Chapter 20

ELEVATED STAKES

20

I wake up in a cocoon of warmth, a sensation so foreign in my normally chilly apartment that it momentarily confuses my sleep-fogged brain. As consciousness seeps in, my eyes flutter open to the sight of a broad, bare chest mere inches from my nose—Killian's bare chest.

We're tangled together on his side of the bed, evidence of my accidental trespassing during the night. I must've rolled over in my sleep and am now shamelessly cuddling him. My arm is draped possessively across him, our legs entwined. I risk a glance upward, hoping he's still asleep and that I can retreat without being busted, but find him already awake, looking down at me with a playful glint in his eyes.

"Morning, Sugar," he rumbles, his voice still gravelly with sleep. It sounds like a secret shared in the dark. It's a voice that suggests late nights and whispered confessions. The kind that makes the heart trip over on itself and cuts rational thinking off at the knees.

I yearn to ignore the alarm bells and sink back into his embrace. Into the promise that I'm safe in his arms. But I resist.

My cheeks flush as I extricate myself, murmuring a flustered, "Oh, uh, good morning."

After that awkward awakening, we have a rushed, stilted breakfast together. Again, Killian isn't impressed by my pantry's selection of cheap coffee, barely unexpired milk, and white yogurt.

If nothing else, the ordeal is over quickly as it's already eight thirty and I have to rush to campus for my weekly meeting with my grad advisor. After how frustrating the last session turned, I'm dreading a repeat. I hope at least Dr. Hammond won't be almost an hour late this time.

Killian refuses to stay home and comes to campus with me, following me to the computer science building. We pause outside Dr. Hammond's office, a knot slowly tying in my stomach. "Wait for me here."

Killian must pick up on my discomfort because he says, "No need to be nervous." He gently squeezes my shoulder. "You rock."

"Thanks," I reply, taking a deep breath before knocking on the door.

"Come in," Dr. Hammond's bored voice comes from the other side. He motions for me to sit before his desk, and I brace myself for another round of constant interruptions and undercutting comments.

"Good morning, Dr. Hammond."

"Morning, Leighton," he greets me while scrolling emails on his PC. "What updates do you have for me?"

"I've tinkered with the algorithm parameters like you suggested, and the language model is showing improved syntactic parsing."

Without looking up, he tsks. "Ah, ‘improved,' is a rather vague term for such a complex task, don't you think?"

I grit my teeth, trying to maintain my composure. "Yes, well, the precision rates have gone up by 5 per cent since we integrated the new contextual embeddings." I place a graph on his desk.

Finally, he tears his eyes from the screen and peers at the printout. "Hmm, but what about the model's ability to discern nuanced language, idioms, or humor? There's more to language than structure. Have you considered that?"

Only as the entire core of my language model, as I've told him countless times already. "Of course. I've been fine-tuning the model on datasets rich in figurative language to enhance its understanding to?—"

"That's all good, but let's try to think more critically, shall we? A model's ability to mimic understanding through pattern recognition isn't the same as true comprehension."

"I am aware. That's why I'm also exploring reinforcement learning techniques to enable the model to ask clarifying questions when it encounters ambiguity."

Dr. Hammond has the guts to actually sigh at my response, and then he talks as if he is trying to explain basic concepts to a three-year-old. "Asking questions is a feature, not evidence of genuine intelligence or an understanding of pragmatics. We need to dig deeper, Leighton."

My cheeks flush. I'm bringing him excellent progress, and he's dismissing it like it's nothing. "My coding digs deep enough," I say, a bit too loudly.

"Now, now, no need to get emotional." Oh, flipping hell. He lasted a whole twenty minutes before calling me emotional. Maybe I should drop a Tampax on his desk and watch as he jumps back as if it were a snake. "Let's stay focused on checking the biases encoded in your training data, okay?"

The irony of him talking to me about biases.

"Absolutely." I struggle to keep my tone even. "That's why I've already implanted several audits of the training datasets for biases as part of my methodology. Like I told you two weeks ago?"

"Ah, yes, yes."

But I doubt he listens to anything I say unless it is to find something wrong with it. I clench my jaw, biting back a retort. He's implying yet again that my work lacks depth and insight. I know he's only being this hard on me because I'm a woman.

The rest of the meeting continues along the same lines, with Dr. Hammond repeatedly second-guessing and undermining me. By the time I leave his office, I feel completely deflated. Some advisor he is.

In the hall just out of his door, I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the negativity, and blink back tears of frustration that threaten to spill. I'm not going to cry. Not here where I can be labeled as a hysterical wreck. I plaster a smile on my face as I spot Killian waiting for me around the corner.

