Going Up_A Novella

by Tawna Fenske

  “Hmm.” I do my best to keep a straight face.

  He’s watching me for clues, those root-beer-brown eyes locked on my face with such focus that I want to look away. But there’s a tiny part of me that likes it, too. That loves the fact that Noah Donovan is so interested in getting to know me.

  “I’m going with the thing about naming all the bones in the body,” he says. “You strike me as very intelligent, which not only means you could have the psychology degree, but the smarts to use it to come up with a detailed fib about a fifth-grade teacher obsessed with anatomy.”

  I beam, not sure whether I’m more thrilled that I just won, or that he called me smart. That he regards it as an admirable trait, rather than something to mock. “I have a BS in psychology,” I admit. “And if we get really bored in here, I will cheerfully list off every bone in your body, starting with the cranium and ending with the metatarsals.”

  He laughs and slaps the floor, but Bartholomew doesn’t jump this time. He’s getting used to all the commotion and seems to regard Noah as his own personal carnival ride.

  “That’s awesome,” Noah says. “I was actually a psych major for the first two years of undergrad before my dad convinced me to switch to pre-law. Nicely played, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So Kilimanjaro was the lie?”

  I nod, a little disappointed in myself for not being more brave and adventurous. “It’s on my bucket list, though.”

  “And I hope you get to do it,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I just have to get over my fear of heights first.”

  And my fear of—well, everything else.

  Neither of us says anything for a moment, and I wonder if I ought to suggest playing another round. Bartholomew jumps off Noah’s leg and scurries over to his bucket of tools, surveying the tip of one particularly lethal-looking instrument. He stretches up to touch it, but it’s belted firmly in place.

  “He likes shiny objects,” I say. “Gum wrappers, jewelry, paper clips—you name it.”

  Noah smiles and reaches over to scratch Bartholomew behind one ear. “Good luck lifting that one, buddy,” he says. “My mashing hammer weighs four pounds.”

  I don’t know why, but this sentence makes me giggle. It sounds like a bad pickup line someone might use at the bar.

  Noah looks at me then, and he smiles, too. He doesn’t ask why I’m laughing, which I appreciate. It saves me from having to make up another fib. His smile is big and dimpled, and stretches wide enough to make his eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s a good smile. A real smile.

  A smile that sends a funny, chattery wave down my spine. At last, he shakes his head. “If you told me this morning I’d be stuck in an elevator with a packrat and a beautiful woman, I never would have believed it.”

  Beautiful woman.

  The words rattle around inside my head, and my response is equal parts excitement and leeriness.

  Leeriness because I hear it a dozen times a night behind the bar. “Hey, beautiful—what are you doing after work?” or “Hey, beautiful—how about you give me your number?”

  Excitement because the way Noah’s looking at me right now doesn’t suggest he’s a threat. Then again, I don’t have the best track record when it comes to assessing that.

  Remember the last time you let someone get too close, Watson warns.

  But he’s so sweet, Harlow says, swooning.

  I clear my throat and glance up at the panel as Bartholomew reclaims his post on Noah’s knee. “Think we should ask Bob for an update?”

  Noah nods and starts to stand, but I wave him off and jump to my feet. “Let’s not disturb Bartholomew.”

  Bartholomew looks up at me from his perch and twitches his whiskers in agreement.

  I press the “Call” button, rewarded by a crackle of static and a familiar voice. “Yo!”

  Yo? Is it too much to expect that the guy entrusted with saving our lives might sound like a professional instead of a middle-school thug?

  “Bob?” I clear my throat. “This is Lexi. I’m trapped in the elevator with Noah―”

  I glance over at him. “What did you say your last name was?”

  “Donovan.”

  “―Noah Donovan,” I tell Bob. “We’re wondering if you have an update on when we’ll be getting out of here.”

  “You’ve gotta pee?”

  I frown and look at Noah. “Um, no.” Not yet, anyway. Hell, I hadn’t considered our lack of bathroom access until just now. Instantly I regret the twenty-ounce iced tea I drank with lunch.

  Across from me, Noah folds his arms across his chest. I know Bob can’t see the gesture, but I can, and it reminds me what an intimidating guy he is.

  “Bob, we’re looking for an update,” Noah says. “When will you have us out of here?”

  “Uh, soon?”

  I look at Noah and frown. “Is it just me,” I whisper, “or is it not very comforting to have that phrased as a question?”

  “Bob, we’re not hearing any activity outside the elevator,” Noah says. “No clanging or banging or anything.”

  “That’s ’cause it’s an electronic malfunction,” he says. “But my guys are working on it. Shouldn’t be more than another hour or two. If you have to pee, maybe you can—”

  “We don’t have to pee,” I snap. “Just get us out of here. Please?”

  I hate that my voice sounds frantic, but it prompts a fast reply from Bob.

  “Yes, ma’am. You need me to call anyone? Let ’em know you’ll be late?”

  I frown. It hadn’t occurred to me until now that there’s no one expecting me at all. I’d planned a quiet evening at home with Bartholomew. Shelly’s out of town, and my best friend, Corrie, is on a date. There’s no one at all to miss me if I don’t show up for hours. Maybe days.

