“I know.”
Brontë chewed on her fingernails, her mouth dry as she strained to hear more noise from the hurricane. What was happening out there? Had Sharon even noticed that she’d never come back? Doubtful. She’d probably found her passport at the bar and then had started flirting with the nearest guy. Some friend.
Definitely taking the next vacation by herself.
There was an odd scraping sound, and a crack of light appeared then grew larger. She watched in surprise as Logan forced the doors of the elevator apart. They were stuck between floors. She could make out a bit of brick, and then more light flooded in as he pushed the second set of doors open. His body was lit up, and she could see he was down to his slacks, his chest bare and gleaming with sweat.
As soon as he let go of the first set of doors, though, they began to slide shut, so he grabbed them and braced them again, glancing back at her. “I think we can jump down.”
She grabbed her clothes and her purse, then moved forward, peeking over the edge. They had about a foot and a half of clearance, and it looked like a six foot drop to the floor, at the very least. “Is it safe?”
“Safer than staying here.”
He had a point. “So how do we do this?”
Logan continued to hold the doors open, thinking. His face looked angular in the low light. “If you can hold the doors, I’ll slide through and then look for something to brace them apart.”
That sounded . . . nerve-racking. She’d have to trust him to come back for her. “What if I go first?”
“I’m stronger. If I can’t find something to brace the doors, I’ll have to hold them open for you while you climb down. I’m not sure you’ll be able to do the same for me.”
He had a point. Brontë bit her lip, then nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll hold them.”
They traded places, and Brontë held the doors while he grabbed his clothes and put them back on quickly. She tried not to think about the fact that she probably should have gotten dressed, too, and was standing in an elevator wearing nothing but a leopard bra and bright pink boy shorts. It could have been worse, she supposed. “Ready?”
He squatted on the floor and examined the space, then glanced at her. “Would it bother you if I went between your legs?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Be my guest. My legs welcome your invading presence.”
This time he chuckled, and she blushed. “I just don’t want you losing your grip on the door,” he told her. “That’s all. I promise I won’t look up.”
“Just get us out of here,” she said, wincing and spreading her legs wide so he could slide out from between them. This was not a story she was going to repeat if she got home.
When I get home, she told herself. When.
As Logan shimmied out of the elevator, Brontë focused on the weather. She could hear the pounding rain occasionally and wind gusts that sounded dangerous. They’d been isolated from the worst of it inside the elevator, but with the door open, it was all too obvious that the hurricane was upon them and they were trapped.
Suddenly Logan’s body was gone, and then she heard him smack the tile floor below. She was startled and almost let go of the doors. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just off balance. Stay there, and I’ll look for something to brace the door open so you can crawl out.”
“Okay,” she said, licking her dry lips. She tried to peek down and get a good look at his face, but the angle at which she was holding the doors made it impossible. She heard him walk away, and panic surged through her. He was gone. What if he wasn’t coming back? “Hurry!” she squeaked out, hoping he’d heard that last entreaty.
The elevator was feeling a bit oppressive now, and her arms were beginning to ache from holding the doors open. It wasn’t that they were hard to hold apart, but she was exhausted, thirsty, and starving. And a little terrified.
Okay, a lot terrified.
Time creeped past, every minute ticking by in slow motion. It seemed like forever before Logan returned, and she nearly sobbed in relief when she caught sight of him below. He set up a short ladder, then grasped the doors at the bottom, keeping them apart.
“You’re going to have to slide down between my arms,” he told her. “Get on your stomach and lower your legs first.”
She nodded. “Gotcha. Can I let go now?”
“Let go.”
She did, holding her breath for a moment as she released the doors. Then she hesitated. If she shimmied down, she was going to more or less shove her ass in his face. “Maybe I should get dressed first—”
“Just come on!”
“Well, then close your eyes!”
“I’m not going to close my eyes, Brontë. Just come on already. I can’t hold this forever. The hurricane’s almost on us.”
She hesitated for a moment more, but a crash from outside decided her. Biting her lip, she tossed her bag and clothes out of the elevator ahead of her and then slid her legs out of the hole. When she was about halfway out, she began to have visions of the power coming back on and the elevator slicing her in half, and she rushed to slide completely out, not caring that her behind might have brushed against his face or that her wiggling feet couldn’t find a toehold.
“Just drop,” he told her after a moment.
She did, and collapsed to the floor. Her leg scraped along the ladder as she fell, and she smacked onto the ground with a thud that knocked the breath out of her.
But they were out of the elevator. Thank heavens, they were out of the elevator.
“You okay?” Logan moved to her side, his hands running lightly over her naked limbs, checking for breaks. “You’re bleeding.”
“Just a scratch. Something broke the skin when I slid. I’ll be fine.” She sat up, grimacing, and allowed him to help her to her feet. The air was muggy and hot. “What about the hurricane?”
“Sounds like it’s getting worse.”
“Should we go to the basement? Something?”
“Not the basement. The front lobby’s already flooding with water. We need someplace safe.” He glanced around. “Someplace with no windows that is off the ground.”
“A stairwell?” she suggested.
He nodded and grabbed her hand, dragging her with him. “Come on. I think the stairs are this way.”