Surprised that he would grab her hand, Brontë followed him, staring in openmouthed horror at their surroundings as they ran. The hotel looked as if it had been ransacked. Furniture was overturned; papers and pamphlets were strewn everywhere. Doors hung open as if the occupants had simply forgotten to close them in their haste to leave. They raced past the lobby, and Brontë gasped, her steps slowing.
It was flooded. An inch of water had crept across the floor, and more was pouring in by the large glass doors. Large, broken glass doors. A quick glance outside showed that the skies were a sickly gray-green, and the closest tree was nearly sideways in the wind. Fear tightened her throat.
“You can sightsee later,” Logan told her harshly, tugging on her hand. “Come on.”
They ran down one corridor, then another. Every crack she heard from outside made her heart race, and she was in a near panic by the time they got to the stairwell. Logan flung the doors open and pushed her inside, and she raced up the flight of stairs to pause, breathing heavily, at the landing where they twisted to the next level. It was dark and shadowy, the only light coming from the small, square window of the stairwell door.
“Stay there,” Logan said. When she began to protest, he raised a hand. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to check something out.”
Brontë slumped to the ground, clutching her bag. She was too winded to bother to put her clothes on now, and too freaked out to do more than stare at the door. What if Logan got trapped out there? What if he didn’t come back for her? What if she was going to be stranded in this hurricane alone?
A gust of wind boomed overhead, followed by a crack of a palm tree snapping so loud that she jumped. She didn’t like being in the darkness alone. Not one bit. What if the stairwell collapsed in the storm?
To her relief, Logan returned a few minutes later carrying blankets and pillows and a small trash bag. She must have looked a bit shocked, because he immediately dropped everything and climbed the stairs to kneel next to her.
“You okay?” His voice was soft, protective. His fingers brushed her cheek.
She nodded, managing a trembling smile. “I think the noise is messing with my head. Marcus Aurelius said that ‘It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.’ Except I don’t think he ever went through a hurricane. I almost prefer the elevator.”
“I don’t,” Logan said. “Wait here. I picked up a few things for us.”
He headed back down the stairs to where he’d dropped his haul and then moved it all up to the landing, displaying none of the sheer exhaustion that Brontë was feeling. As she watched in the low light, he offered her a pillow and then a blanket.
“What’s all this for?”
“Just in case it gets cold later. We want to be prepared. It’s going to be a long night with that storm raging. This is probably the only safe place in the building that we can get to at the moment.”
She nodded and examined the pillow, then shoved it behind her back. It provided a bit of relief from the hard wall. “Thank you.”
Logan sat down next to her and did the same with his pillow, both of them ignoring the blanket for the moment. It was too hot, too humid to even think about covering up. She was thankful to be in just her bra and panties, since she was feeling sticky and overwarm.
As she watched, Logan dragged the trash bag to his side and pulled out two bottles of water. Her eyes widened, and her mouth went dry. Thirst hit her like a freight train at the sight of that water, and she licked her lips. “Is one of those for me?”
He gave a brief nod and handed her one. It was room temperature. She didn’t care. She unscrewed the cap and began to drink, the water tasting sweet and delicious on her parched tongue.
She could have downed the entire bottle in an instant, but she forced herself to drink only half, saving the rest for later. At her side, Logan continued to dig through the bag. “I had to raid the closest minibar. It’s not a great selection, but it’ll hold us until the worst of the storm passes overhead.”
And he handed her a candy bar.
Brontë took it with a smile. “I could kiss you for that.”
“You could,” he said easily.
She glanced over at him, the breath catching in her throat. Was he flirting with her? Was this—
The wind howled overhead, so loudly that the walls seemed to shake with the force of it. Brontë whimpered in response, pulling her legs close to her chest and hugging them tight.
“Shhh,” Logan told her softly. His arm went around her shoulders, and he pulled her closer to him and rested a hand over her hair, as if protecting her head. “I’m here. We’re safe.”
She huddled close to him, inhaling the spicy scent of his chest and resisting the urge to crawl into his lap like a scaredy-cat. Oddly enough, things didn’t seem so bad with him soothing her, and after a minute, she relaxed. Just feeling his large body pressed against hers was comforting and made the storm seem a little farther away.
Her stomach growled, loudly.
A low rumble started in his chest, and she realized he was laughing. “Eat your candy bar.”
She unwrapped it with trembling fingers. “Just so you know, in the future, I prefer M&M’s. The peanut kind, not the plain.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Philosophy and peanut M&M’s.”
“That’s right,” she said, taking a big bite out of her candy bar and moaning with pleasure as the taste hit her tongue. “This is really good. Thank you.”
She heard the wrapper rustling as he unwrapped his. They snacked on candy, huddled in the stairwell, and waited for the storm to end.
“So how is it that you know Marcus Aurelius by heart, Brontë?”
She shrugged. “My mother loved books, but she especially loved the classics—Brontë, Austen, and Gaskell. The romantic ones.” She paused, thinking of her mother. “I graduated from UMKC with a BA in philosophy. Majored in that, minored in history. I like ancient philosophers. I feel like they taught a lot of wisdom that can be applied to modern life.”
“Interesting. So you’re . . . a teacher?”
Brontë grinned. “Hardly. I’m a waitress at a sock hop diner.”
“A . . . waitress.” He said the words as if tasting them. “That’s a bit of a career change.”