an attitude and a proposition. His shoulders were broad, twice as broad as the hips. A strand of hair, just above the dark brows, shimmered glittery purple.
Great. Christmas Eve, a broken elevator playing an instrumental medley from the eighties, plus a punk with purple hair. A punk whose hard jaw made her yearn to run her tongue along its line…. Halt! Where did that come from?
The punk unpeeled himself from the wall and pushed the alarm button. Nothing happened. He held his cell phone above his head. Angelica stood on tiptoe to look. No signal bars.
“Hi.” His grin flashed a row of teeth, pointy and white--a wolf’s mouth. A vertical groove bisected his lower lip di Caprio style. “I guess it’s too much to expect even a miracle like the iPhone to work in the middle of the ocean.”
“Sea,” Angelica corrected mechanically. “We’re in the Caribbean.”
She knew she was being anal. But it was Christmas Eve and she was spending it in a broken elevator. It had mirrors and a plush seat, and its glass door overlooked the sea, but it couldn’t compare to the Captain’s Dinner she was late for.
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