Author: Kristan Higgins

The elevator started moving again. Crap. He’d missed his chance to get off. “You know this song?” he asked, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

“Everyone knows this song. It’s my favorite song, as a matter of fact, so if you’re gonna make fun of it, don’t.”

“Neil Diamond. Huh.”

She gave him an evil look and hummed more loudly.

See, you can do this, his brain told him in a confident voice. You’ve hardly thought at all about the cable snapping, haven’t pictured Nicole sobbing over your casket and then going to live with Tates, who really couldn’t be happier at getting their grandchild all to themselves and turning her into a—

A grinding shudder ripped through the elevator, which screeched, then slammed to a stop. Shit! It was happening.

Then the lights went out.

“Oh, bieber,” Cordelia said.

Liam tried to breathe in. Didn’t seem to be working.

Okay, okay, just because he’d pictured this exact moment…nope, couldn’t happen. The cable had not snapped. Not yet, anyway. But the air was definitely being used up.

“Well, this is not good,” Cordelia said. “I have an appointment in twenty minutes.”

“Don’t talk,” Liam choked out. Because that would use air. And if there were no lights, then there was no air in the ventilation system—Don’t take me away from my baby—and they’d suffocate up here in the pitch black. Already his lungs were desperate for air, heaving in his chest. His legs were suddenly weak, and he leaned back against the wall, the inky blackness smothering. What about Cordelia? Was she suffocating, too? “Cordelia? You okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. Hang on.” He heard her clothes rustle. Then a light came on. Fantastic. She was the type who carried a keychain flashlight. Good girl. It didn’t alleviate the oxygen problem, but at least he wouldn’t die in the dark.

She shined the little beam onto the panel. “Think I should push the emergency button?” she asked.

“Yes! What are you waiting for?” he croaked, sucking in what felt like the last of the air.

“Chill, Liam. We’re only stuck. It’s not like the cable’s about to snap or something.”

Why would she say that? Was she psychic? Why would she mention the cable snapping? Was it a premonition? The elevator shuddered again, and Liam’s legs gave out. He sank to the floor.

“You don’t look so good,” Posey said, aiming her light at his face. It seared his retinas, and he closed his eyes and held up his hand. “Liam? You’re white as a ghost.”

“Push the damn button,” he ground out, pulling in another breath. His chest felt like it was in a vise, and he couldn’t inhale deeply enough to get sufficient air. A rasping sound came from his throat.

“Holy Elvis! Are you okay?”

“The button, Cordelia, the button!” Finally, she pushed the thing. A bell rang, then went silent. Not reassuring. Not one bit. Cordelia dropped to her knees beside him. “Liam?” she asked, shining that stupid light into his face yet again. Her eyes widened in horror. “You’re all clammy! Does your chest hurt? It does, doesn’t it?”

It did. And apparently he was rubbing it with one fist. She grabbed his wrist and gripped it, the flashlight clattering to the floor. “No, no, no,” she muttered, yanking her phone from her pocket. “Hello? We’re stuck in the elevator in the Mirren Building, and I think a man’s having a heart attack! I can’t tell… No, he’s down…and I— Okay, okay!”

“It’s not…” But what if it was a heart attack and not simple, choking panic? The vise on his chest clamped down harder. “Cordelia, I—”

“Don’t worry, I’m here.” She shoved him to the floor with surprising strength, thunking his head against the floor, and if he’d had the air, he would’ve told her to knock it the hell off, but—

“Oh, please, don’t die, don’t die,” Cordelia chanted, ripping open his shirt. She put her ear against his chest. “Bieber! I can’t hear anything, he’s gasping! I think he’s dying!” Her phone clattered to the floor, and she was suddenly straddling him, her knees pinning his arms.

“Cordelia,” he managed, and— Oof! What little oxygen remained in Liam’s chest was suddenly pushed out as Cordelia began pushing on him. Hard. “Cord— Oof!” Crap! That hurt!

“Hang in there, Liam! Think of Nicole! Hey! 911 people! I dropped the phone, hurry up, hurry up!” She pushed down again, and a searing pain lanced through Liam’s right side.

“Stop,” he grunted. She was killing him.

The elevator lurched, then rumbled, then began descending again. “Thank you, God!” Cordelia said, giving him another compression. The pain in his side flashed light behind his eyes, and Liam managed to wrench his arm free grab and her wrist. “Stop fighting, Liam!” she said, wrestling with him. “Help is on the way!” Another chest compression, another white-hot pain down his side.

Then the doors opened, Cordelia barked, “He’s having a heart attack!” and the paramedics descended.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“NO SIGN OF A HEART attack,” the doctor said. “Looks like you just cracked a rib.”

That’s right, Posey thought. Rub it in.

“I didn’t crack a rib,” Liam said, his words running together. “She did. She broke me.”

“It looked like a heart attack,” Posey snapped. “Go back to sleep.”

He’d dropped right off after the first shot of painkiller. Men. Such wimps. She’d broken two fingers last year trying to move a fountain with Mac, wrapped them with electrical tape and got back to work. “It wasn’t a heart attack.” He sounded like a grumpy toddler.

“I know, Liam! But if it had been, maybe I would’ve saved your life, okay?” She turned to the doctor for some female solidarity. “He was clammy, rubbing his chest, couldn’t breathe. Err on the side of caution, I figured.”

