Macy reached to press the number fifteen just as the man did. For a quick second, his finger was on the top of her finger and they pressed the button together. Macy shuddered, trying not to tell herself how strong the stranger was. He lingered at her finger, even after the light for number fifteen came on.

The doors closed and Macy put her hand back at her side.

After a few awkward seconds of silence, added by Macy straining to turn her eyes to look at the man, she saw him reaching towards her. He touched the edge of the painting and tugged at me. The brown paper on the painting crinkled and any other time Macy would have pulled back, explaining just how valuable the artwork was. But as the man pulled, she didn't stop him. Against her better judgment, he turned the painting around and slid his finger towards the tape holding the paper together, protecting the painting.

"What's this?" he asked as one of the flaps opened.

He undid the other one and stared at the painting.

"A painting," he said. Then he looked at Macy and smiled. "Obviously."

Macy smiled back, her cheeks burning.

"I'm dropping it off," she managed to say. "Third floor bought it."

"Ah, third floor," he said. "I know all those guys, very well. Did you paint it?"

For a second Macy thought about lying, taking credit for Stacey's work. But Macy knew better, her luck wouldn't allow such a fib to pass without being caught. After all, all she had to do was look at her shoes to prove just how great her luck had been going that morning.

“Does it matter?” Macy asked.

One little question and she felt like she had taken part of the conversation into her control.

“Maybe it does,” the man said. His face suddenly dropped, turning serious. Still sexy, oh yes, but very serious. “Tell me if you painted it.”

His look should have bothered Macy and she tried to tell herself to never forget that look, to never challenge that look in the man’s eyes, but she couldn’t lie to herself. She enjoyed it. She enjoyed his brooding sense and that sudden need to know something about her. Macy felt important, she felt like she had his attention, and when he looked, he didn’t look at the painting, he looked right into Macy’s eyes.

“I didn’t paint it,” Macy said.

She gave in too early, too quick, but that look... it just worked.

“Good,” the man said, “because that’s terrible.”

“It’s my friend’s,” Macy said and smiled.

Her face started to cool off but not her body. The man looked surprised but contained himself by nodding.

“Well...”

“It’s by Stacey C. She’s one of the biggest painters in the city.”

“Big as in...” The man put his arms out and opened them.

The gesture made Macy look away. She then caught her reflection in the gold plated walls of the elevator. Of course her reflection looked distorted and much bigger than what she really was, but even then, even without the distortion, she was still bigger than a lot of women she knew. Out of instinct and the need to cover herself up more than she already had been, Macy lifted the painting, not wanting the man to look at her hips.

“She’s very popular,” Macy shot back. “People pay a lot for her work.”

The man put his hands up in defeat. “Whoa. It’s okay, I was just asking. You must work for her, huh?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way you defend her. She pays you. But I bet you have your own talents too, right?”