Chapter 17
Forced proximity. Whoops.
Time slipped away between them, as if it didn’t exist.
Until it very much did.
Darren was halfway through a bizarre story involving an alpaca, a grumpy toddler, and a director who refused to move on until the alpaca found its “emotional resonance.”
Emma watched his hands as he spoke, a little dazed, wine buzzing comfortably in her veins.
Her eyes caught on his watch. Elegant, classic, understated. She liked that about him. She liked . . . a lot of things about him.
Then the position of the watch hands registered. She gasped, flinching so hard she almost flipped over her wineglass.
“What?” Darren asked, startled. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part.”
“Please tell me your watch is broken,” she breathed.
“No. It works fine. What’s wrong?”
Emma was already pushing back from the table, sobriety hitting like cold water. “Oh my god. I’m going to be late.”
“For . . .”
“I have a bookstore reading in twenty minutes. Across town.” She grabbed her bag, found her phone wedged under the usual pile of everythings, and stared at the flood of missed calls and caps-locked texts.
“Shit.” Emma’s skin went cold. “Leah’s going to kill me. Probably with a pair of very expensive heels, and then wear them to my funeral.” She looked up at Darren, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “Could you get the check? I’ll have her sort it later.”
“Already taken care of,” Darren said, standing too. “Twenty minutes should be fine, Emma. I’ll come with you.”
They darted for the elevator, his hand finding the small of her back. She barely noticed, too focused on firing off a SORRY!!! On my way! to Leah, then scrambling for an Uber.
“There must be stairs somewhere.” Emma scanned for emergency signs as they reached the hallway, while keeping an eye on her phone. A driver finally confirmed her trip. Four minutes.
“The elevator’s right here,” Darren said. The doors slid apart, and he tugged the brass gate open.
She side-eyed it, but there was no time to argue. “Fine.” She stepped inside, jabbing the ground floor button as soon as the gate clicked shut behind them. The lift shuddered to life.
Emma pushed back against the low surge of panic rising beneath her skin. The Uber was booked. Midday traffic shouldn’t be terrible. She could still make it in time.
Still, the elevator was infuriatingly sluggish.
“Could this thing be any slower?” she grumbled.
Darren leaned against the wall, fingers tracing the round metal railing. “Don’t be mean. It has character.”
She scoffed, trying not to imagine the look Leah would give her when she finally arrived. Or the room full of people who’d come just for her, left waiting because she’d been too busy having lemon risotto with a movie star.
The thought made her cringe. She wasn’t that person. She hated disappointing people—especially her fans.
At least Darren seemed to think they would make it in time. Maybe a few minutes late, but that would be fine. It probably wasn’t as bad as she—
The elevator stopped.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that made it seem like they were seconds from plummeting to their death.
Just a soft jolt and a low hum from the machinery. As if it felt content with its work for the day and decided to take a break.
Emma went rigid. “What just happened?”
Darren ran his hand over the paneling as if diagnosing it, looking around curiously. “We appear to be stationary,” he offered. Then he lowered his voice. “I think you might have insulted it.”
“Cute,” she snapped.
She tried the button again, panic seeping into her bloodstream. The elevator ignored her completely.
Both of them turned at the same time to the elaborate brass gate, tauntingly similar to a prison cell door.
Through the bars—solid wall.
“No,” Emma breathed. She turned back to the panel and started tapping the ground floor button like a slot machine.
Nothing.
Just the groaning hush of an old building and two quiet people in a very stuck elevator.
“Well.” Darren clicked his tongue. “Those twenty minutes are starting to look a bit more challenging.”
Emma took a slow breath through her nose, then reached for the bright red button marked Emergency. Normally, she would’ve hesitated—she hated asking for help, hated making a scene. She preferred her drama safely confined to fiction.
Today, all those instincts went out the window. Or would have, if there were any windows. God, there were no windows. Was the ventilation even working? The heat seemed to rise quickly.
