Stranded with a Billionaire

chapter Two




Brontë’s wild laughter echoed in the small elevator, the only sound breaking the silence. She couldn’t seem to stop. It was just so ridiculous. She’d been stuck in what was supposed to be paradise with a horrible roomie and a hurricane. Now? Now she was trapped in an elevator with a stranger. Truly, she must have racked up some sort of hellish karma to have this happen to her.

“I’m glad you find this funny,” the man behind her said in a cold, biting tone. “I assure you that I do not.”

“It’s funny because it’s so awful,” Brontë said between giggles. “This is the worst day ever.”

“I don’t laugh when I’m in a life-threatening situation.”

“I do,” she said, and burst into more giggles. They were part hysteria, of course, and part anxiety. Not exactly endearing her to the manager she was currently stuck with. “Sorry,” she apologized, but it came out wobbly, as if she were suppressing more laughter. “I’m what you would call a nervous laugher. I’ll try to stop.”

“Good.”

She giggled again and then clapped a hand over her mouth.

He said nothing. She wished they had the lights at least, so she could look over at him and judge his expression. Probably just as well that she couldn’t. He was probably glaring hatefully at her. She couldn’t really blame him for that. She was kind of being an ass. A hysterical ass.

Silence fell, almost oppressive in the darkness. Neither said anything, and Brontë found herself silently wishing that the blaring monotone of the loudspeaker with the hurricane warning chimes could be heard. Just to break up the silence. Something. Anything.

Her phone. Of course. She felt stupid for forgetting about it. She could call Sharon and tell her that she was stuck in the elevator. Fishing around in her purse, Brontë located it with her fingertips and pulled it out, clicking it on. Bluish light flooded her end of the elevator, nearly blinding her with its brilliance. One bar left—that was what she got for reading books on her phone, she supposed. Not that it mattered. The screen was lit up with a message—“Area out of service.” Shit.

Across the elevator, another light flared to life, and she glanced over at the man in the suit, his features illuminated by the phone’s light. Good-looking. A few years older than her, with a strong jaw and nose. He immediately clicked his phone off again. “No service.” He sounded disgusted.

Thrown back into darkness again, Brontë blinked at the red spots in her vision. She reached out into the darkness, trying to recall exactly how big the elevator was. Fifteen feet across? Less? More? She hadn’t paid attention. Brontë suspected that if she took a step forward, her outstretched arm would smack into the stranger, though.

Cozy. A little too cozy, considering they were trapped.

Exactly how long could they be trapped here before someone would notice? What if the ferry had already left the island for the mainland? Brontë tried not to think about that, or the hurricane heading their way. Someone would be coming to get them. She waited for the inevitable sound of voices, of rescuers.

And waited . . .

And waited . . . The darkness was stifling, the only sounds in the elevator that of her accelerated breathing. Hers and the manager’s.

When the power didn’t appear to be coming back on, she slid down to the floor of the elevator. It felt cool against her legs, a welcome change considering that the air in the elevator was becoming a little stuffy. How long had they been sitting here in the darkness? Ten minutes? Twenty? How long did they have before the hurricane hit? She clutched her purse close.

Air brushed past her as if he was moving forward, and she clung to the wall. “What are you doing?”

Buttons clicked. He seemed to be ignoring her.

“What are you doing?” she asked again.

A buzzer rang out, startling her so much that her heart jumped into her throat and she jolted in her seat.

“Emergency buzzer,” he said in a low voice. “Someone should hear it and come looking for us.”

“If they’re still here,” she pointed out.

“Well, aren’t you Miss Suzy Sunshine?” he said. “At least I’m doing something instead of sitting around and giggling.”

“‘Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion, and knowledge,’” she quoted.

“What?”

“Plato,” Brontë told him, lifting her chin in the darkness.

There was a long pause. Then: “I don’t think Plato had ‘giggling’ in mind when he wrote that.”

“Hey,” she said, her nostrils flaring with anger. “It’s called nervous laughter, you jackass. I laugh when I’m uncomfortable. So sue me. And here’s a thought: Since we’re stuck in here together, how about you try not being such a jerk for five minutes?”

He said nothing, just continued to hammer on the buzzer.