"Hey," he breathes, his eyes searching mine. "Rough meeting?"

I sigh. "That obvious, huh?"

His jaw clenches, but he forces a smile through. "Well, you look like you want to karate chop someone, so I took a guess."

I can't help but laugh at the visual. I'd like to karate chop a very specific, pompous someone.

"Ah, there's that smile," Killian says, nudging me playfully. "Your advisor isn't cool?"

"Ugh, he's impossible," I say. "He treats me like I know nothing just because I'm a woman."

Killian shakes his head, looking genuinely indignant on my behalf. "What a jackass. His loss for not recognizing your brilliance."

I roll my eyes, but his outrage and faith in me make me feel lighter.

"How do you deal with all the patriarchy?" Killian asks.

"With plenty of coffee and a lot of internal screaming," I reply, attempting a genuine smile.

Killian grins, reaching out to lightly tug a lock of my hair. He pulls the curl and lets it bounce back. The gesture is too intimate. I step a little further away but still grin at him.

His playful banter is a reminder that not everything has to be as serious and draining. By the time we reach my classroom, I'm smiling again and some of the weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Killian gives my hand a quick supportive squeeze before following me inside. "Go teach those bright young minds. I'll be at the back of the room if you need me to rough up some inattentive student."

I can't help but laugh at his ridiculousness, the sound bubbling up from my chest.

In an out-of-body experience, I watch as cowboy billionaire Killian St. Clair takes a seat at the back of the classroom.

His striking, larger-than-life presence causes a few murmurs and distracted glances from my students—especially the female student body. But I don't mind. Knowing he's here, supporting me, gives me a renewed sense of confidence.

Once class is over, Killian follows me out of the lecture hall.

"You were great," he tells me as we head toward the elevator. "I couldn't understand half the things you said, but you sounded really competent."

I shrug the compliment off. "It was just Introduction to Computer Systems, but thanks." I push the call button, and the downward arrow dings red at once.

The old elevator groans in protest as we step inside, the doors sluggishly closing behind us—we're the only two people inside. I press the button for the ground floor and lean back against the faux wood paneling as the elevator lurches into motion. It's not long before the familiar shudder through the cables halts, leaving us suspended between floors in an uneasy quiet.

Killian shifts, checks the cabin, then starts pacing the confined space with an energy that seems too large for it.

I stay put, trying to project calm. "Happens all the time," I assure him. "It'll start up again."

"Are you sure?" he asks, his brow furrowed. Despite his tough exterior, I can see the unease underneath the surface.

"Trust me," I say with a smile, hoping to ease his tension. "I've been stuck in this thing more times than I can count. It's practically part of my routine."

But a minute passes, and then another, and the elevator remains motionless. Killian keeps pacing the three steps the narrow space allows, running a hand through his hair. He stops in front of the panel and pushes the call button.

There's no reply from the other side.

"Spoon, this thing is not moving."

Killian's impatience bristles in the cramped air. He pushes the button again, still to no effect.

"Okay, that's it," he declares, hands on his hips. "I can't take this anymore."

"Killian, really, it'll start up any second," I try to reassure him, but my words seem to have the opposite effect.

"Nope. Can't wait. Time for Plan B," he announces with sudden determination.

"Plan B?" I ask, raising an eyebrow as I watch him inspect the elevator's ceiling.

"Heroic rescue." He grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Watch and learn, Spoon."

"Are you serious?" My eyes bulge as he jumps, reaching for the overhead latch. His fingers just barely graze it, and I stifle a giggle at his frustrated expression. But then he somehow manages to perch on the narrow railing and remove the top panel, revealing the endless dark tunnel of the shaft above.

Cold air rushes in as Killian, with an impressive display of arm strength, hoists himself up.

"What are you doing?" I hiss. "That's dangerous."

"Oh, pffff, this is nothing."

"Killian, this is not a book, it's real life! You can't pull stunts like that."

"Watch me."

Moments later, however, it becomes apparent that Killian's escape plan isn't going as smoothly as he'd hoped. I hear him grunt and curse above me, the sound echoing eerily through the shaft.

"Killian!" I call after him. "You can't go anywhere up there. Just wait, the elevator will?—"

A shrill alarm cuts me off, and a red light starts flashing on the panel.

"Killian!" I shout, covering my ears. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! I swear!" he yells back, his voice strained as just his face reappears in the hatch, looking sheepish. "I just… may have set off some kind of alarm."

"Great." I sigh, as the siren continues to wail. "Now we're definitely stuck."

