Part II Forced Proximity
Forced proximity part II—now with extra action sequences.
Darren stared suspiciously at the metal panel in the ceiling, like it was a nosy journalist.
“That doesn’t open.”
Emma was already halfway up the elevator rail, glad she’d worn flats. She braced against the corner, palms pressed to the ceiling. “Of course it opens. That’s literally what hatches are for.”
He looked up at her, unamused. “It opens from the outside, genius. There is no handle.”
“Everything else in this damn elevator is broken,” Emma said, adjusting her stance on the narrow bar. Her feet prickled, the thin soles sliding against the polished metal. “Why not this thing too?”
She misjudged a step and wobbled. Darren was there in a heartbeat, catching her with steady hands around her hips. “This is a terrible idea, Emma. I know you Americans are a hands-on kind of bunch, but my people prefer politely suffering in silence and then sternly dropping a star in the review.”
Emma grinned down at him. Finding a way to take control of the situation made her feel elated, almost giddy.
“Oh, come on, Darren Cole. You’re literally a Marvel villain. I’ve seen you jump from buildings, walk from explosions—”
“All choreographed,” he cut in, moving in to get a better grip on her. “With retakes. And CGI. And stunt doubles, more often than I’d care to admit.”
His hands slid up to her waist, warm and firm through her thin blouse. He was so close she felt his breath against her stomach. Emma tried, very deliberately, to block out the sensation. She had a hard time keeping her balance as it was.
“Well,” she said, fingertips grazing the panel’s edge, “now’s your chance to go full method.”
She pushed against the metal, testing it. Something resisted on the other side. “There’s a little give. I think I can push it up.” She tried again, harder, then looked down, voice turning innocent. “Might need some help though?”
Darren muttered something that sounded like “blasted Americans,” but climbed up beside her. He was surprisingly agile for someone who claimed to outsource his stunts.
“Hi,” Emma said, smiling as he straightened as much as his height allowed, bringing them face-to-face—just inches apart.
Sweat glinted along his hairline, a few strands falling over his forehead. He shot her a dark look that made her belly go soft. “You absolute menace.”
He planted his hand next to hers. “On three.” They pushed. Once. Twice. Each time, the metal shifted a little more.
“Oh, come on!” she gritted out, adding her other hand and driving upward from her legs.
With a reluctant creak, the trapdoor burst open. Emma yelped, fingers slipping on the edge. The abrupt shift pitched her forward—air rushing, wall blurring toward her—
Darren reacted instantly.
His arm hooked around her waist, hauling her back into his solid frame. She gasped as her body collided with his, pulse pounding in her throat.
Stillness settled again. His chest rose and fell against her shoulder blades, steady and grounding. A shiver tingled down her legs from the near-slip. The image of the wall rushing up at her burned into her vision.
“Thanks,” she managed, turning her face a fraction. He was so close—stubbled cheek brushing her temple, breath hot against her neck.
“Just for the record,” he murmured in her ear, “can we agree now that this was a terrible, dangerous idea?”
Emma gave a small nod. “Noted.”
But the flutter in her chest had nothing to do with almost falling—and everything to do with the fact that his arm was still wrapped snugly around her. Like he had no plans of letting her go.
“But also for the record,” she added, “it worked.”
Darren tilted his face up. “Well, we got the hatch open. There’s still the small matter of escaping through an elevator shaft.”
“Details.” Emma hooked her fingers over the rim. “Give me a boost?”
He finally loosened his grip on her.
“Nice try, John McClane. I’ll go first. Try not to fall for a few seconds, yeah?”
“Could you be more British right now?” she snorted, but edged back to give him space.
Darren gripped the frame and hoisted himself up, with the kind of smooth strength that suggested more gym hours than he’d probably admit. His legs vanished through the gap—then a muffled thud above. He coughed.
“What do you see?”
“Dust,” he called down.
“Right. Thanks. Something more helpful?”
A pause. “We’re just beneath a floor level. Hypothetically, we could pry the doors open and climb out.”
“How hypothetically?”
“Very.”
“I’ll take those odds.” Emma had lost all sense of time. Was the reading supposed to have started already? Leah must have been losing her mind.
She fetched her bag from the floor and tossed it up before taking Darren’s outstretched hands, letting him pull her toward him.
