Page 7 of The Escape Plan

Swearing under my breath, I hit the “open door” button, but the doors stay firmly closed.

Guess this is happening, then.I’m taking the elevator. With an Irish stranger who smells not unlike Irish Spring soap. And who may or may not be laughing at me.

“Not quite goodbye,” he says, his eyes twinkling as he watches me, a smirk playing on his lips.

Yeah, scratch that. He’sdefinitelylaughing at me.

“Guess we’re stuck together,” he adds. “At least, until we get to the next floor.”

I slump against the wall in defeat, trying to ignore my unfortunate elevator buddy.

“Why are we not moving yet?” I mutter, more to myself than to my new Irish elevator buddy.

Craig is bound to be grumpy as all heck. In fact, he’s probably getting in his truck and leaving as I speak, which means that by the time we get to the lobby, I’ll be faced with the dilemma of slinking back to my apartment to bake like a Thanksgiving turkey for another day, or chasing The Scowling Handyman down the street like a crazy woman.

I’m not sure which option is worse.

“I think it might be stuck.” Irish Stranger smiles, totally unfazed. “It’s probably because of the number of times you pressed the buttons. Maybe you confused it.”

“I don’t know what goes on where you’re from, but elevators don’t get confused here in the USA,” I retort. It’s this guy’s stupid guitar’s fault that we’re stuck, when you think about it. It was the root cause of all my panicked button-pressing.

“Mayo,” he says.

“Excuse me?” I turn to look the guy full in his face.

And my, what a pretty face it is. He’s got a strong, angular bone structure that contrasts with his full lips and mischievous eyes.

“Mayo,” he says again in his lilted accent, and I’m now faced with the additional concern that I’m stuck in an elevator with a psychopath who wants to put me in a sandwich.

“I have no idea why on earth we are talking about condiments, but I’m more of a Miracle Whip girl, thank you very much.”

His brows fly up. “What in the name of arse is Miracle Whip?”

“It’s like mayonnaise, but better.”

He starts to laugh. It’s a nice laugh. “Ah, no, no, no. I’mfromMayo. As in, County Mayo, Ireland. Although, now, I am very intrigued about this Miracle Whip you speak of. Can I buy it at the shops here?”

“Oh,” I reply, my cheeks reddening. “Yeah, it’s in every grocery store. On the shelf right next to the?—”

“Mayo?” he finishes with a lopsided smile, a dimple popping in his right cheek.

“I was going to say ‘mustard.’” I can’t help but smile back, forgetting for a moment the peril of my current situation. Probably due to that admittedly very-much-not-unattractive dimple on show.

Just for a moment, though. Because as we share a smile, he seems to remember that he’s smiling at a woman in a towel and abruptly looks away, his cheekbones flushing. He presses another button, uselessly. We’re still not moving.

“Do you really think the elevator’s stuck?” I ask the obvious.

He pauses for a moment. “I do.”

I slump farther against the wall. Craig will be long gone by now, my dreams of sleeping in a cool room tonight up in smoke.

“I’ve lived here for three years, and the elevator’s never gotten stuck, as far as I’m aware,” I can’t help but grumble.

“Today’s your lucky day, then,” Irish Stranger says.

“Ha,” I bite out, then assess the elevator panel. The thing is ancient, and I don’t see a button to call for help. I also, of course, don’t have my phone on me in my towel-clad state. “So what do you folks do in Ireland during emergencies?”

“Dial 999,” he says immediately.

---