When my own laughter starts to bubble up from out of mychest, I realize that we are undeniably hysterical at this point. The adrenaline and fear and anxiety have mixed together to concoct some sort of delirium that has us losing our minds. The more Freya snorts, the more Julian cackles, the more I can’t seem to catch my breath.
Rule #6: Never get yourself stuck in an elevator with two billionaires.
Freya
What started as a nightmare has really taken a turn. Beingstuck in an elevator in a power outage would normally be terrifying on its own. But add to that a stuck-up rich prick who hates me and a brutally handsome man with a black eye and bloody knuckles, and it turns into what should be a scenario from hell.
Since sitting on the floor, I’ve had all the worst possible outcomes of this situation running through my head. So far, these two seem harmless. Let’s just hope they stay that way.
I tried sending a text to Amelia, but it won’t go through. The compartment was stifling at first, probably from all the adrenaline and panic, but since we’ve relaxed, the chill from the elevator shaft has seeped in.
Once our laughter has subsided, I pull my jacket back around my shoulders. The man to my left, Archer, notices me shivering.
“Here,” he says, handing me his wool coat.
“No, please don’t,” I argue, but he won’t hear it. He drapes the heavy fabric over my legs, and I stop arguing. My skirt wasn’tlong enough, and if I hadn’t left in such a rush, I would have had time to put on a pair of stockings instead of running around Paris in January with bare legs.
“Thank you,” I mumble, glancing up to meet his gaze.
My goodness, he’s handsome, in a rugged, rough-around-the-edges sort of way. He has unkempt curls the color of black coffee and warm olive-toned skin. There’s bruising around his left eye and swelling around his top lip. That and the busted condition of his knuckles have me curious to know why he does this to himself.
Archer strikes me as one of those very laid-back and carefree type of guys, which is slightly incompatible with the image he presents. He is a walking enigma, multilayered and one of a kind. It draws me to him even more.
The elevator shifts with a loud banging from below, and I let out a yelp as I reach a hand out in both directions. “What was that?”
There are voices somewhere in the distance, and the three of us go silent as we listen for what they’re saying.
“They said they’re getting help,” Julian says.
Suddenly, I realize that he’s gripping my hand comfortingly, his thumb stroking the soft skin of my wrist. On my other side, Archer is cupping my opposite hand in both of his, squeezing me tightly as if he’s tethering me to the ground.
“We’ll be out of here in no time,” he says with a reassuring wink.
I want to be out of this elevator more than anything; I do. This past hour has felt like eight, and I just want to feel solid ground under my feet again.
But…I must admit, this is almost nice. Julian isn’t being a total jerk. And this hunky brunette is holding my hand, making me feel sort of special.
I’m just saying…there could be worse people to be stuck in an elevator with.
“Talk to me, Chef,” Archer says, giving my hand a quick pulse.
Leaning my head back against the wall, I smirk at the nickname. “I’m not a chef, at least not a head chef. Not yet.”
“Bullshit,” Archer snaps. “I tasted those things you made. You’re a chef.”
“I said not yet,” I argue playfully.
This time, it’s Julian who speaks up. “But you will be.”
Hearing him say that catches me off guard, mostly because the whole reason I’m in this stupid elevator to begin with is to fight for my job back. And now he’s just going to say it like that. As if this near-death experience miraculously changed his mind.
“He’s right,” Archer says, backing him up. “It’s all about mindset, Freya. If you want to be a chef and you’re working on your goals to be a chef, then call yourself one, for fuck’s sake. Say it. Say ‘I’m a chef.’”
With a scoff, I shake my head. “I’m not going to say that.”
“Yes, you are. Say it.”
Dammit, he’s cute when he’s a persistent pain in the ass.
