The car started moving again. Emma looked out at the street, trying to get her bearings. Her fingers toyed with the hem of Darren’s T-shirt. “Well,” she said, her mind focused on tracking the buildings sliding past. “I’m not one to tease about clichés. I’m a single female romance writer who has two cats and drinks wine in the bathtub.” She caught herself, embarrassment flaring. “I mean...occasionally.”
He leaned back, amusement tugging at his lips. “Occasionally, huh?”
She hummed noncommittally. “Occupational hazard.”
Darren’s laugh rumbled low beside her, and she hated—loved—how it softened the mortification into something almost endearing.
His phone buzzed sharply, breaking the moment. He pulled his hand from her knee to fish it out, a small crease forming between his brows. “Sorry, it’s Max. I’ve just got to...”
“Sure,” Emma said a little too quickly. Her skin felt warm under her jeans where his hand had rested.
His hoodie sleeve brushed her arm as he typed, his thigh still pressed against hers, and for a moment, she didn’t mind the slow crawl of traffic.
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 donotget 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 theBack to the Futurelogo plastered across her chest.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, in full dramatic horror. “Is thathisshirt?”
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 pulsefinally settled, for the first time since her eyes had caught the time on Darren’s watch.