After about twenty minutes of his endless pushing on the buzzer, she wanted to cover her ears and tell him to knock it off. But that would be stupid, of course. If someone heard the buzzer, they could get out of here. And yet . . . no one was coming. The power was still off. She clicked on her phone, looking at the time and trying to ignore the fact that her battery was almost dead.

They’d been in here an hour. The buses would still be outside, surely. With all that rain, it would take a while to pull off any kind of evacuation. The elevator was becoming stuffy, too. Either that or she was just in the early stages of hyperventilation. She put a hand to her damp forehead and willed herself to breathe slowly. This would be a lot easier if she wasn’t trapped with the unpleasant manager. No wonder the hotel was such a dump if he was in charge.

“Shouldn’t someone come looking for you soon?” she asked. Surely they’d need the manager to help coordinate the evacuation.

“You would think so.”

No sarcasm that time. Well, goody. They were making progress. Brontë dug through her purse and pulled out a piece of gum, popping it into her mouth and nervously chewing it. Every action in the oppressive darkness seemed of monumental importance. She picked through the contents of her purse with her hand, looking for anything useful. A pen. Her checkbook. Passport. Wallet. Loose change. Birth control. When her hand touched upon that, she smothered another hysterical laugh.

She heard him sigh at her laughter. He sounded frustrated. Too bad for him—she was at her wit’s end herself. But she needed to talk, so she asked, “Think the buses are still outside?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

Jeez. Could he be any ruder? “Aren’t you supposed to be good with customer service or something? You seem to be failing on that front.”

He seemed amused. “Am I?”

“Yeah, as a manager, you might want to work on your people skills. I’m just saying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the dry voice said.

She yawned. Now that the initial terror had worn off, she was busy being annoyed at him and not frightened. Combine that with the rising humidity, and she was getting sleepy. “I think we’re stuck here.”

“Theoretically.”

“I assume the buses left by now.”

“You also assume I was going to leave by bus.”

“Oh? I guess you have special transportation to take you away before the hurricane gets here?”

Silence for a moment. Then: “A helicopter.”

Well, wasn’t he high-class management? “Okay, let’s try this again. Do you think your helicopter is still there?”

A long pause. Then he grudgingly admitted, “Not if the weather is getting worse.”

“You might have to ride the bus with us plebes, then.” She lay down on the floor, using her purse as a pillow. “‘As the builders say, the larger stones do not lie well without the lesser.’”

“More philosophy?”

“Just a little something to think about,” she said tartly.

“Indeed,” he said slowly, and she noticed he had let off on the infernal buzzer. Maybe he was giving up. She sure was. After a moment, he asked, “Will anyone be looking for you?”

Her sigh in response seemed overloud in the darkness. “I don’t know. I came here with a friend, but she’s a bit . . . flighty. I don’t know if she’ll realize I’m missing or just assume I got on another bus.” Brontë hated to think about it, but if it came down to Sharon staying behind to make sure Brontë was safe or Sharon getting out of Dodge? She knew which one Sharon would pick. “I like to think that someone will come and check that the building’s been completely evacuated before they all run off to the mainland.”

“Mmm.” His tone was noncommittal. As if he wasn’t sure that was the case at all but wanted to humor her.

Yeah, she wasn’t sure about that either. But it sounded good, so she adjusted her purse and rested her cheek on it, waiting for rescue.

***

Brontë woke up some time later, her mouth dry, her body aching. The silence was deafening, the blackness almost overwhelming in its depth.

Still no power. Still in the elevator. She rubbed at her eyes and sat up, wincing. “Hello?”

“Still here.” The man trapped with her sounded more weary than annoyed. “You haven’t missed anything.”

“I must have slept. How . . . how long have I been out?”

“About six hours.”

Six hours? Dear God. Panic made her heart flutter in her chest. “They’re not coming for us?”

“My guess is no.”

She sucked in a deep breath, willing herself not to panic. Stuck in an elevator on an evacuated island. Stuck. It felt oppressively hot in the elevator now, as the power had been out for several hours and the tropical humidity was taking its toll. “How could they leave us behind?”

“Again, just a guess, but I would say that in the chaos of the evacuation, someone dropped the ball.” His tone was analytical. Bored.

Was he still pissed at her, or pissed at their situation? It didn’t matter, she supposed. Neither of them was going anywhere anytime soon.

