The elevator gives a cheerful, nonchalant ding, as if it didn't just trap us in the dark long enough for us to completely lose our minds.
Then it starts moving.
Down.
Toward the lobby.
Where, presumably, there will be people.
People—witnesses—who will absolutely notice that Andrew Simon and his project manager look like they've been doing… exactly what they've been doing.
"Fuck," Andrew breathes.
"Yeah," I agree. "'Fuck,' indeed."
We both lunge into action simultaneously. I yank my blouse closed over my exposed bra, holding the torn fabric together with one hand while frantically smoothing my hair with the other.
Andrew is doing his own version of damage control—tucking in his shirt, running fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to tame the chaos I created.
"Your lipstick," he says, gesturing at his own mouth.
"I'm not wearing lipstick."
"Oh." He swipes at his lips anyway. "Well, you should probably—" He makes another circular motion around his face.
