"My dad's? Yep. I thought about why he was driving something that old, and . . ."
"Oh. Because your mom would get the newer car," she realized.
He looked startled. "How do you know?"
"Because that would be my dad, too. Besides that my dad's a farmer, and farmers don't get rid of something if they can keep it running."
"Yep. Farmers hold on." He leaned his head back against the wall, and for once, she wasn't looking at the strong brown column of his throat and thinking how much she'd like to kiss it. Well, she was, but she was thinking something else, too. About how much pain there was in the twist of his mouth.
"So you . . . what?" she asked. "Sold your car?"
"Traded rides. Left mine with my mom."
"What did you have?"
A different twist of his mouth now, a humorous one. "You'll laugh."
She smiled back at him, her heart lifting at his change in mood. "Try me."
"I had my teenage self's dream car. Nothing anybody in San Francisco would ever be impressed by."
"Camaro," she guessed. "Firebird. The painting on the hood and everything. Black."
He laughed, the sound sudden and rich in the confined space. "Close. Black Mustang ragtop, black leather interior. Man, I thought I was all that, didn't I?"
"And now your mom is."
"She is one dashing widow," he agreed. "Not that she cares. She thinks it's impractical. Especially black. 'A black car in the desert?'" he mimicked. "'Honey, no.' She won't sell it, though, in case I want it back. No matter how many times I tell her it's hers."
"So it really is hot where you're from." She had her head on her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs. She was smiling up at him, forgetting to be wary, forgetting to be sexy and make him sorry, just because Travis had a mom who sounded too much like her own. And because he'd loved his dad.
"Down near the Mexican border. The Sonoran Desert. And, yeah. I grew up on a farm myself. Not a rancher, though. Sorry about that."
Contradiction time again, or maybe the reason she'd been so drawn to him. Because something familiar in him had called to her, and something in her had answered. Or maybe that had just been the tequila. "What did your dad farm?" she asked, trying to pull her wayward heart back under control.
"Lots of things. Alfalfa, cantaloupe, watermelon. Not one of the big, rich farms like around here. Making a living, that's all. Owing the bank."
"So you really are a country boy."
"Maybe. When you scratch the surface. Maybe."
"So why Wayne?"
He blinked. "Huh?"
She circled her hand again. "Hey. You're supposed to be the smart one. Keep up. Wayne? Travis?"
"Oh. Yeah." He leaned his head back again. "Travis was too country, and when I went to college, I decided Wayne sounded classier. Like somebody who'd be rich someday."
"Travis is hotter," she informed him.
He turned his head and grinned down at her, and she laughed back into his face and thought, Nah. Don't care what your name is. I want to lick you.
"So then what did you do?" she asked.
"Huh?" he said again. "And yeah, I'm being slow. Can't help it. A, you turn my head around. You smell too good, for one thing. And B, you're the quick one here."
"I didn't go to college," she said, trying to ignore the sneaky fingers of desire that kept trying to creep into places they shouldn't. "I didn't even take one class. I don't think in outline form, either."
"That's got nothing to do with it," he said. She searched his face and decided he meant it, and smiled a bit more.
"What did you do," she elaborated, "after your dad died? How did you end up here?"
"It's kind of a story."
"Thought we were telling stories. Thought that was the whole idea."
Just then, she heard something. A metallic clang that echoed through the elevator shaft and made her jump; a judder through the mechanism. Travis's arm went instantly around her, and she was holding her breath, and realizing that she was holding his thigh, too. That she had her hand clamped above his knee and was hanging on.
And then the voice. "Hey! You all down there?"
"Yeah," Travis called back. "Right here. Between two and one, I think."
"Hang on," the voice said, and that was all.
She took her hand hastily off Travis's thigh, and after a second, he pulled his arm away.
"Guess the rest of your story will have to wait," she said, and realized her voice had come out shaky.
He handed the water bottle back to her. "Here. Finish it off. He's not going to let us fall now. He'd lose his job."
She laughed, although it didn't come out exactly right, and took a long drink, then dropped the empty bottle beside her.