She sat up, wincing at how stiff her body felt, and how sticky with sweat. Ugh. She was thirsty as hell, too, and there was no relief from the heat. The jeans and T-shirt she’d put on for the evacuation felt stifling. She kicked off her sandals and then glanced over to his corner of the elevator, not that she could see anything. If she undressed, would he notice? Would he mind? Was it dangerous? He didn’t seem like the type to leap over here and rape her, and she was miserable in the heat.

After a moment more of hesitation, she began to slowly shimmy out of her jeans, frowning at the loud noise her zipper made.

“What are you doing?”

Naturally he’d caught that small sound. Figured.

“I’m getting undressed. It’s hot in here. Just stay over on your side of the elevator, and I won’t bother you.”

She heard the rustle of clothing from his side of the elevator as well. “Good idea.”

“Was that a compliment? My. Am I forgiven for my insane giggling?” she teased.

“Not yet.” His terseness threatened to shut down the conversation.

“‘Forgive many things in others; nothing in yourself.’”

“Are you going to sit here and quote Plato all afternoon?” He sounded almost amused.

“That was Ausonius, actually. And yes. My philosophy degree has to be of some use.” Stripping off her shirt, she sighed with pleasure when the air hit her flushed skin. Clad in nothing but her bra and panties, she immediately felt cooler, much to her relief, and she folded her discarded clothes and tucked them against her purse.

“You can get down to your boxers, you know,” she told him. “I can’t see you, and it feels much better.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Briefs, then?” she couldn’t resist asking. “You struck me as a boxer man.”

Actually, he hadn’t struck her as much of anything. She’d only had a quick glimpse of him before the power had gone out. But she liked teasing him. It somehow made this hellish ordeal slightly less suffocating.

“Why are you asking about my clothing?” His tone was stiff, unpleasant.

She sighed. “It’s called making conversation. You should learn how to do it.” Curling up with her phone in her hand—though she didn’t dare open it and run the battery down—she thought for a minute and then offered, “My name’s Brontë.”

“Brontë? After Charlotte or Emily?”

Her esteem of him grudgingly went up a notch. Normally people cracked jokes about dinosaurs rather than realizing where her name was from. “Either. Both, I suppose. My mother had a fascination for classic literature, not that it got her anywhere.”

“I see we share a commonality in mothers, then.”

“Do we? Was yours a total dreamer, too?”

“Mine was a showgirl,” he said flatly. “I am told she was highly impractical and extremely irresponsible.”

“Oh. Um.” That hadn’t been quite what Brontë had meant. Her mother had been a sweet, caring woman, even if she didn’t have a practical bone in her body. She’d also stubbornly refused to see anything but the best in people, which was why Brontë’s childhood had been so idyllic . . . and so very false. She shoved away the bad memories. “I didn’t mean to sound negative about my mother. She just didn’t have sensible side. That’s all. She was a good woman. Anyhow, she liked books—especially classics.”

“And you have inherited her love, I take it. You seem to have an obsession with ancient philosophers.”

“Everyone has a hobby,” she said cheerfully. “What about you?”

“I do not.”

“You don’t have a hobby? At all?”

“I work. It takes up all my hours. Though I suppose I could spend my time memorizing pithy quotes to zing back at unsuspecting men in elevators.”

Well, now she felt stupid. “I . . . wow. Sorry. I just—”

“I was teasing you,” he said, his voice that same crisp, abrupt sound that she’d mistaken for rudeness. Perhaps that was just his manner and she hadn’t realized it because she couldn’t see his face.

“Oh.” Now she felt silly. “I didn’t realize.” There was a long pause between them, and she rushed to change the subject. “So, what’s your name?”

He hesitated, as if he were weighing the benefits of telling her. “Logan Hawkings.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“Indeed.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice now, definitely.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing at all.”

It sure sounded like he was amused by something, but what it was, she didn’t know. A smidge annoyed, Brontë lay back down on the floor, resting her cheek on her folded clothing. “So how long do you think we’ll be here?”

“I suppose it depends on how direct of a hit the hurricane makes on Seaturtle Cay. Then it depends on the organization of rescue efforts.”

She yawned, feeling sleepy again due to the heat. “So far I’m not impressed with them.”

He snorted. “That makes two of us.”

