1. Stuart #2
“I guess so. But I must admit to being a little embarrassed at my reaction. It’s frustrating that I’m so bothered when I feel trapped.
The rational side of me knows we’ll be okay.
Still, there’s this uncontrollable fear that consumes me.
It’s like the walls are closing in. At first, I panic. Then the feeling usually passes.”
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about. I think everyone has something that causes them to react in a similar fashion. Some people have an intense fear of heights, snakes, or spiders. For me, it’s mice.”
“Do you know why you’re afraid of mice?”
“I do. As a young boy, I woke up to the beady eyes of a mouse sitting on my chest. I jumped out of bed screaming for my mum. I still shiver at the thought of those sharp white teeth ready to bite me.”
“So, you wouldn’t have been best friends with the pet guinea pig I had when I was ten years old?” She laughs.
“Definitely not. No rodents for me.”
“I don’t think my Miss Piggy would have appreciated being called a rodent, even if she technically was one.”
Her voice sounds steadier. Unfortunately, in the dark, I can’t see her face to confirm she’s doing better. Then it occurs to me that I have something that may help her remain calm.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my sterling silver, monogrammed flask, saying, “We may not make it to the Sky Lounge, but I’m happy to share my flask of whiskey. It’s an extremely fine one from my uncle’s distillery in England.”
“Why are you carrying whiskey with you?”
“I was supposed to meet some friends and wanted them to taste his latest version. It won several awards. Would you like a sip?”
“Thanks, but I don’t think so,” she says, a mix of interest and concern in her voice.
“Brooke, you’re smart to be cautious. I have a sister, so I can guess what you’re thinking. Taking a drink from a stranger would normally not make any sense. However, given the circumstances, a sip or two would be helpful. I’ll drink first, then you’ll know it’s perfectly safe.”
“It’s dark. How can I tell you actually drank any?”
“We’ll use the light on my phone, and you can pour a little into my mouth.”
“Okay. I guess that would work.”
At least she’s focused on something other than her panic as she takes my flask and drizzles the liquid gold past my lips. As the heat trickles down my throat, my eyes lock with hers in the light of my phone. They’re sparkling like precious emeralds, inviting me into her sphere.
“Your turn. Take a sip and let me know what you think.”
I hear her softly swallow. She immediately coughs. I pat her on the back. When she catches her breath, she says, “That’s powerful.”
“I should have warned you to take a tiny sip first. The second sip is always smoother.”
“Okay. I’ll give it another try.” Her arm brushes against mine as she lifts it, sending warmth through me.
“Mmm. You’re right. That’s quite nice. Let me return the flask now. I don’t want to spill your whiskey. Where’s your hand?” she asks, leaning into me, her free hand reaching across me.
Twining my fingers with hers, I say, “I’m right here, but you’re welcome to hold onto the flask in case you need another sip.”
“You seem to be the perfect knight in shining armor. Maybe I should kiss you to make sure you’re real. You know, like a test.”
It’s not often that a woman surprises me in such an amusing manner. Brooke is different—in a good way.
“Feel free. Testing is extremely important. Otherwise, how will you know if I’m an apparition?” I say, with feigned seriousness.
She pulls her hand from mine, letting it slowly move up my chest until her fingers find my chin. Her thumb grazes my whiskey-laden lips.
I’d rather wrap my arms around this intriguing creature. Instead, I shove my hands into my pockets, letting Brooke be fully in charge of her experiment.
A second later, her warm, velvety lips softly caress mine in a chaste yet sensual kiss.
It’s over too soon when she pulls away, emitting a soft sigh.
“What’s the verdict?” I ask, my voice huskier than expected.
“You’re definitely real and potentially . . . umm . . . never mind.”
I feel her body shiver next to me.
Slipping off my jacket, I wrap it around her shoulders, saying, “This will keep you warm.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. I probably shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m not normally that forward.”
“It was all in the name of science. And believe me, I didn’t mind.” I chuckle, a smile plastered on my face.
This whole situation is very unusual for me. My interactions with women are usually constrained by expectations that come with my title and wealth. After all, I’m known as Lord Sandridge, Viscount of Sandridge, and the oldest son of the Earl of Sandridge.
It’s rare to connect with someone who doesn’t know my background. That’s why this encounter with Brooke feels more genuine than my introductions to other women. With her having no idea who I am, our conversation and banter are natural. It’s refreshing—she’s refreshing.
