“‘Forgive many things in others; nothing in yourself.’”
“Are you going to sit here and quote Plato all afternoon?” He sounded almost amused.
“That was Ausonius, actually. And yes. My philosophy degree has to be of some use.” Stripping off her shirt, she sighed with pleasure when the air hit her flushed skin. Clad in nothing but her bra and panties, she immediately felt cooler, much to her relief, and she folded her discarded clothes and tucked them against her purse.
“You can get down to your boxers, you know,” she told him. “I can’t see you, and it feels much better.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Briefs, then?” she couldn’t resist asking. “You struck me as a boxer man.”
Actually, he hadn’t struck her as much of anything. She’d only had a quick glimpse of him before the power had gone out. But she liked teasing him. It somehow made this hellish ordeal slightly less suffocating.
“Why are you asking about my clothing?” His tone was stiff, unpleasant.
She sighed. “It’s called making conversation. You should learn how to do it.” Curling up with her phone in her hand—though she didn’t dare open it and run the battery down—she thought for a minute and then offered, “My name’s Brontë.”
“Brontë? After Charlotte or Emily?”
Her esteem of him grudgingly went up a notch. Normally people cracked jokes about dinosaurs rather than realizing where her name was from. “Either. Both, I suppose. My mother had a fascination for classic literature, not that it got her anywhere.”
“I see we share a commonality in mothers, then.”
“Do we? Was yours a total dreamer, too?”
“Mine was a showgirl,” he said flatly. “I am told she was highly impractical and extremely irresponsible.”
“Oh. Um.” That hadn’t been quite what Brontë had meant. Her mother had been a sweet, caring woman, even if she didn’t have a practical bone in her body. She’d also stubbornly refused to see anything but the best in people, which was why Brontë’s childhood had been so idyllic . . . and so very false. She shoved away the bad memories. “I didn’t mean to sound negative about my mother. She just didn’t have sensible side. That’s all. She was a good woman. Anyhow, she liked books—especially classics.”
“And you have inherited her love, I take it. You seem to have an obsession with ancient philosophers.”
“Everyone has a hobby,” she said cheerfully. “What about you?”
“I do not.”
“You don’t have a hobby? At all?”
“I work. It takes up all my hours. Though I suppose I could spend my time memorizing pithy quotes to zing back at unsuspecting men in elevators.”
Well, now she felt stupid. “I . . . wow. Sorry. I just—”
“I was teasing you,” he said, his voice that same crisp, abrupt sound that she’d mistaken for rudeness. Perhaps that was just his manner and she hadn’t realized it because she couldn’t see his face.
“Oh.” Now she felt silly. “I didn’t realize.” There was a long pause between them, and she rushed to change the subject. “So, what’s your name?”
He hesitated, as if he were weighing the benefits of telling her. “Logan Hawkings.”
“That’s a nice name.”
“Indeed.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice now, definitely.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing at all.”
It sure sounded like he was amused by something, but what it was, she didn’t know. A smidge annoyed, Brontë lay back down on the floor, resting her cheek on her folded clothing. “So how long do you think we’ll be here?”
“I suppose it depends on how direct of a hit the hurricane makes on Seaturtle Cay. Then it depends on the organization of rescue efforts.”
She yawned, feeling sleepy again due to the heat. “So far I’m not impressed with them.”
He snorted. “That makes two of us.”
There was another lull in the conversation, and she figured she’d best fill it again before he decided he was fine being silent once more. “Do you have a family, Logan?”
“No.” That syllable was definitely clipped and short. Not a conversation he wanted to have, then.
“Me either. Since I’m supposed to be on vacation, work won’t be missing me for a week at least.” A distressing thought crossed her mind. “God, I hope we’re not stuck in here for a week.”
“I doubt that will happen.”
“Why is that?”
“Because we’ll die from dehydration long before that.”
She felt the sudden urge to fling one of her sandals at him. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
“All right then, we’ll die thanks to the hurricane.”
“The glass is definitely half empty for you, isn’t it? Don’t think of things that way. Maybe one of the hotel employees stayed behind and will come looking for you. Did you assign anyone to check the floors?”
“Assign anyone? Why on earth would I do that?”
She frowned into the darkness. “You’re wearing a badge. Aren’t you the manager here?”
“Ah . . . yes. And no, I didn’t assign anyone to check the floors.”
Lovely. Not only was the man kind of abrasive, but it didn’t seem like he was good at handling an emergency. She yawned into her hand again. This heat was making her so sleepy. She hadn’t gotten much rest the night before, thanks to the people in the next room and their acrobatics. Which reminded he . . . “Since you’re the manager, can I make a suggestion?”
“I can’t stop you.”
“Thicker walls.”
“Pardon?”
“You definitely want thicker walls. You can hear everything through some of them. I’m just saying.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He sounded amused again.
The wind whistled, and she heard a crack in the distance. She bolted upright. “What was that?”
She heard him get to his feet. “Hurricane must be arriving,” he said.
“Oh, shit.” Panic began to surge through her again. “We have to get out of here, Logan.”