There was another lull in the conversation, and she figured she’d best fill it again before he decided he was fine being silent once more. “Do you have a family, Logan?”

“No.” That syllable was definitely clipped and short. Not a conversation he wanted to have, then.

“Me either. Since I’m supposed to be on vacation, work won’t be missing me for a week at least.” A distressing thought crossed her mind. “God, I hope we’re not stuck in here for a week.”

“I doubt that will happen.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we’ll die from dehydration long before that.”

She felt the sudden urge to fling one of her sandals at him. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“All right then, we’ll die thanks to the hurricane.”

“The glass is definitely half empty for you, isn’t it? Don’t think of things that way. Maybe one of the hotel employees stayed behind and will come looking for you. Did you assign anyone to check the floors?”

“Assign anyone? Why on earth would I do that?”

She frowned into the darkness. “You’re wearing a badge. Aren’t you the manager here?”

“Ah . . . yes. And no, I didn’t assign anyone to check the floors.”

Lovely. Not only was the man kind of abrasive, but it didn’t seem like he was good at handling an emergency. She yawned into her hand again. This heat was making her so sleepy. She hadn’t gotten much rest the night before, thanks to the people in the next room and their acrobatics. Which reminded he . . . “Since you’re the manager, can I make a suggestion?”

“I can’t stop you.”

“Thicker walls.”

“Pardon?”

“You definitely want thicker walls. You can hear everything through some of them. I’m just saying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He sounded amused again.

The wind whistled, and she heard a crack in the distance. She bolted upright. “What was that?”

She heard him get to his feet. “Hurricane must be arriving,” he said.

“Oh, shit.” Panic began to surge through her again. “We have to get out of here, Logan.”

“I know.”

Brontë chewed on her fingernails, her mouth dry as she strained to hear more noise from the hurricane. What was happening out there? Had Sharon even noticed that she’d never come back? Doubtful. She’d probably found her passport at the bar and then had started flirting with the nearest guy. Some friend.

Definitely taking the next vacation by herself.

There was an odd scraping sound, and a crack of light appeared then grew larger. She watched in surprise as Logan forced the doors of the elevator apart. They were stuck between floors. She could make out a bit of brick, and then more light flooded in as he pushed the second set of doors open. His body was lit up, and she could see he was down to his slacks, his chest bare and gleaming with sweat.

As soon as he let go of the first set of doors, though, they began to slide shut, so he grabbed them and braced them again, glancing back at her. “I think we can jump down.”

She grabbed her clothes and her purse, then moved forward, peeking over the edge. They had about a foot and a half of clearance, and it looked like a six foot drop to the floor, at the very least. “Is it safe?”

“Safer than staying here.”

He had a point. “So how do we do this?”

Logan continued to hold the doors open, thinking. His face looked angular in the low light. “If you can hold the doors, I’ll slide through and then look for something to brace them apart.”

That sounded . . . nerve-racking. She’d have to trust him to come back for her. “What if I go first?”

“I’m stronger. If I can’t find something to brace the doors, I’ll have to hold them open for you while you climb down. I’m not sure you’ll be able to do the same for me.”

He had a point. Brontë bit her lip, then nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll hold them.”

They traded places, and Brontë held the doors while he grabbed his clothes and put them back on quickly. She tried not to think about the fact that she probably should have gotten dressed, too, and was standing in an elevator wearing nothing but a leopard bra and bright pink boy shorts. It could have been worse, she supposed. “Ready?”

He squatted on the floor and examined the space, then glanced at her. “Would it bother you if I went between your legs?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Be my guest. My legs welcome your invading presence.”

This time he chuckled, and she blushed. “I just don’t want you losing your grip on the door,” he told her. “That’s all. I promise I won’t look up.”

“Just get us out of here,” she said, wincing and spreading her legs wide so he could slide out from between them. This was not a story she was going to repeat if she got home.

When I get home, she told herself. When.

As Logan shimmied out of the elevator, Brontë focused on the weather. She could hear the pounding rain occasionally and wind gusts that sounded dangerous. They’d been isolated from the worst of it inside the elevator, but with the door open, it was all too obvious that the hurricane was upon them and they were trapped.

Suddenly Logan’s body was gone, and then she heard him smack the tile floor below. She was startled and almost let go of the doors. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just off balance. Stay there, and I’ll look for something to brace the door open so you can crawl out.”