That's when the speaker finally crackles to life, and a disembodied voice asks, "Uh, everything okay in there?"

"Yes, we're just stuck."

"Are you sure, miss? Because I'm getting an alarm that the overhead hatch has been opened."

I bite my lip, watching Killian's legs dangling from the open ceiling panel. "Yeah, my friend got a little claustrophobic and tried to escape that way."

Static—that almost sounds incredulous—sizzles through the speaker.

"Wait a second, miss."

"I've got nowhere to go…" I trill back, starting to feel nervous.

"I'm sorry, miss, but since you opened the hatch and triggered the alarm, we're unable to restart the elevator remotely. Please remain calm; firefighters are on their way to assist you."

"Firefighters?"

"Yes, you and your friend just have to be patient." The line fizzles out.

That's when Killian drops from the ceiling with the grace of a cat, landing lightly on his feet barely two inches in front of me. "Insisting with your friends philosophy, Spoon?"

We're standing so close that if I breathed a little deeper, my chest would touch his. I look into his gray eyes, then can't help myself, and luxuriate in the perfection of his mouth that I could touch now. Kiss for real.

"Those are not friendly looks, Sugar." His voice is a soft murmur, close and personal, as if weaving his words directly into my thoughts.

The elevator jolts suddenly, jostling us together. My back hits the wooden panels, and Killian's body squishes me against it.

"Sorry," the metallic voice crinkles from the panel. "That was me, making a last attempt. But it didn't work. Help is on the way."

Neither of us pays the guy any attention. With Killian's hard body pressed down on mine—for real this time, no dreams—I can only function as far as keeping on breathing.

Killian is making no move to back away, nor am I nudging him. My gaze drops to his mouth again, and his eyes darken in response. Killian places a hand on the panel next to my face, and the small space suddenly feels even more confined. The red light continues to pulse like a heartbeat gone out of control.

"Sugar," he murmurs, his breath fanning across my face, "if you keep looking at me like that, I can't be held responsible for my actions."

I swallow hard. "What sort of actions?" I wonder aloud, the question half-teasing, half-serious.

"Well," he begins, his voice coming down another octave, "the kind that involves less talking and more… doing."

His other hand moves to my waist and his thumb just skims under my sweater, over the bare skin of my belly, just above the waistband of my jeans.

I swallow hard, the sound embarrassingly loud in the silent space between alarms.

Killian's eyes are now a stormy sea, and I'm an inexperienced sailor lost in the waves. "More doing?" I echo, my voice barely more than a breath.

"Yeah," he says, his thumb making small circles now, sending electric impulses straight through my nervous system.

I'm acutely aware of how this should be the most anxiety-inducing moment of my life—stuck in an elevator with alarms blaring and the fire department on their way. Yet here I am, more focused on the sensation of Killian's thumb circling a patch of skin like he's drawing a spell right into me.

"And what if…" My voice wavers with daring and desire despite my words. "I said I wasn't down for doing anything?"

His eyes search mine, mischief sparkling within them. "Then I'd say you're a terrible liar, Sugar," he teases, his thumb pausing its bewitching journey.

I arch into him in response, wanting the motion to resume.

He restarts, probably satisfied he's called my bluff.

His lips twitch into a knowing smile, and I'm more aware than ever of the proximity of those lips to mine—so close yet infuriatingly not close enough.

"Killian," I breathe out, half-warning, half-invitation.

He tilts his head, our noses almost brushing. "Yes?" The tease in his voice is maddeningly irresistible.

Just as I'm about to close the gap between us and finally get a taste of those lips that have been haunting my dreams since the day we met, someone clears his throat from above. "Err… sorry to interrupt."

I peek past Killian to stare shamefacedly at a firefighter peering down at us from the open hatch.

The firefighter's brows are raised in a silently amused question, and it's clear that he's trying to keep a professional demeanor while witnessing our little elevator escapade. Killian steps back, his hands dropping from me as if they've been scalded, and I can't help but miss the warmth.

"Hello, officer," I say in a too-shrill voice. Are firefighters even officers? I don't know.

He doesn't seem to mind the appellative, wrong as it may be, and smiles. "Just a heads up that I'm going to reset the shaft safety and close the hatch. The elevator should restart shortly after."

I just nod.

"Thank you," Killian says.

"No problem." The fireman nods back. "But next time maybe leave the Mission Impossible antics to movies, uh?"

Killian scratches the back of his head, embarrassed. "Will do."

"And just so you know. All the campus elevators have cameras."

I'm going to die of shame.