Yeah, well, she was annoyed, too. Brontë stepped inside and smacked the lobby button, even though it was already lit up. She punched it a few more times for good measure. Great. She was probably in the elevator with the manager or something. She supposed it was lucky that she’d gone back to the room and not Sharon. If Sharon had seen the manager, she’d have filled his ears with complaints about how horrible the hotel was. The free hotel.
She stared at the buttons, watching them light up as the elevator moved down. Twenty floors, and she’d been on the nineteenth. The man on the elevator must have been in the floor above her. The penthouse. If she had to guess, Brontë would have assumed those guests had been evacuated first. Maybe the manager had gone up to count the bathrobes or something.
They were evacuating the entire island. Good lord. So much for her fun, relaxing vacation. She’d been trying so hard to make this vacation enjoyable, and it had fought her at every turn, as if determined to suck, and hard. So much for “fun” or even “relaxing.” Brontë’d never felt so stressed out in her entire life.
A freaking hurricane. The perfect way to cap off the world’s most horrible vacation.
The elevator panel lit up on two. Brontë drummed her fingers on her arm, waiting for it to roll over to one. And waited . . .
And waited . . .
The elevator shuddered just as the power went out. The elevator car was plunged into darkness, and Brontë lost her breath, terror gripping her.
“Great,” the manager said behind her. “Just f**king great.”
A hysterical giggle rose in Brontë’s throat. Nope. That was the perfect way to cap off the world’s most horrible vacation.
Chapter Two
Brontë’s wild laughter echoed in the small elevator, the only sound breaking the silence. She couldn’t seem to stop. It was just so ridiculous. She’d been stuck in what was supposed to be paradise with a horrible roomie and a hurricane. Now? Now she was trapped in an elevator with a stranger. Truly, she must have racked up some sort of hellish karma to have this happen to her.
“I’m glad you find this funny,” the man behind her said in a cold, biting tone. “I assure you that I do not.”
“It’s funny because it’s so awful,” Brontë said between giggles. “This is the worst day ever.”
“I don’t laugh when I’m in a life-threatening situation.”
“I do,” she said, and burst into more giggles. They were part hysteria, of course, and part anxiety. Not exactly endearing her to the manager she was currently stuck with. “Sorry,” she apologized, but it came out wobbly, as if she were suppressing more laughter. “I’m what you would call a nervous laugher. I’ll try to stop.”
“Good.”
She giggled again and then clapped a hand over her mouth.
He said nothing. She wished they had the lights at least, so she could look over at him and judge his expression. Probably just as well that she couldn’t. He was probably glaring hatefully at her. She couldn’t really blame him for that. She was kind of being an ass. A hysterical ass.
Silence fell, almost oppressive in the darkness. Neither said anything, and Brontë found herself silently wishing that the blaring monotone of the loudspeaker with the hurricane warning chimes could be heard. Just to break up the silence. Something. Anything.
Her phone. Of course. She felt stupid for forgetting about it. She could call Sharon and tell her that she was stuck in the elevator. Fishing around in her purse, Brontë located it with her fingertips and pulled it out, clicking it on. Bluish light flooded her end of the elevator, nearly blinding her with its brilliance. One bar left—that was what she got for reading books on her phone, she supposed. Not that it mattered. The screen was lit up with a message—“Area out of service.” Shit.
Across the elevator, another light flared to life, and she glanced over at the man in the suit, his features illuminated by the phone’s light. Good-looking. A few years older than her, with a strong jaw and nose. He immediately clicked his phone off again. “No service.” He sounded disgusted.
Thrown back into darkness again, Brontë blinked at the red spots in her vision. She reached out into the darkness, trying to recall exactly how big the elevator was. Fifteen feet across? Less? More? She hadn’t paid attention. Brontë suspected that if she took a step forward, her outstretched arm would smack into the stranger, though.
Cozy. A little too cozy, considering they were trapped.
Exactly how long could they be trapped here before someone would notice? What if the ferry had already left the island for the mainland? Brontë tried not to think about that, or the hurricane heading their way. Someone would be coming to get them. She waited for the inevitable sound of voices, of rescuers.
And waited . . .
And waited . . . The darkness was stifling, the only sounds in the elevator that of her accelerated breathing. Hers and the manager’s.
When the power didn’t appear to be coming back on, she slid down to the floor of the elevator. It felt cool against her legs, a welcome change considering that the air in the elevator was becoming a little stuffy. How long had they been sitting here in the darkness? Ten minutes? Twenty? How long did they have before the hurricane hit? She clutched her purse close.
Air brushed past her as if he was moving forward, and she clung to the wall. “What are you doing?”
Buttons clicked. He seemed to be ignoring her.
“What are you doing?” she asked again.
A buzzer rang out, startling her so much that her heart jumped into her throat and she jolted in her seat.
“Emergency buzzer,” he said in a low voice. “Someone should hear it and come looking for us.”
“If they’re still here,” she pointed out.
“Well, aren’t you Miss Suzy Sunshine?” he said. “At least I’m doing something instead of sitting around and giggling.”
“‘Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion, and knowledge,’” she quoted.
“What?”
“Plato,” Brontë told him, lifting her chin in the darkness.
There was a long pause. Then: “I don’t think Plato had ‘giggling’ in mind when he wrote that.”
“Hey,” she said, her nostrils flaring with anger. “It’s called nervous laughter, you jackass. I laugh when I’m uncomfortable. So sue me. And here’s a thought: Since we’re stuck in here together, how about you try not being such a jerk for five minutes?”