Chapter 20
“The dog ate my blouse.”
The car finally pulled to a stop, the driver grunting something that might have been “we’re here” or possibly just “get out.”
Emma flung the door open and half jumped out, Darren’s T-shirt flapping around her waist. Her feet had barely hit the ground when a nondescript gray door burst open from the nearest building. Leah came marching out in five-inch heels, her face nearly the same angry pink as her blazer.
Her eyes swept Emma once, then again, narrowing as they took in her dust-streaked jeans, mussed hair, and—most notably—the unmistakable absence of her navy blouse.
“I’m sorry—” Emma began, breathless.
She had texted Leah again when they got into the car, too wound up for coherence, just enough to convey that there had been an elevator incident, but she was alive and en route.
“No,” Leah cut in sharply. “You do not get to apologize before I get to ask what the actual hell happened to your outfit. When I told you to stop dressing like an HR poster girl, I didn’t mean go full nerd-core.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder. Darren came up behind her with his hands in his pockets. Nothing about him gave away that he’d just crawled out of an elevator shaft, save for a few flecks of dust on his sleeve.
“Hi, Leah,” he said casually. “Sorry we’re late.”
Emma winced, bracing for Leah’s reaction. He sounded like a kid making excuses to the teacher. And she was the class’s A student who’d let herself get drawn into trouble. She tried to smooth it over with a pleading, extra-apologetic look.
Leah’s eyes flicked to him. Then back to Emma. Then to the Back to the Future logo plastered across her chest.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, in full dramatic horror. “Is that his shirt?”
Emma made a strangled noise that wasn’t quite a yes but definitely wasn’t a no.
Leah pressed her hand to her chest as if she were clutching invisible pearls. “Okay. First of all—iconic. Second of all—what?” Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Did you hook up in an elevator?”
Emma’s eyes widened, heat rushing to her cheeks. She was all too aware of Darren’s body right behind hers. “No. God. No! The elevator got stuck, we had to climb out, I tore my blouse, and he offered—look, can we not do this right now?”
Leah paused. Then pointed a sharp finger at her. “You’re right. But we are absolutely doing this later.”
She snapped a hand toward the building, leading the way. “Jesus. I’m glad I insisted on the back entrance.”
Emma turned back to Darren, mouth already open to thank him for getting her there. And for agreeing to a potentially suicidal mission to flee from an elevator. That was awfully nice of him.
But Darren just nodded toward the building, indicating that he was going inside with them. Leah was holding the heavy door open, and for once didn’t seem about to argue.
Alright then.
Emma swallowed her confusion as Darren followed her inside.
“How bad are things in there?” she asked as they made their way through a cluttered storage room, the shelves packed so tightly they had to turn sideways to pass.
The lights were sparse, just a few naked lightbulbs hanging on their cords, and the air smelled like old paper and dust—the scent of being surrounded by stories.
Emma’s pulse finally settled, for the first time since her eyes had caught the time on Darren’s watch.
“Well,” Leah said, “the bookstore manager has been keeping the fans calm with an improvised Bonds of Light trivia quiz for the past twenty minutes, and she looked like she was about to cry when I left. You owe her a good one, Whitehart. And you”—she whirled on Darren—“you stay out of sight, capisce? And wipe that smirk off your face. I thought you’d kidnapped her. ”
Darren’s smirk didn’t so much as budge. “Nice to see you too, Leah. I’ll lay low. Promise.” And then, leaning in close enough that only she could hear, “Good luck, Emma.”
The simple words moved her more than they should have. She met his gaze, caught in a fleeting moment of stillness.
“Thanks.”
He veered off somewhere—Emma didn’t see where he disappeared—and then they reached the door out to the bookstore. Emma caught a glimpse of the waiting audience through the small window.
Leah fussed over her like a mother cat with a kitten, thumb wiping something off her forehead, then attempting to tame the worst of her hair while muttering under her breath.
“I’m still not convinced you didn’t hook up,” she said. “You’re glowing. Like, radioactive glowing. Not to mention your hair deserves its own NC-17 rating.”
Emma ducked her head under the dim lights, cheeks still warm. “Just glad to be alive.”
Leah pursed her lips, giving her a final once-over.
“Can I have your blazer?” Emma asked.
“No.” Leah pinched at Darren’s T-shirt, adjusting it over her shoulders. “You’ll wear your trophy proudly.” Then, softer: “Plus, you look amazing, Em. Feeling alive suits you. Not even my best blush can achieve that kind of glow. And it’s expensive.”
She tipped Emma’s chin, her signature time-to-go move. “Now go out there and kill it, writer.”