“Okay,” she said, licking her dry lips. She tried to peek down and get a good look at his face, but the angle at which she was holding the doors made it impossible. She heard him walk away, and panic surged through her. He was gone. What if he wasn’t coming back? “Hurry!” she squeaked out, hoping he’d heard that last entreaty.

The elevator was feeling a bit oppressive now, and her arms were beginning to ache from holding the doors open. It wasn’t that they were hard to hold apart, but she was exhausted, thirsty, and starving. And a little terrified.

Okay, a lot terrified.

Time creeped past, every minute ticking by in slow motion. It seemed like forever before Logan returned, and she nearly sobbed in relief when she caught sight of him below. He set up a short ladder, then grasped the doors at the bottom, keeping them apart.

“You’re going to have to slide down between my arms,” he told her. “Get on your stomach and lower your legs first.”

She nodded. “Gotcha. Can I let go now?”

“Let go.”

She did, holding her breath for a moment as she released the doors. Then she hesitated. If she shimmied down, she was going to more or less shove her ass in his face. “Maybe I should get dressed first—”

“Just come on!”

“Well, then close your eyes!”

“I’m not going to close my eyes, Brontë. Just come on already. I can’t hold this forever. The hurricane’s almost on us.”

She hesitated for a moment more, but a crash from outside decided her. Biting her lip, she tossed her bag and clothes out of the elevator ahead of her and then slid her legs out of the hole. When she was about halfway out, she began to have visions of the power coming back on and the elevator slicing her in half, and she rushed to slide completely out, not caring that her behind might have brushed against his face or that her wiggling feet couldn’t find a toehold.

“Just drop,” he told her after a moment.

She did, and collapsed to the floor. Her leg scraped along the ladder as she fell, and she smacked onto the ground with a thud that knocked the breath out of her.

But they were out of the elevator. Thank heavens, they were out of the elevator.

“You okay?” Logan moved to her side, his hands running lightly over her naked limbs, checking for breaks. “You’re bleeding.”

“Just a scratch. Something broke the skin when I slid. I’ll be fine.” She sat up, grimacing, and allowed him to help her to her feet. The air was muggy and hot. “What about the hurricane?”

“Sounds like it’s getting worse.”

“Should we go to the basement? Something?”

“Not the basement. The front lobby’s already flooding with water. We need someplace safe.” He glanced around. “Someplace with no windows that is off the ground.”

“A stairwell?” she suggested.

He nodded and grabbed her hand, dragging her with him. “Come on. I think the stairs are this way.”

Surprised that he would grab her hand, Brontë followed him, staring in openmouthed horror at their surroundings as they ran. The hotel looked as if it had been ransacked. Furniture was overturned; papers and pamphlets were strewn everywhere. Doors hung open as if the occupants had simply forgotten to close them in their haste to leave. They raced past the lobby, and Brontë gasped, her steps slowing.

It was flooded. An inch of water had crept across the floor, and more was pouring in by the large glass doors. Large, broken glass doors. A quick glance outside showed that the skies were a sickly gray-green, and the closest tree was nearly sideways in the wind. Fear tightened her throat.

“You can sightsee later,” Logan told her harshly, tugging on her hand. “Come on.”

They ran down one corridor, then another. Every crack she heard from outside made her heart race, and she was in a near panic by the time they got to the stairwell. Logan flung the doors open and pushed her inside, and she raced up the flight of stairs to pause, breathing heavily, at the landing where they twisted to the next level. It was dark and shadowy, the only light coming from the small, square window of the stairwell door.

“Stay there,” Logan said. When she began to protest, he raised a hand. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to check something out.”

Brontë slumped to the ground, clutching her bag. She was too winded to bother to put her clothes on now, and too freaked out to do more than stare at the door. What if Logan got trapped out there? What if he didn’t come back for her? What if she was going to be stranded in this hurricane alone?

A gust of wind boomed overhead, followed by a crack of a palm tree snapping so loud that she jumped. She didn’t like being in the darkness alone. Not one bit. What if the stairwell collapsed in the storm?

To her relief, Logan returned a few minutes later carrying blankets and pillows and a small trash bag. She must have looked a bit shocked, because he immediately dropped everything and climbed the stairs to kneel next to her.

