open any door in the city,” I laugh.
“Hardly,” Lucan laughs with me. We ride the
elevator up a few floors and it opens in the main lobby. When the door closes
behind us, I notice it is marked Service Elevator.
“So you know we have to go up twice as many
floors as your office to get to my apartment. Are you going to be okay?” Lucan
asks, obviously remembering our previous elevator rides. For the second or
maybe third time, I am embarrassed he can hear my thoughts.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I
scoff and hop on to the waiting car. I half expect him to whip out the black
card again but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes the button for the 66 th floor and we head up. “For some reason I don’t feel as anxious in an elevator
when you’re here,” I admit. “I noticed it yesterday. I was going to thank you
but I got...” I stop. He knows this already. He was there, listing to my
thoughts. “Maybe you’re my cure,” I finish.
He winks.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The elevator opens to the 66 th floor but the familiar voice doesn’t announce our arrival, probably because it’s
not on the usual route. The lobby looks just like the pictures in my coffee
table books, albeit a little dusty and worn down. The lighting is sparse, just
emergency lights over head, but I can still make out the marble walls and murals.
I hope I can see this again sometime in the light of day. We walk down the
hallway to another elevator.
“Just a bit more and we’re there.” Lucan
assures me. This elevator is of the kind you find in Europe that only holds a
few people.
“Oh my!” I lived in Italy for a summer in
college and took the stairs any chance I could to avoid these things. My
stomach does a back flip and I regret the rich tiramisu. “We can just take the
stairs?”
“I haven’t rewired the lights in there yet
and there are a few loose boards. I don’t think it’s a good idea in those
shoes.” He points down at my feet.
I relent. The stairs sound more frightening
than the elevator at this point. Gathering my courage, I step in and Lucan pulls
the iron grate closed behind us. The elevator jerks and sputters to life, just
like the ones in Italy. And, just like the ones in Italy, it moves at a snail’s
pace chugging itself upward in no particular hurry. I groan. Lucan is watching
me, his gaze a mix of concern and apology. I try to smile and let him know I’m okay.
We are incredibly close to each other in the tiny car and that makes me feel
safe.
Lucan wraps his arm around my waist and
pulls me closer. I melt as I look up into his eyes. The elevator gives another
lurch and I instinctively put my hands on his chest to steady myself. The
current flowing between us is soft and warm, pulling us together. The ancient
elevator creaks to a stop and shutters a bit. Neither of us makes a move to
disengage, our eyes and bodies locked together in the tiny space. I want him to
kiss me again but I quickly hide the thought behind something else.
A mix of emotions seems to play over his
face and he reaches over to pull the grate open. He extends his arm to usher me
out of the car and into another ornate lobby. This time the lighting is bright
and inviting. Here the frescos and marble inlaid floors have been painstakingly
restored. In the center of the room is a living area with a large white leather
couch and two matching chairs. An equally large glass and chrome coffee table sits
in the center on top of a fuzzy white rug. The distinctive triangular windows
of the Chrysler’s upper floors give way to a brilliant view of the City below. The
entire floor is largely open like any New York loft. In a far corner, there is
a large four-poster bed. A fluffy white comforter and a plethora of white
pillows complete the effect.
“Would you like to sit down?” He motions
towards the couch in the center of the room.
“Okay.” I am looking up at the inlaid wood
on the ceiling near the entrance and
“Hardly,” Lucan laughs with me. We ride the
elevator up a few floors and it opens in the main lobby. When the door closes
behind us, I notice it is marked Service Elevator.
“So you know we have to go up twice as many
floors as your office to get to my apartment. Are you going to be okay?” Lucan
asks, obviously remembering our previous elevator rides. For the second or
maybe third time, I am embarrassed he can hear my thoughts.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I
scoff and hop on to the waiting car. I half expect him to whip out the black
card again but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes the button for the 66 th floor and we head up. “For some reason I don’t feel as anxious in an elevator
when you’re here,” I admit. “I noticed it yesterday. I was going to thank you
but I got...” I stop. He knows this already. He was there, listing to my
thoughts. “Maybe you’re my cure,” I finish.
He winks.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The elevator opens to the 66 th floor but the familiar voice doesn’t announce our arrival, probably because it’s
not on the usual route. The lobby looks just like the pictures in my coffee
table books, albeit a little dusty and worn down. The lighting is sparse, just
emergency lights over head, but I can still make out the marble walls and murals.
I hope I can see this again sometime in the light of day. We walk down the
hallway to another elevator.
“Just a bit more and we’re there.” Lucan
assures me. This elevator is of the kind you find in Europe that only holds a
few people.
“Oh my!” I lived in Italy for a summer in
college and took the stairs any chance I could to avoid these things. My
stomach does a back flip and I regret the rich tiramisu. “We can just take the
stairs?”
“I haven’t rewired the lights in there yet
and there are a few loose boards. I don’t think it’s a good idea in those
shoes.” He points down at my feet.
I relent. The stairs sound more frightening
than the elevator at this point. Gathering my courage, I step in and Lucan pulls
the iron grate closed behind us. The elevator jerks and sputters to life, just
like the ones in Italy. And, just like the ones in Italy, it moves at a snail’s
pace chugging itself upward in no particular hurry. I groan. Lucan is watching
me, his gaze a mix of concern and apology. I try to smile and let him know I’m okay.
We are incredibly close to each other in the tiny car and that makes me feel
safe.
Lucan wraps his arm around my waist and
pulls me closer. I melt as I look up into his eyes. The elevator gives another
lurch and I instinctively put my hands on his chest to steady myself. The
current flowing between us is soft and warm, pulling us together. The ancient
elevator creaks to a stop and shutters a bit. Neither of us makes a move to
disengage, our eyes and bodies locked together in the tiny space. I want him to
kiss me again but I quickly hide the thought behind something else.
A mix of emotions seems to play over his
face and he reaches over to pull the grate open. He extends his arm to usher me
out of the car and into another ornate lobby. This time the lighting is bright
and inviting. Here the frescos and marble inlaid floors have been painstakingly
restored. In the center of the room is a living area with a large white leather
couch and two matching chairs. An equally large glass and chrome coffee table sits
in the center on top of a fuzzy white rug. The distinctive triangular windows
of the Chrysler’s upper floors give way to a brilliant view of the City below. The
entire floor is largely open like any New York loft. In a far corner, there is
a large four-poster bed. A fluffy white comforter and a plethora of white
pillows complete the effect.
“Would you like to sit down?” He motions
towards the couch in the center of the room.
“Okay.” I am looking up at the inlaid wood
on the ceiling near the entrance and
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