She pressed her palm down on the emergency button, bracing for the shrill, old-fashioned ring it seemed to promise.
Silence answered her. She gaped.
“Are you serious?” She punched it again, harder.
Still nothing.
With a frown, she hooked her fingers around the edges and gave it a tug—and the whole button came off in her hand with a sad little pop.
“What the . . .” she said flatly, holding it up. “That’s not supposed to happen.”
Darren leaned in to examine it. “Did you just break the emergency button?”
“I didn’t break it!”
“You are holding it in your hand after pulling it off the wall, so in my professional opinion, you did break it.”
“Well, your profession is lying for a living, so I wouldn’t give that too much weight,” Emma hissed. It slipped out before she could stop herself, her mind too busy to moderate. She froze, glancing up to gauge his reaction.
His lips twitched.
She exhaled, relieved and annoyed. “This isn’t funny, Darren!”
To his credit, he almost managed to hide his smile. He pulled his phone from his pocket, entirely unfazed.
“Alright, let’s just call someone. They must have a service number.”
Emma unlocked her own phone. “Good, you do that. I’ll call Leah. She’s probably—” She cut herself off mid-sentence.
Her signal bar was gone.
She turned in the cramped space, lifting her phone like it might catch a signal if she just . . . offered it to the gods.
It didn’t.
Darren frowned at his screen. “No signal. That can’t be right.”
“We’re in the middle of downtown San Diego,” Emma said, exasperated. “There has to be reception.”
Refreshing the screen again did nothing. It was as if her phone didn’t know the outside world existed.
“Great.” She slumped against the wood-paneled wall, letting her head fall back with a dull thunk. “On top of everything else, this elevator is a goddamned Faraday cage.”
Darren blinked. “That’s surprisingly technical.”
“I researched electromagnetism when I wrote The Bonds of Light,” she muttered, looking down again at her useless phone. “Never made it to the page, but a few things stuck.”
Surprise crossed his face. “I’m impressed.”
Emma gave an annoyed grunt. “Knowing the term won’t get us out of here.”
Silence settled thick and warm in the enclosed space. Emma felt sweat starting to break out on her forehead; whether from stress or from the rising temperature, she didn’t know.
Somewhere behind the paneling, the building creaked softly, as if it were settling to keep them a while. Adrenaline rushed through her veins, as if her body were preparing for fight or flight—but there was nothing she could do with it. Not even enough space to pace around.
“It’s fine, Emma,” Darren said. “Someone will notice.”
She laughed suddenly, sharp and breathless. He blinked at her—possibly concerned about her mental state.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, just . . . if someone had told me a week ago that I’d be stuck in an elevator with Darren Cole . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head.
His eyes lit up. “Sounds like a fanfiction prompt.”
She shot him a lethal glare. “You’re suspiciously calm for someone who might be late to . . . whatever movie stars do on Friday afternoons during Comic-Con.”
He shrugged, unapologetic. “Maybe I don’t mind being stuck in a romance cliché if the company’s good.”
She huffed. The words should have warmed, but this was absolutely not the time to try to figure out his nonsensical flirting on top of everything else. “Nice line. That one actually works on people?”
If he caught her sarcasm, he ignored it. “Honestly, I don’t get that many chances to use it.”
Emma searched the tiny space again, finally tilting her head back and scanning the ceiling. Her gaze caught on a square metal hatch above them—slightly off-center, a narrow rim suggesting it could open with the right kind of force.
“There,” she said, nodding toward it. “That’s our way out.”
Darren followed her gaze. “Ah. Of course. The classic elevator climb-out. Never backfires.”
She exhaled, straightening. “I’m serious.”
He looked at her. Then at the hatch. Then back at her.
“Emma. No. This is how we die.”
She braced a hand against the elevator rail, testing its strength. “Good. Either we manage to get out, or we die a quick death. Which is a lot better than facing Leah, I assure you.” She gave him a look that left no room for debate.
“Take a good stretch if you need to, Cole. We’re doing this.”