I smiled and nodded, frantically pressing the button to close the elevator doors.
Just as the elevator doors were about to close, before I could even rejoice, a pair of slender, cold white hands suddenly reached through the gap between the doors.
If Trent wasn't so incredibly good-looking, I would have thought I'd stumbled into a zombie movie.
But compared to Trent, I'd rather share the elevator with a zombie.
"Ms. Sexton, you..." Conner looked at me in confusion.
"Sorry, I pressed the wrong button." I looked down, mimicking my father's voice after smoking too much.
Fortunately, Trent didn't seem to mind and walked straight in.
His official height is 6 feet 1.5 inches, with broad shoulders, a slim waist, and long legs, a model figure that makes one want to look twice.
But I resisted, standing at the farthest corner from him, my thumb gently rubbing the scar on my wrist.
This is my small gesture when I'm nervous.
I'm secretly hoping Trent doesn't grow any taller, after all, 6 feet 2 inches sounds like bad luck... (after all, 6 feet 2 inches sounds like bad luck...)
The elevator descended slowly from the 33rd floor.
As more people got on, the distance between Trent and me was forced to shrink.
The guy in front kept stepping back, and just as he was about to step on me, Trent subtly extended his long leg to block me.
For a moment, I couldn't tell if he was helping me deliberately or if he was just tired of standing and wanted to stretch a bit...
Given his personality, it should be the latter.
In the narrow, confined space, I had nowhere to go and was almost pressed up against Trent, even catching a faint, soothing fragrance from him.
In an instant, it stirred some embarrassing physical memories.
Few people might know that Trent doesn't like to wear perfume but has a natural body scent.
Seven years ago, when I was anxious, I liked to make surprise attacks, taking advantage of Trent's distraction to push him onto the sofa and bury my face in his neck to sniff.
Sometimes I would go too far, and to calm me down, Trent had to slowly lift his shirt in the dark, exposing his lean waist and abs, his earlobes turning red as if to bleed, while reminding me in a low, hoarse voice:
"Baby, you can only touch for five seconds."
"No, not at all, you're so kind, oh, I mean, approachable." I forced a light laugh, though my heart was in my throat.
I would have never guessed seven years ago that the blind boy who looked soft and doll-like, easily manipulated.
Would, seven years later, have such a powerful aura that made people afraid to look directly.
"Or is the title ‘Ms. Sexton' too formal? Would 'baby' be more familiar?"
Trent lowered his voice, his narrow eyes fixed on me like a lone wolf that had been waiting for the right moment and finally locked onto its prey, his eyes glowing with a predatory light.
I felt as though all the blood in my body had frozen at that moment, and it took me a while to regain my voice.
"I'm a few years older than Mr. Wiggins. If you don't mind, you can call me 'baby.' My girlfriend is waiting for me to go home and feed the baby, so I must excuse myself."
As the saying goes, our identity outside is defined by ourselves.
I desperately tried to steady my nerves and appear calm.
My tone, pitch, and smile were all flawlessly composed.
But I had forgotten to mask my natural voice.
By the time I realized this issue, Trent's deep, inscrutable eyes had gradually grown opaque, as if he could see right through me.
His typically cold voice had gained a touch of magnetism and pressure over time, and as he leaned slightly forward, the wave of hormones was inescapable.
