Page 8 of The Work Wife

“We’re going to die.” she said.

He frowned at her, knowing she was joking. The girl was smart as a whip and the daughter of a cop. There was no one he’d rather be stuck on an island or abandoned in a snow-covered parking lot with.

“Or we can go back inside and wait until the night security crew comes in at ten,” she said, coming up with a feasible backup plan. Maybe he could walk to a nearby business, but everything he could see from there looked dark. Besides, without his phone he didn’t know anyone’s phone number.

It was almost eight now. Two hours until help arrived. He took her arm to assist her and then nearly fell himself. She was quick to help him. So much for gallantry. At least he was able to hold open the door to the lobby in a gentlemanly fashion. He noticed her shoulders relax as soon as she was inside the vestibule.

As she reached for the inner door to the lobby, he braced himself for reality while still hoping tonight would be different. Those doors locked behind him whenever he stayed late. Tonight was no exception.

* * * *

“Son of a bitch.” She let her head fall back in utter defeat. She knew it was a long shot, but she couldn’t help but try. This couldn’t be happening. No one would ever believe this. The only thing left to make their experience a complete nightmare was for a velociraptor to come out of the lobby bathroom and eat one of them.

Wes was bigger. Surely he would be eaten first.

“At least it’s warm,” he offered.

Ever the optimist, Jamie had no choice but to go along with it and be positive. It was warm. Due to the ten-foot tropical plants, the glass lobby maintained a toasty temperature.

And there was also a bathroom and a coffee machine. What they didn’t have was a phone, though she could see it on the desk sitting about five feet from the locked door separating the lobby from the vestibule.

She peeled her outerwear off before she started to sweat. It was such a contrast to how she’d felt five minutes ago. God, she hoped this wasn’t what menopause felt like.

Wes only had to worry about a jacket, which he tossed on one of the four sofas before starting on the coffee.

She flopped down on the nearest sofa and watched Wes prepare her cup with one pack of sugar and a two-second count of creamer. He always got it right.

Not that he was the only one who knew his co-worker. She knew he took three packs of sugar and no creamer. Unless she wanted to do something special for him, then she would get him a vanilla caramel latte. The carnal groan that escaped on his first sip always made it worth the extra cost.

“Do you have any change for the snack machine?” he asked as the coffee machine burbled and gasped the last of its offerings.

“Yep. In my laptop bag.” She let out a sigh. “Don’t you have your wallet?”

“Yep. It has three twenties in it.”

She let out a low whistle. “Three twenties. Look at you, all Daddy Warbucks.”

When the coffee was done he filled their cups and set them on the coffee table in front of her.

“It’s hot,” he warned as she proceeded to take a sip anyway, burning her mouth. “Oh.” He grabbed his jacket from the other sofa and checked one pocket before switching to root through the other. He pulled out some kind of protein bar and held it up triumphantly. “Protein. We won’t starve. In fact we’ll have enough strength to break down the wall.”

She smiled at his expression and the fact he didn’t even hesitate to share his last morsel of food with her. Maybe it was because they both knew help would be arriving in less than two hours. But knowing Wes, he’d share his bar even if things were more dire.

That’s just how he was. A good guy down to the core. Another wave of guilt washed over her when she remembered she’d actually considered bailing on him to work with Duane. It was a momentary lapse. She knew her best chances of being on Team One were to stick with Wes. He was way better than Duane.

Sitting close to her, Wes opened the wrapper and attempted to break the grain-covered brick in half. With a determined frown he put more effort into it.

“Don’t pull a muscle.”

“Damn. This thing is like a rock.”

“Sounds tasty. How long has it been in your pocket?”

“Two weeks, maybe?” Using the human time displacement conversion, she figured he’d put it in there about three months ago. The brick relented, throwing pieces of gravel-like shrapnel everywhere. Fortunately none of the debris took out an eye.

“Ladies first.” He held out a handful of brownish-gray crumbles.

“I’m going to claim equal rights on this one.”