“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.”