“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 fromthe 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?”