If Brooke didn’t hate being trapped, I wouldn’t mind the power staying off longer. I’m not ready for this special time with her to end.
She whispers, “For some reason, I’m drawn to you. I wanted to kiss you, but it wasn’t a good idea. I don’t know you. This doesn’t make sense.”
“Brooke, I understand. I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve kissed a stranger in a lift too. Let’s take a step back. We have time to chat over a few sips of whiskey. What do you say?”
“I’d like that.”
I sense her raising the flask and hear her taking a long pull. That should help, but I caution, “Be careful. It’s quite strong.”
She presses the flask into my hand.
“Thanks for the reminder. I hope you’ll tell your uncle that it’s excellent. And I’m not usually a whiskey drinker.”
“He’ll be happy to hear that. What’s your normal drink?
“Either a vodka martini with a splash of Grand Marnier or a full-bodied, red wine.”
She’s decisive even in something as simple as drink choices. That’s a pleasant change from many of my dates who refuse to express an opinion.
When asked what they would like to eat or drink, the typical response is, “Whatever you’re having.” I’d love to banish that phrase. It’s infuriating.
If I ordered an Infected Whitehead, they’d probably follow suit and even compliment the sickening combination of vodka, tomato juice, and cottage cheese.
I’ve been tempted to place such an order on a date as an experiment, but I haven’t.
I’m not sure why not. Maybe my mum really did raise a gentleman.
Or, more likely, the thought of drinking it myself outweighs the joy I’d gain from punishing a date for being indecisive and boring.
“I’ll have to try that Grand Marnier martini you mentioned. It sounds good.”
“It is. When you try it, be sure to ask for a twist of orange instead of olives.”
“I will. When we get out of here, maybe you’ll let me buy you one.”
When the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake. The last thing I should’ve done is remind her that we’re stuck. My goal is to comfort her, and I’ve just done the exact opposite.
Concern lacing her words, Brooke says, “I don’t understand why the backup generator isn’t working.
It’s supposed to provide enough power to move the elevator to a nearby floor so we can exit and take the stairs.
Something is clearly wrong. We should call the police.
I should have thought of that earlier.”’
Earlier, I noticed my phone doesn’t have a signal.
I’d rather her not know that just yet. It could upset her more, so I say, “Let’s wait a few minutes.
I’m sure with the brownout, there are more important emergencies for them to deal with first. In the meantime, I’m thirsty.
Aren’t you?” I slip the cool metal flask against her hand, hoping she’ll down another calming sip.
“I guess you’re right. We are technically safe.” She takes the flask.
A change of topic is in order. “Tell me about yourself. Are you meeting work colleagues in the Sky Lounge?”
“Interns. I’m an attorney at a law firm in the building and am supervising two of our summer interns.”
“You must really like them if you’re taking them out for drinks after a long day at work.”
“I do. Cassie and Lowri are great, but that’s not why I was taking them to the bar. It’s part of my job to convince them how great it is to work at our law firm. That means wining and dining them while they’re working with us over the summer.”
“Oh. That’s surprising. I’d think the interns should be trying to impress you instead of the other way around.”
“That would make more sense. The problem is that there’s a lot of competition for the best new lawyers. We recruit and pamper them between their second and third years of law school, hoping the best and brightest will accept offers at the end of the summer.”
“I wouldn’t mind being an intern for a summer. Sounds fun.”
“It is for them. It’s hell for those of us who are working full-time. We work all day and then have to party with the interns at night and on weekends. I’m exhausted, and we still have several weeks of summer left. Not to mention, it doesn’t leave any time for a personal life.”
“That sounds dreadful. Can’t you just opt out of participating?”
“Not if I ever want to make partner at the firm. Only team players make the cut.”
Her tone is laced with sarcasm. It’s as if she’s been fed that line a few too many times.
“That’s rubbish. Making partner should result from being an outstanding lawyer, not your partying skills and ability to withstand sleep deprivation.”
“You’d think. But that’s not how it works at the top law firms in the US. I’m sensing you’re not from the US though. Your accent makes me think you’re from the UK. Am I right?”
“You are. I’m from London.”
“What brings you to Los Angeles?” she asks, pronouncing each word slowly as if the whiskey is taking effect.
“Business. My dad was supposed to be here before he came down with pneumonia and couldn’t travel. I'm his replacement.”