“What the hell?” he muttered.
Sophie leaned her shaking body against the wall of the elevator, wishing the irritable stranger would hold her again. Just until the trembling stopped.
“Are we stuck?” she asked in an unsteady voice.
“Looks that way,” he said gruffly.
He pulled a phone out of his pocket and used its light to illuminate the elevator control panel.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The emergency button isn’t working. Nothing will light up.”
Sophie peered in the direction of the elevator controls. “Are you sure you’re hitting the right button? It should be the red one with the little fireman’s hat.”
He turned away from the control panel to stare at her. “I know what button it is.”
Sophie winced. This could not be happening. She could not be stuck in an elevator while wearing less than she would to the beach.
Cool under pressure wasn’t exactly one of her specialties, but she gave it a shot. Pushing panic aside, she forced herself to think.
“Cell phone!” she said. “We can call from our cell phones.”
But The Suit was way ahead of her, already pushing buttons on his fancy phone. The expression on his face said it all. No service.
“Check yours,” he commanded.
“Yes, sir!” she grumbled, fumbling around for her clutch and pulling out her phone. The only benefit of the complete darkness was the fact that he didn’t have to watch the way her miniskirt persistently climbed its way up her hips.
Please get a trillion service bars, she silently begged her phone. Even dealing with Trish in all of her holy Bridezilla horror beat being locked in a tiny black box with the human equivalent of dry ice. But all she saw was the sad little symbol of no service.
“Nothing,” she moaned. “We’re totally stuck. Shouldn’t the elevators have emergency lights or something?”
“They’re supposed to,” her companion said darkly.
Realizing that her legs were still shaking, Sophie slid down the wall until she was sitting on the elevator floor. She wasn’t claustrophobic. Not exactly. And she didn’t have a fear of heights, but…
She was scared.
“Are you crying?” he asked.
“No.” She sniffled.
“Oh Jesus. You are.”
She heard a sigh followed by the sound of sliding fabric. Surprised, she realized he’d just settled on the floor beside her. He pressed something against her elbow.
A handkerchief. Not a rough paper tissue, but a soft, actual handkerchief. How perfectly cliché. What decade was he from? She accepted it reluctantly, knowing that she was bound to get black mascara streaks all over its pristine whiteness, which would only foster his grumpiness.
But it was either that or show up to the bar looking like a raccoon.
Wiping her watery eyes, she looked at him. So maybe she was a tiny bit grateful for his presence. Being stuck with a jerk beat being stuck alone.
“You should know I’m not going to save this as a memento,” she said, waving the handkerchief defiantly in his face.
“What?”
“You know, like in the movies when the gentleman hands the distraught lady a handkerchief and he finds out at the end of the movie that she’s saved it for like decades as a keepsake?”
“What movie is that? It sounds awful.”
“Never mind,” she said on a sigh. No imagination, this one. “So what do we do now?”
“We wait. It’s a modern hotel; they’ll have realized by now that something’s wrong.”
She nodded, knowing he was probably right.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “Of all the days, and of all the women.”
Sophie stiffened at the scorn in his tone. “Oh, I’m sorry, would there be a more convenient time to get stuck in an elevator? Or a more preferable woman? A mute nun, perhaps?”
He didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.
“What exactly is your problem?” she asked. “You can’t so much as smile at a stranger, much less make standard small talk when stuck in a small, confined space?”
Nothing.
The elevator jerked suddenly, and her hand grabbed at his leg in panic. The movement stopped as suddenly as it began, and they once again jolted to a silent stop.
“Oh God,” she whispered, biting her lip against the next round of terrified tears, her fingers still clenched on the irritable stranger.
He tensed, but didn’t remove her hand from its viselike grip on his thigh.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Sophie.” She sniffed. “Yours?”
“Gray.”
That briefly distracted her from her terror. “Like the color?”
Like your suit? Like your eyes? Like your personality?
“Yes. Like the color.”
“That’s a nice name.” It was sorta sexy. Very manly. He said nothing, but his leg shifted slightly under her grip, and she wondered if her hand was making him uncomfortable. Probably. She left it where it was.
“How long until we’re rescued?” she asked.
“Soon. This is Las Vegas. I’m sure they have an elevator maintenance service nearby.”