  Crap.

  I glance back at Noah and feel uneasy again. He seems nice enough, but still. I’ve been wrong about that before.

  I swallow hard and remind myself not to give anything away. Two unfamiliar men I’d never met until an hour ago are awaiting my response, so I give one.

  “I should definitely call my husband.” I reach into my small handbag and slide out my iPhone, pleased to see four bars. Not that it matters for what I’m about to do. “Looks like I have service, so I’ll try him right now. He’s probably worried sick.”

  I don’t meet Noah’s eyes as I sit back on the floor and covertly dial the volume down to zero so he can’t hear anything. Then I hit the speed-dial number for the veterinary clinic Shelly operates. Since she’s on a phone-free vacation in the Caribbean while I tend Bartholomew, I know there’s no risk she’ll answer.

  “Hey, baby,” I say as the voice mail clicks on. “No, everything’s fine.”

  In my mind, my make-believe husband is fretful and concerned.

  In my ear, Shelly’s voice mail makes a cheerful announcement about the clinic’s hours of operation.

  “I know, sweetie,” I continue, not daring a glance at Noah. “I wish I could be there, too, but the thing is, I’m stuck in an elevator.”

  What would my imaginary husband say to that? He’d be shocked, of course. Concerned for my safety.

  “I’ll explain it all later, baby,” I reassure him. “But for right now, I’m safe. And they promise to have us out of here in a couple of hours.”

  Us? Uh-oh. Would my pretend spouse be jealous? Concerned, at least? I lick my lips and imagine his reaction.

  “Yes, there’s another passenger trapped with me,” I say. “A gentleman who was working in the building.”

  I dare a glance at Noah, who gives me a decidedly nice-guy smile. Shelly prattles about flea-and-tick season. My
make-believe husband drones on about—actually, I have no idea. My focus is on the real guy in front of me instead of the fake one in my ear.

  I’m startled when the real guy holds out his hand.

  “Want me to say something to him?” Noah whispers.

  “What?”

  “Your husband,” he says, nodding at the phone. “Sounds like he’s worried. Want me to reassure him I’m a decent guy, and that you’re not trapped with some psycho?”

  Oh shit. I shake my head, hoping the panic isn’t evident in my expression. “What’s that?” I say into the phone. “Oh, you have to go chase down a killer? No, I understand. Love you, too, pumpkin.”

  I hang up the phone before I can make a bigger mess of things. Noah’s watching me carefully, but says nothing. The intercom crackles.

  “That was sweet,” Bob says. “Pumpkin. My third wife used to call me that.”

  “That’s—lovely,” I say, then look back at Noah. “You need to call your girlfriend?”

  He looks at me for a minute, then shakes his head. “I’m good.”

  I think he’s going to say something else, and I’m braced for it. That’s when Bartholomew scurries up the side of my leg with something gripped in his jaws. I reach for him, but I’m not quick enough. He darts back into his cage and dives through the door of his little cardboard house.

  I reach inside the cage and overturn the hut to find him clutching a colorful chandelier earring. I look at Noah. “You missing an earring?”

  “Nope, but the blonde was. The one who said I wasn’t cute?”

  “What?”

  “She only had one earring. It was silver with purple and green gemstones.”

  “Wow.” I blink at him. “You’re remarkably observant.”

  “So I’m told.”

  I wonder who’s told him that. I also wonder if he’s bothered by the blonde’s snarky comment. He doesn’t seem fazed, or like the sort of guy who’d care about a random bimbo not finding him cute.

  But he is cute. Okay, not cute. But attractive. Very attractive, if I’m being honest.

  I set Bartholomew’s hut aside and take a closer look at the earring. Sure enough, it’s silver with purple and green gemstones. “Amethyst,” I say. “And little emeralds. I always wanted a ring with that combination of stones. The colors are so pretty together.”

  I glance up to see Noah studying me with interest. His gaze flicks to my ring finger and away again quickly. I wonder if he’s questioning why my husband would buy me diamonds instead of the gemstones I really love.

  Or maybe he’s wondering nothing of the sort. I’m overthinking things, as usual.

  I decide to let Bartholomew keep the earring for now. I set the hut back in place and turn back to Noah. “Do you need to let anyone know where you are?”

  He seems to hesitate, then pulls out his phone. “Yeah. I’ll just send a text.”

  I watch as those big thumbs move over the screen, and I wonder whom he’s messaging. What he’s saying. He admitted he doesn’t really have a girlfriend who works at Zenith, but does that mean there’s no girlfriend at all? Or just that she doesn’t work there? He did say girlfriends, plural, so maybe he’s a player. And what was he about to say when the elevator froze?

  “Look, about the girlfriend—”

  What was the rest of that sentence?

  I’m still staring at him, and I realize he’s put the phone away. He grins at me. “What’s on your mind, Lexi?”

  “I—uh—”

  I try to come up with an answer that doesn’t involve admitting I’m curious about his relationship status. That I wonder about his life outside the confines of this elevator.

  I’m saved by a loud growl from my stomach.

  Noah laughs, and I order myself not to blush. “You hungry?” He reaches into the five-gallon bucket behind him and pulls out a green, insulated lunch tote. “I have a granola bar left from lunch if you want it.”

