The Do It List (The Do It List #1) Read Free

offer.”
      A nearly imperceptible grin emerged from the shadows, as enigmatic as a Cheshire cat. Soon after I made out a straight, strong nose, and a glint in his eyes.
      “Polls taken after Hurricane Sandy indicate women prefer to be held rather than receive verbal assurances alone.”
    A tasteless climate change or end-of-the-world joke came to mind, but I found myself just…staring at the shadowed visage across from me. “Since you’re standing next to the call box, Mr. Craig, would you mind picking up the phone?”
    “I would prefer that you call me Brad or Bradley.”
      Cabinet hinges whined as he reached for the phone. “Hello, anyone there?” Brad or Bradley, as he preferred to be called, held up the receiver. A series of steady beeps punctuated the darkness.
      I could just make out simple shapes against a field of black, and a few audio clues. He hung up and tried again. This time, a pre-recorded message replaced the busy signal. A female voice filtered through the small phone speaker.
    I edged over and he caught my arm, guiding me closer. As unlikely as it might seem, something darkly permissive was going on between us.
    Do not attempt to leave the elevator through the roof. Use the call box provided in each elevator car. Remain on the line and building security will contact you. You can also call Otis Emergency Services on your mobile device. The pre-recorded voice calmly droned on, repeating the number.  
    He hung up and dialed from his cell phone. “Voice mail.” He grimaced. “Signal’s a bit sketchy—” He broke off to leave a message. “We’re trapped in a lift—I mean elevator…” That piercing gaze made eye contact with me. “What’s the building address?”
    “One eleven Eighth Avenue.”  
    He repeated the address and left his number. “Christ, it’s sweltering in here.”
      I sensed more than observed him unbuttoned his coat and loosen his tie.
    The air inside the stainless steel box had become sultry. I blew a strand of corkscrew curl out of my eyes, not that it helped my vision, much.
    “Met this fellow once, an Aussie, who said anyone can open these doors.”
    I gave the man credit he began with the obvious. The faint click of floor buttons preceded his move to the exit doors. “The trick is…”  
    “Might have known there’d be a catch.” I settled back against the wall.
    “The trick is to find a spot where you feel a bit of give…” I imagined him running those long agile fingers down the groove between panels.  
    Small talk with a stranger, felt oddly comforting. I squinted into the dark. Bradley Craig wasn’t all that handsome, was he? Dapper maybe. I recalled a charcoal-gray suit, dusty plum shirt, and deep plum tie. Urbane. Sophisticated. And yet this man was a little too broad shouldered and rugged for a metro-male. Definitely more of a footballer.
    A static buzz preceded a flicker of light, as an overhead lamp crackled to life. Stunned, it took me a moment to hope for something more, like an elevator in motion, but no such luck.  
    He exhaled a soft sexy grunt. “Must be some sort of emergency auxiliary light.”  
    He angled himself against the door panels and we connected, glad to see each other. Hungry gazes roamed, soaking in every visual detail.
    Memory had failed me. Bradley Craig was dazzlingly handsome. From the wingtips of his elegant oxfords to that head of thick, close-cropped dark hair, adorable in its unkemptness. A hot mix—rugged yet polished—with a bit of scruff along the jawline.
    “Soccer or Rugby?” I asked as the doors parted an inch or two.  
      A cool updraft circulated through the small chamber. He wedged a shoulder between door panels and gained a few more inches of separation.  
    He answered in a low, guttural rasp. “Is there any context to your question or am I free to answer with a nonsequitur of my choice?”
    I gave him this, he had a wonky sense of humor. He pushed the doors farther apart, and I observed