But couldn't those evils be canceled out by some good stuff? She loved animals and kids, and she was kind to senior citizens. I always hold the door open for strangers, I feed stray cats, and I don't cheat on my taxes. She looked down, groaned, and squeezed her eyes back shut. Her toes were sticking out of a gaping hole in her hose. Apparently third-grade shin-kicking carried more weight with higher beings than holding doors open.

The elevator stopped on the twenty-fifth floor. Melanie peeked her weary eyes open a crack and caught a glimpse of masculine tassel loafers stepping into the elevator. By the time she opened her eyes all the way, the man had turned his back to her and re-pushed the L button.

Just as well. She was too exhausted to make conversation. Her eyes drifted shut, traveling down the man's back as they did so. Tall. Suit jacket flung over one arm, burgundy leather briefcase. His white dress shirt fitted across broad shoulders. Her gaze dipped lower. Charcoal gray suit pants to match the jacket. Nice butt. She inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of spicy-clean cologne. Whoever he was, he smelled great. A lot better than she did. She smelled like fried chicken and Caesar salad. Her eyes settled again on his backside. Yes, indeed, he had a really great butt.

Christopher Bishop stepped into the elevator, barely noting the fact that another person was in the car, and pushed L with a sigh of relief. He was tired. Bone weary. He glanced at his watch. Seven forty-five. Another fourteen-hour workday. He rolled his aching shoulders and sighed. Since he'd made partner at his accounting firm, his workload had become murderous. He couldn't wait to get home, ditch the suit and tie, get into his sweats, grab a beer, and relax. And food. Something to eat would be real nice.