  I shake my head, too self-conscious to eat. “I’m okay, thanks.”

  He sets the lunch tote back in the bucket, but leaves it open. “Okay, but just grab it if you change your mind. There’s an orange in there, too, if you want.”

  I nod. I wasn’t hungry before, but now that I’m thinking about food, I can’t stop. “Have you ever eaten at Gustav’s?”

  “Is that the German place?”

  “Yes. They have the best Swiss-cheese fondue.”

  I don’t know why I brought this up. It’s not like I’m angling for a date. Noah has a girlfriend, and I’m supposed to be married.

  “I haven’t been there, but I do love a good bratwurst,” Noah continues, unfazed by the random direction I’ve taken this conversation. “There’s this food cart downtown near Pioneer Square. They make all their sausages by hand, and they’re crazy good.”

  I know that food cart. I’ve never been there, but it isn’t far from work. I’ve opened my mouth to say this when the elevator jerks, and my casual declaration is replaced by a very uncool scream.

  Noah grips my foot in one big palm. “Are you okay?”

  As I nod, laughter crackles over the intercom. “Sorry, folks,” Bob chortles. “We’ve got you up and running. We’ll have you out on the first floor in a jiff.”

  The elevator begins to glide down, and I find myself disoriented. I should be relieved. I should be thrilled.

  But mostly I’m unsettled.

  I tell myself it’s the suddenness of it all, but part of me knows that’s not it. Part of me is sad to realize I’m about to say goodbye to Noah.

  I distract myself by checking Bartholomew’s cage to make sure he’s okay. His bushy gray tail pokes out from beneath the hut, so I close the door and leave him in peace with his earring.

  As I stand up, Noah gets to his feet, too. Is it my imagination, or is there a tinge of disappointment in those brown eyes?

  He clears his throat. “Well, Lexi. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

  He sticks out a hand, and I shove my palm out to meet it. As his fingers close around mine for the warmest, gentlest handshake in the history of handshakes, my heart does a little squeeze, too.

  Then the elevator doors swish open. I don’t know why, but I expected someone there to greet us. Maybe a paramedic ready to check our blood pressure or a building manager with apologies and a cheese basket.

  But there’s just an empty lobby. I stare at it a moment, then look back at Noah. We haven’t broken our handshake, so we’re standing here with our fingers entwined, looking at each other. I don’t want to let go.

  I do, though, because I’m not a creeper. I swear my hand feels instantly colder.

  “It was great meeting you, too,” I say.

  Then I pick up Bartholomew’s cage and walk away, feeling Noah’s eyes on me as I go.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Noah

  I’ll admit it, I’m bummed.

  I’m bummed that I couldn’t spend more time with the beautiful girl in the elevator.

  I’m bummed that I’ve never met a woman like her who doesn’t have a husband or a boyfriend.

  Hell, I’m even bummed we only spent an hour and twenty minutes in that elevator instead of the two hours Bob initially predicted. How lame is that?

  I throw myself on the sofa and flick the TV remote to the History channel. It makes me think of Lexi all over again, which is dumb. That channel was my vice long before I spent eighty minutes in an elevator with a beautiful brunette with a freckle constellation on her shoulder and a sexy snort laugh that sends pleasure vibes straight through my gut.

  There’s a commercial on TV, which gives me time to jump up and throw a freezer burrito in the microwave. Spotting my pile of tools in
the corner by the door, I’m annoyed to realize I left them there. I’m usually religious about cleaning my gear and putting shit away at the end of the week.

  I hustle over and grab the five-gallon bucket filled with a half bag of powdered masonry cement and my mortar mixer. I’m about to shove it in the storage closet by the door when I spot my insulated lunch tote sitting open inside.

  Hell. I’m always good about cleaning that out, too, and putting it away the second I get home. I must be more distracted than I realized.

  I grab the bag, surprised by the heft of it. It’s way heavier than a granola bar and some balled-up foil should be, and, oh my God, did it just move?

  I’m about to drop it when a furry head pokes up through the opening. A familiar furry head.

  “Bartholomew,” I say out loud. “Oh shit.”

  I stare at the packrat, trying to make sense of things. Lexi checked the cage before we left. I saw her do it. And when would he have gotten out again anyway?

  “When I was texting,” I say aloud. “Lexi was watching me, I was watching my phone—”

  And no one was watching Bartholomew. Crap.

  The packrat stretches up to peer over the top of the lunch tote. He looks around my living room, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Lexi wasn’t kidding, he’s certainly friendly.

  I shake my head and study him. “You’re lucky it’s Friday,” I tell him. “Normally I leave all my tools in the truck on weekdays. I wouldn’t have found you until tomorrow.”

  All right, I’m pretty good at remembering to bring in my lunch bag. But he doesn’t need to know that.

  Bartholomew twitches his nose and surveys the kitchen as I move toward it. Breakfast dishes litter the counter, and I’m self-conscious until I remember he’s a packrat who probably prefers things messy. Besides, tidying my space for a rodent is the least of my concerns right now.

  “What am I going to do with you?”