It wasn’t as graceful as she’d have preferred—legs kicking uselessly against the wall, her side catching on something sharp. Pain bloomed across her skin, but she clenched her teeth, scrambling onto the elevator roof beside him.
Darren watched her in the faint light. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
The shaft above was a narrow, shadowy column, cables stretching into darkness. Vertigo tugged at her as she tilted her head back.
“That’s our way out.” Darren pulled her attention back, nodding toward a set of thick metal doors. The seam between them looked merciless. “Ready to give it a go?”
She squared her jaw. “Absolutely.”
They dug their fingers in, prying the doors apart with a mix of brute force and sheer optimism. The mechanism fought them with a screech that set her teeth on edge. But the gap widened—just enough to glimpse the corridor beyond. Inch by inch, they forced it wider.
The lift shuddered beneath them. Emma gasped, suddenly aware this might not have been a great idea.
“Alright, time to go,” Darren said, tension lacing his voice. “You first, Emma.”
They clambered out in a tangle of limbs, Darren close behind her as they scrambled out on the floor.
Emma let out a shaky breath as she got to her feet. The metal doors slid shut behind them with an unhurried finality and then—as if deliberately taunting them—the machinery whirred to life.
The elevator resumed its descent as if nothing had happened.
Emma’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me?”
For a moment, they both just stared at it.
“I think this supports my theory that you insulted it,” Darren said.
Emma shook her head. “My next book is going to be a horror story about an elevator possessed by Satan.” She brushed her hands over her thighs, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
Darren exhaled, giving her a quick once-over. His eyes caught on her side.
“Emma, you’re hurt.”
She looked down. “Oh, shit.”
Her blouse had a long tear from the hemline up to her ribs. Underneath, a thin red line shone against her skin. Not bleeding, but angry. It stung when she twisted.
Darren took a step forward, hands twitching toward her. “Let me see.”
“It’s fine,” she blurted, tugging the ruined blouse over the cut the best she could.
She had zero time or mental capacity for letting Darren Cole play doctor in an abandoned hallway.
“Just scratched. The blouse is another story, though. I can’t show up at a bookstore reading like I’m trying to reinvent the 90s midriff trend. ”
Darren didn’t miss a beat. “Hoodie or T-shirt?”
She blinked. “What?”
He shrugged. “Not many choices to offer, I’m afraid. But I have a vintage Back to the Future tee underneath. Should look nicely oversized on you. Unless you prefer the hoodie?”
Emma stared at him, debating her options. Trying to ignore the fact that both of them meant wearing Darren Cole’s clothes against her own skin.
The hoodie was the instinctive choice. One layer away from his body, less personal, less . . . him.
But he had worn that hoodie to their panel.
He’d been seen in it, photographed. Her fans were neither blind nor stupid—they would recognize it the moment she walked into the bookstore.
If the Internet had been on fire after their panel, it would go full nuclear if she showed up wearing his clothes. She clenched her jaw.
“Fine. T-shirt.”
Without a word, Darren reached for the hem of his hoodie and pulled it off, taking the T-shirt with it.
Emma didn’t stare.
She . . . peeked. Maybe.
His torso was all clean lines and lean muscle, his skin golden in the dim light. He pulled the T-shirt out from the hoodie and held it out to her with a casual “Here.”
Their fingers brushed as she grabbed it. Emma tried very hard to keep her face neutral.
She turned her back to change, fast and functional, praying that no one would show up. Darren’s T-shirt slid over her skin, still carrying a trace of his warmth.
It smelled like him: sandalwood, clean laundry, and a deeper note she couldn’t place, masculine and intoxicating. If she had written this scene, she’d have edited it for feeling too on the nose. She bit the inside of her cheek, pulled her hair free, and turned back around.
Something flickered across Darren’s face.
She must have looked a mess—flustered, dust-streaked, hair wild. Yet his eyes darkened. A gleam of approval, yes, but layered with something hungrier. Something closer to claim.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—lips parting, pulse kicking, heat coiling low inside her.
The moment stretched, thin and electric, Emma’s breath coming shallow.
Then it was gone, replaced by his easy composure as if it had never been there at all.
“Stairs?” he asked, voice neutral. Far too neutral.
Emma swallowed, legs feeling weak. “Stairs.”
They darted for the stairwell as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t been held flush against his body minutes before. As if she weren’t wrapped in his scent.
As if the weight of his gaze didn’t linger on her skin, quiet as an unspoken promise.