There was more clanging coming from the shaft, and Travis took her hand and held it tight. "Almost there," he said. "Almost out. Hang on." And she did.
VISITORS.
Rochelle had never felt more conflicted. On the one hand, she wanted to get out of here. Her shirt was clinging damply to her skin, she needed to pee, and the clanging that echoed through the elevator shaft had brought back all her nerves. She squeezed Travis's hand and focused on breathing, and he sat beside her, big and solid and strong, and gave her something to hold on to.
That was the other half of the deal. She wanted to hear the rest of his story. She didn't want to leave their metal . . . not coffin. Their . . . cocoon, where it wasn't about real life, her bad past choices, or their uncertain future. Where it was about sitting next to Travis and listening to him talk, slow and deep and steady. And maybe holding his hand, too.
Like it or not, though, the elevator was descending again, steadily this time, and then the doors were opening with a rush of cool air and a guy was standing there in dark blue Carhartts and boots, saying, "Everybody OK?"
Travis was on his feet already, pulling her to hers, and the guy was staring at her, clearly having lost his train of thought. Her skirt had ridden up as she'd stood, her shirt was sticking to her, and Mr. Maintenance was checking it all out. She pulled everything down, tossed her hair back, and said, "Yep. We're all good. Thanks for coming."
"I was on a call down in Cheney," the guy said. "That's why I could get to you so fast." He finally tore his gaze from her and glanced at Travis. Travis moved a fraction of a step closer to her, and Rochelle could almost hear the antlers lock.
"Yeah," Travis said, his voice flat. "Thanks, man. We're all good." He bent down, picked up the water bottle, and handed it to Rochelle, then picked up her file box. "Ready to get out of here?" he asked her.
"Sure." She smiled and felt the tremble around the edges. "Thanks again."
Travis led the way down the basement steps, and she followed him, directed him to the storage room, stowed the box, and headed upstairs again. They walked down the echoing main hall, and both spoke at once.
"Can I-" he said.
"I'm just-" she said. "Oh. Go ahead."
"No. You first."
"I'll just . . . duck in here." She indicated the ladies' room. "If you want to wait a sec."
In reality, it was more like ten minutes before she could get herself presentable again. Her first glance in the mirror had her reaching for the paper towels and her purse in horror. Melting your makeup off in an elevator wasn't on anybody's list of beauty tips.
And then she had to make a call. She ducked into the back of the restroom to do it so Travis wouldn't hear her. "Hey, Kayla?" she said. "I know I'm really late. It's a long story. I got stuck. But could I bring somebody to lunch with me?"
"Sure." Her friend sounded surprised. "It's fine. We went ahead without you. Zoe couldn't wait. It's just sandwiches, anyway. Who are you bringing? Your sister?"
That made Rochelle laugh, and she realized how shaky she still was and leaned against the cool tile. "About the furthest thing from it. A guy. His name's Travis. Or Wayne. Or something. He probably eats a lot, and like I said, we've been stuck, and I'll bet he's hungry. And I'm rambling, I know. We've had an adventure, you could say. Can I bring him?"
"Oh, good. That does sound like a story. Of course you can. Whatever his name is. I'd like to hear more."
"Later. Maybe. Depending." Rochelle hadn't told anybody about Travis when it had happened. She hadn't even said much to her cousin. She wasn't sure she was ready to start spreading the news of her hookup among the blissfully newlywed.
When she came out of the restroom, Travis was standing there, relaxed as ever.
"You could at least look a little wrecked," she told him. "I had to do major damage control in there."
"Oh, yeah?" She got another of his slow smiles for that, just a lightening of the eyes and a movement at the corners of his mouth. "You looked all right to me. I was thinking, you said you'd ridden your bike up here. It's hot, and you're shaken up, and maybe almost as hungry as me. Let's toss the bike in the back of my truck and go grab lunch, and then I'll give you a ride home."