“You okay?” His voice was soft, protective. His fingers brushed her cheek.

She nodded, managing a trembling smile. “I think the noise is messing with my head. Marcus Aurelius said that ‘It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.’ Except I don’t think he ever went through a hurricane. I almost prefer the elevator.”

“I don’t,” Logan said. “Wait here. I picked up a few things for us.”

He headed back down the stairs to where he’d dropped his haul and then moved it all up to the landing, displaying none of the sheer exhaustion that Brontë was feeling. As she watched in the low light, he offered her a pillow and then a blanket.

“What’s all this for?”

“Just in case it gets cold later. We want to be prepared. It’s going to be a long night with that storm raging. This is probably the only safe place in the building that we can get to at the moment.”

She nodded and examined the pillow, then shoved it behind her back. It provided a bit of relief from the hard wall. “Thank you.”

Logan sat down next to her and did the same with his pillow, both of them ignoring the blanket for the moment. It was too hot, too humid to even think about covering up. She was thankful to be in just her bra and panties, since she was feeling sticky and overwarm.

As she watched, Logan dragged the trash bag to his side and pulled out two bottles of water. Her eyes widened, and her mouth went dry. Thirst hit her like a freight train at the sight of that water, and she licked her lips. “Is one of those for me?”

He gave a brief nod and handed her one. It was room temperature. She didn’t care. She unscrewed the cap and began to drink, the water tasting sweet and delicious on her parched tongue.

She could have downed the entire bottle in an instant, but she forced herself to drink only half, saving the rest for later. At her side, Logan continued to dig through the bag. “I had to raid the closest minibar. It’s not a great selection, but it’ll hold us until the worst of the storm passes overhead.”

And he handed her a candy bar.

Brontë took it with a smile. “I could kiss you for that.”

“You could,” he said easily.

She glanced over at him, the breath catching in her throat. Was he flirting with her? Was this—

The wind howled overhead, so loudly that the walls seemed to shake with the force of it. Brontë whimpered in response, pulling her legs close to her chest and hugging them tight.

“Shhh,” Logan told her softly. His arm went around her shoulders, and he pulled her closer to him and rested a hand over her hair, as if protecting her head. “I’m here. We’re safe.”

She huddled close to him, inhaling the spicy scent of his chest and resisting the urge to crawl into his lap like a scaredy-cat. Oddly enough, things didn’t seem so bad with him soothing her, and after a minute, she relaxed. Just feeling his large body pressed against hers was comforting and made the storm seem a little farther away.

Her stomach growled, loudly.

A low rumble started in his chest, and she realized he was laughing. “Eat your candy bar.”

She unwrapped it with trembling fingers. “Just so you know, in the future, I prefer M&M’s. The peanut kind, not the plain.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Philosophy and peanut M&M’s.”

“That’s right,” she said, taking a big bite out of her candy bar and moaning with pleasure as the taste hit her tongue. “This is really good. Thank you.”

She heard the wrapper rustling as he unwrapped his. They snacked on candy, huddled in the stairwell, and waited for the storm to end.

“So how is it that you know Marcus Aurelius by heart, Brontë?”

She shrugged. “My mother loved books, but she especially loved the classics—Brontë, Austen, and Gaskell. The romantic ones.” She paused, thinking of her mother. “I graduated from UMKC with a BA in philosophy. Majored in that, minored in history. I like ancient philosophers. I feel like they taught a lot of wisdom that can be applied to modern life.”

“Interesting. So you’re . . . a teacher?”

Brontë grinned. “Hardly. I’m a waitress at a sock hop diner.”

“A . . . waitress.” He said the words as if tasting them. “That’s a bit of a career change.”

“Not really. I started waitressing to pay the bills during school and then kept waitressing while I hunted for jobs after graduating, and, well, two years later, I’m still waitressing.” She grimaced. That sounded so . . . lame.

“So you’re twenty-four?”

“I am. How old are you?”

“I just turned twenty-nine.”

She elbowed him playfully. “Wow, that’s ancient.”

He snorted.

“Seriously, though, you’re doing really good for yourself,” she told him. “Manager of a big place like this at twenty-nine? Your parents must be proud.”

He was silent for so long that she worried she’d offended him. Then he said, very softly, “Thank you.”

She took another bite of her candy bar and wondered at his response.