“Panic attacks can look a lot like cardiac issues, you’re right,” the obviously brilliant woman said.

“See?” Posey said, looking at Liam. His eyes seemed to be moving in opposite directions.

“You broke me.”

“Oh, sac up and stop whining.”

“Some nurse you make. Why don’t you just stab me?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Are you two married?” the doctor asked.

“No!” they snapped in unison.

“Okay,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender. “Well, Mr. Murphy, we have a consult coming in, and then you’ll be able to go home, okay? Just rest for now.” She looked at Posey. “He’ll need someone to drive him, obviously.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Posey said.

“You should,” Liam said. “You should do a lot more than drive me. You should be my servant.”

“Oh, for the love of Elvis,” she muttered.

“Here are the follow-up instructions,” the doctor said. “Call his primary physician if you have any questions. You’re free to leave after the consultation, okay? Good luck.”

Posey glanced at the sheet, which advised limited activity until he felt better (which she guessed would be never, based on the total wimp he’d been thus far). There was more information on panic attacks than cracked ribs.

A panic attack is a sudden episode of intense fear that develops for no apparent reason and triggers severe physical reactions. Panic attacks can be very frightening. When panic attacks occur, patients may think they’re having a heart attack or even dying.

“Exactly,” she murmured. Still, she did feel a tiny bit guilty. Okay, a lot guilty. Liam had tried to tell her that’s what it was, she could see that now, but being too busy breaking his bones, she hadn’t put two and two together. So much for her seventh-grade CPR class.

But if he’d known it was a panic attack, one could assume he’d had them before.

She glanced over at the patient, who was asleep once more, his head turned slightly to one side. He needed a shave. His hair looked even blacker against the white pillow. Her eyes lingered on his mouth. Hard to believe she’d actually straddled him in the elevator and ripped open his shirt. Too bad she hadn’t enjoyed it more.

Great. She was getting turned on. Apparently CPR was quite the aphrodisiac. Trapped in an elevator with Liam Murphy—it hadn’t exactly been the stuff of erotic fiction, had it? A man clammy with panic, trying to fight off the woman who was cracking his ribs. So, he was claustrophobic, she guessed. Or was afraid of elevators. Or both. Maybe it had something to do with Emma’s death.

The poor guy.

Posey stood up and went to Liam’s side, pulled the blanket a little higher on his chest. He had a tattoo on his shoulder (of course he did, it was required by the Bad Boy Book of Beauty)…a Celtic knot of some kind. Strong, manly, blue-collar hands.

Liam’s eyes opened. “You broke me,” he murmured.

“So, why are you having panic attacks?” she asked gently.

“Mr. Murphy? I’m Brenda Lutz, the social worker on duty.” A stout, gray-haired woman came into the room. “Just wanted to check on how you’re doing.” She looked at Posey. “Hello. Are you the wife?”

“No, just a friend. I’ll step out for a few, how’s that?”

“Stay,” Liam muttered.

“He’s pretty out of it,” Posey explained. “They gave him some painkillers for his rib.”

“Which she broke,” he added, eyes closed.

“Cracked.”

“I see.” The woman turned to Liam and raised her voice, as if he were deaf, not drugged. “Okay, Mr. Murphy, well, the main thing is that even if it feels like you’re dying, even if you can’t breathe or it feels like your heart is going to stop, chances are it’s not. Okay?”

“Okay,” he murmured.

“Panic attacks and anxiety syndrome are very serious problems, Mr. Murphy. They can be very distressing. Sometimes even debilitating. Terrifying. Many times they go away, but some people never stop having them. They can’t work, can’t sleep, can’t eat, they get no joy out of life—”

“Hey, thanks for the pep talk,” Posey said. “He’s had a little stress lately, but he’ll be fine. Thanks. He’ll call if he needs you.”

The social worker took a breath, frowned. “Fine. I’ll leave my card, in case he wants to se me privately.”

“I’ll make sure he has it.” Nice job, lady. In case he wasn’t freaked enough.

“Thanks for ditching her,” Liam murmured.

“Okay, big boy. Let me get you home. Come on. Put on your shirt.”

He sighed and sat up (groaning, of course, just in case she forgot who broke him), then pulled off the johnny coat, and Posey stopped feeling her legs. Irritation? What irritation? Mommy. Body like a Greek god, this guy, complete with washboard abs and thickly muscled arms…?. Jeans were still on, alas—apparently ruling out a heart attack didn’t require a complete strip-down. Pity. She handed him his shirt.

“What’s wrong with these buttons?” he asked, looking down.

“They’re…missing. Come on, you look great.”

An orderly wheeled Liam to the exit (the wheelchair did not staunch the guilt, either) and told Posey he’d wait while she got the truck. Shilo was sprawled across the front seat, sound asleep. “Sorry, pal,” she said, hefting up his front half so she could get in. Starting the truck, she sighed. This had not been a good day. Gretchen had felt the need to cook last night—not a bad thing, but she’d decided to film herself, narrating what she was doing as if she were filming an episode of The Barefoot Fraulein. Part of this apparently involved some weird new-agey music that made Shilo whine and tremble, which made Jellybean and Sagwa growl, which made Meatball hiss…so all in all, not restful.