“We have to get out and alert the police,” she insisted.
In the blackness of the basement room, he couldn’t see even his hand in front of his face. But he shifted to the door and this time swept his hand along the doorframe, checking for any way at all that he might be able to pry the door open.
His fingers skated over the smooth wood, then over the handle. The lock was on the outside ... because the bank obviously wanted to prevent random people—like them—from browsing the rooms filled with private documents.
Maybe Zaira was right, though. Maybe he should make an effort to find another way out or an item he could use to break open the door.
For a short while, they bumped and felt their way around the room. But it didn’t take long to discover that the walls were lined with tall drawers, and each drawer contained only papers. Aside from a tin wastebasket Zaira had knocked over, they found papers, folders, and a few random pens, but nothing else except a vent high up in one wall. He managed to take it off, but the space was too small for either of them to fit into.
At some point—after at least an hour of attempting to wiggle the door handle and hinges loose—he resigned himself to the fact that he and Zaira would be stuck in the storage room for the night. Zaira seemed to resign herself, too, and sat down with him against the door.
Bellamy didn’t know exactly where the safe was. But from the echo of hammers and chisels, he guessed it was on the opposite side of the door at the end of the hallway. The echo wasn’t loud, but he could feel the reverberations once in a while against his back.
Of course Zaira proved to be an easy conversationalist, and they talked about many topics—Seamus and Moya, the struggle with homelessness, the problems of the new immigrants, and the plan to connect children to families who could temporarily house them.
At some point they started talking more about theirfamilies, and though he didn’t like going into specifics regarding his relationship with Oscar and all that had happened with his mam and their marriage, he didn’t mind talking about Jenny and Gavin. He shared with Zaira about their last year in Ireland before immigrating and about the adjustments once they arrived. She asked him about Jenny not having any children and what that had been like.
Zaira shared equally about her family and what her life had been like growing up in such a large, affluent family. Although she didn’t say so directly, he got the sense that she’d been somewhat overlooked as the middle child and that she’d done her best to keep the peace amidst all the other turmoil her family experienced.
Late into the night, after hours of talking—even about her writing and his painting—Zaira began yawning more frequently, and her whispers grew softer until they tapered off. Her even breathing told him she’d fallen asleep. When her head drooped to one side and came to rest against his shoulder, he didn’t move away, even though a warning went off inside him, especially because he couldn’t deny how many things he liked about Zaira Shanahan.
Had he ever talked with a woman as openly as he did her? He couldn’t remember anyone who interested him as much. He’d actually enjoyed the time with her and liked getting to know more about her. Underneath her sassiness, she had a tender and sweet heart.
Even so, he couldn’t let the attraction interfere with putting an end to their fake relationship. Just because he liked her didn’t mean he wanted to marry her, especially because their whole relationship had started on a lie. That didn’t bode well for the future.
At some point, he dozed too, even with the distant thudding of a hammer or chisel or both. When he startled awake, the grogginess of sleep had him utterly at sea for only a moment before he remembered where he was and what had happened.
The first thing he noticed was the silence. The hammering and chiseling seemed to have stopped. Had the robbers broken into the safe, stolen the money, and run off?
He wished he could gauge what time it was and if morn was at hand. But without a window or the ability to see his pocket watch, he didn’t know how many hours were left before the bank workers arrived for the day.
Once people were here, he and Zaira would have to find a way to alert them to their presence inside the storage room. He could only pray that someone from his family or hers had been worried about them last night when they didn’t return and had started looking for them. But it was possible everyone assumed they’d gotten delayed in Carondelet during their search for Mr. O’Reilly.
Whatever the case, he hoped they didn’t have to wait much longer. From his spot reclining against the storage room door, his back ached and his legs were stiff. Zaira was still resting her head against his shoulder and had also laid a hand on his arm.
From the steadiness of her breathing, he could tell she hadn’t awoken, and he didn’t want to bother her yet, not until he had to. One of them might as well get a wee bit of sleep.
Stifling a yawn, he shifted a little to take some of the pressure off his tailbone.
At his movement, she began to stir. Although he couldn’tsee her, he could feel her lift her arm away from him and then stretch it above her head. When she brought it back down, she seemed to attempt to place her hand back on his arm, but instead it landed upon his chest right next to his heart.
After the past hours of talking and being so close, to listening to her breathing, to feeling her warmth, to having her hair tickle his jaw, he was much too keenly aware of her presence.
She yawned, then snuggled her head against his arm while at the same time flattening her fingers and gently patting him.
She’d patted him. Like he was a cat.
A strange protest swelled in him. Clearly she wasn’t affected by him the same way he was by her.
She released a soft sigh, as if she was settling in again to go back to sleep.
Before he could stop himself, he slid his arm around behind her, drawing her closer so that now she was leaning against his body with her head on his chest.
She seemed to hesitate, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to think of the new position.
She was even softer than he’d remembered, and her body fit so well against him. With her head tucked beneath his chin, more of her hair brushed his skin, and the silkiness of it brought an aching need to his chest.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he lifted his free hand and stroked the loose strands. After the long, restless night, her hair had fallen free of the usual knot. His fingers followed the trail of the hair downward, combing it gently.
