Ronan snorts. “I should’ve known.”
I shoot him a chastising glance for interrupting. And for insulting my name. It’s a good name. It suits me. Everyone says so.
I decide to ignore him and the scary elevator. I focus on the girl because little people are also my jam. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Belle.”
“I love your name!” I exclaim. “You’re a princess.”
“I love yours, too,” she says. “You’re a flower. And I love your dress.” Her face scrunches in confusion. “But why are we in here? Why aren’t we moving?”
“We’re stuck,” I say as cheerfully as I can manage. “But we’re super safe, so don’t worry, Belle.” I say that to reassure her, as well as myself. I try to push away any anxiety that we might be stuck for hours and thank the saints that I went to the bathroom before I left the bar.
“Oh.” She nestles into the big guy’s chest. “I’m not worried. Father will get us out,” she says with calm assurance.
So he’s her dad. Interesting. I’ve never heard that Ronan Masters is a baby daddy. I rarely follow celebrity gossip, but I peek at the tabloids at the checkout stand. Especially when he’s on the cover. For academic interest, of course.
“While I have supreme faith in your dad,” I say with a grin, “we could play a game to see who can scream ‘Help!’ the loudest. I bet you’ll win. You seem like a girl with good lungs.”
Her eyes light up. “I can yell loud. My last nanny complained I hurt her ears.”
“I hate to interrupt the fun, but maybe we should try a phone first? Do you have one?” Ronan asks.
Of course! A cell phone. “Do you?” I shoot back.
He shakes his head. “Mine’s out of battery. But given the size of your bag—” he points to the enormous bag I’ve dubbed the Party Rescue Kit for all the times it’s come in handy tonight “—you’ve got room for a phone.”
He looks so hopeful. I hate to break his faith in me and my purse. “I was at a bachelorette party. The whole wedding is unplugged.” I use finger quotes for the word unplugged.
“What the hell is that?”
“Unplugged. You know, no phones allowed.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Ronan grumbles.
“Don’t be such a hater,” I sniff. “It was my idea. All the wedding blogs advise it. Camera phones and bachelorette parties are a terrible combination. There’s too much risk of photo blackmail from bad choices, fashion or otherwise.”
Belle shifts, and Ronan turns his attention back to her, his eyes softening in a way that goes straight to my uterus.
“Is it okay if I yell with Poppy now?” Belle asks.
“Of course,” he agrees, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.
I don’t want Belle scared, so I say, “It will be fun. It’s called the yelling game.”
Ronan snorts, but when I glance at him, his expression is bland.
“Ready?” I ask Belle. She nods.
“Three. Two. One.” I count down then wink at Belle. We scream at top volume.
Ronan doesn’t join our yelling fest until I shove him in the ribs with my elbow, and then he joins in halfheartedly.
“You have a big voice,” Belle says to me in admiration when I take a screaming break.
“You too, kiddo. Big voices, small bodies,” I say, pointing between her and me. I offer her a high five. She slaps my hand and giggles some more. I probably shouldn’t call myself small, not with having inherited the O’Brien hips, but I’m short, so I take linguistic license with the word. And I’m far, far smaller than the big guy next to me. It’s all relative.
“Are you saying I don’t have a big voice?” Ronan’s growl is as deep as the ocean.
