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she hadn’t registered attention until they’d been stuck and she’d begun to talk. More specifically, he hadn’t noticed her until she’d begun to quote the ancients and lecture him, which he found charming and irritating all at the same time. A philosophy-quoting waitress who giggled when she was nervous. He supposed it could have been worse—she could have been screaming and frightened instead of laughing ridiculously.
    Even though he’d barely noticed her when they’d gotten on the elevator, Logan had definitely paid attention when they’d climbed out. He’d seen a hell of a lot of her, especially when she’d slid that pert bottom down in front of his face, her long legs dangling as she’d tried to get out of the elevator gracefully—and failed. Brontë, she’d told him her name was. Like the classics.
    Strange that he should feel so protective of her right then, sitting in the stairwell with her. But she’d been brave despite the circumstances, and oddly intriguing. And she had no idea he was rich, which meant that her reactions to him were sincere. She wasn’t giving him coy yet lust-filled gazes that promised things if he’d only buy her presents or shower her with money. She was laughing and joking with him, and tartly demanding peanut M&M’s instead of candy bars and lecturing him on his attitude by quoting Plato.
    He liked that, too. Whoever Brontë was, she was smart and interesting, even if she was just a waitress.
    The rain pounded overhead, though it seemed to be less intense than earlier. For a few hours it had raged outside, so fierce that he became concerned that the stairwell wouldn’t provide enough protection. Throughout the storm they’d heard the sound of several crashes, and Brontë had huddled closer to him, terrified. He’d remained calm and stoic because, well, that was what Hawkings men did under pressure. They shut down and went into silent mode. His father had been great at that.Brontë stirred in her sleep, her arm looping around his waist and pulling her closer to him. She nestled her mouth in the crook of his neck, sighed, and went back to sleep as if he were the perfect pillow. He could have woken her up, and she would have automatically retreated a few feet, embarrassed at her actions.
    But he liked her against him. He liked her warm, curving body cupped against his own. He liked the way she fit in his arms.
    And he was as hard as a rock at the moment. Nothing he could do about that. He supposed that if he were a cynical bastard, he’d tell her about his fortune and wait for her to fling herself at him. It never took long. But somehow, he suspected, Brontë would be different.
    After all, she thought he was the manager of this place. And for a few days? It was a novelty to just be normal.
    He hugged her close. Best to let her sleep. The storm wouldn’t be done for a while yet.
    ***
    “Brontë,” a low voice murmured in her ear. “Move your hand.”
    She sighed, licked her lips, and ignored the voice.
    “Brontë,” it said again. “You’ve got a rather . . . personal grip at the moment.”
    Still sleepy, she mentally took stock of where she was. Her butt hurt from sitting on the concrete stairs, and a blanket was pooled around her legs, which were stretched out next to a man’s warm leg. One hand was trapped against the man’s side, and the other was resting on a thick handlebar—
    She snatched her hand away, mortified. “Oh, my God.” That was
not
a handlebar.
    “My thoughts exactly,” he said drily. At least he sounded amused. She was horrified. He nudged her with one shoulder. “How are you doing?”
    Other than being humiliated that I woke up clutching your crotch? Just peachy.
She rubbed at her eyes and squinted into the dimly lit stairwell. It seemed even darker than before. Jeez, she sure was getting tired of the dark. Her stomach rumbled, and her bladder felt like it was ready to pop. “I’m okay. Is it still raining?”
    “It sounds quieter.