She cleared her throat. She could still hear the faint sounds from down the hall that meant the elevator guy was doing his thing. At least it'd be fixed for the school week. "I'm late for lunch with friends, actually. But if you'd like to come along . . ."
He gave her more of that crooked smile. "Is this a trick question?"
"I didn't say get down and dirty," she cautioned, trying to keep her heart from lifting. "I said lunch. With friends."
"I heard what you said. And I'll take it."
Careful, Travis told himself as he set her bike in the bed of his truck and slammed the tailgate shut, then opened the passenger door and held it for her. Slow and steady. He still had a long way to go to earn her trust.
He might have watched her step up and swing her legs in, and he might have enjoyed it. Just like he'd enjoyed seeing that maintenance guy's eyes slide away from her body once he'd gotten the message. All sorts of primitive things were going on here, and what was worse, they were fine by him. He'd left the city behind for sure.
She directed him through town, up the Maple Street hill, and around to a house on D Street at the north edge of town.
"Nice spot," he said when she led him around the back of the house, where a deck overlooked the view of the last few straggling streets and the fields beyond.
It really was "lunch with friends." A man, two women, a boy, and a baby, all sitting in the shade of a blue awning over a wide deck. And to complete the domestic picture, a border-collie mix who came forward wagging a feathery tail.
Rochelle crouched down and gave the dog a pat, saying, "This is Daisy."
The guy had stood up. "Luke Jackson," he said, shaking hands with Travis. "My wife, Kayla." A pretty, petite blonde. "And my sister-in-law, Zoe." Another short woman, a brunette this time. The baby was next to her, asleep in a carrier on the ground. A very tiny baby, the kind that made Travis nervous, all fragile arms and legs and a visible pulse beating through the soft spot at the top of its head under some wisps of brown duck-down hair. The baby was wearing only a one-piece undershirt. He couldn't even tell if it was a girl or a boy, because the undershirt was yellow, with a duck on it.
"And our son, Eli," Luke said, nodding at the boy next to him. Travis saw the motion, sensed Luke's kick on Eli's ankle, and had to smile. Exactly what his own dad would have done. The boy scrambled to his feet and shook hands.
"This is . . . um, I don't know," Rochelle said with a laugh. "Travis Wayne Cochran. Who likes to change his name."
"Travis," he said. "Among friends."
"Please," Kayla said. "Sit down and have something to drink, and a sandwich. Rochelle said you'd had an adventure."
"Travis is a new lecturer in Computer Science." Rochelle sat down and poured herself a glass from a pitcher of iced tea. "You might have met Zoe, if she wasn't on maternity leave," she told Travis.
"Geological Sciences," the brunette said as Travis seated himself across from her. "Once upon a time, back when I was smart. Right now, I'm mostly trying to teach Advanced Topics in Sleeping. And failing badly."
"How old is your baby?" he asked.
"Thirteen days. This is our first real social outing. She's on her best behavior, as you see. Don't let her fool you, though. She's evil. But tell us about the adventure. Entertain me."
"She actually loves her baby," Rochelle informed Travis. "Who has a name. Geez, Zoe."
Zoe laughed, and her face lit up and changed entirely. "Her name is Alice. And sorry. I'm shocking, I know. Cal-my husband-is harvesting, so I'm refusing to let him help me out at night, and my nobility is killing me. Wheat doesn't wait, and neither do babies. Never mind. I'm good. Tell me the story."
"It wasn't that exciting. Stuck in an elevator," Rochelle explained, her hand waving, glancing at him from time to time out of the side of those laughing eyes. Travis lay back in his chair, sipped his iced tea, ate a sandwich, and watched her. The conversation flowed effortlessly around him, and he relaxed and listened and thought, Works for me.
"How's your sister doing, Rochelle?" Zoe asked after a bit.
She shrugged, suddenly not looking quite as animated. "Stacy," Travis said. "Nice girl."
"You've met her." Luke's eyes were watchful, as they had been ever since Travis had showed up with Rochelle.
"Wait." Rochelle was sitting up straighter. "You didn't. She didn't."
"She didn't what?" Travis asked before finishing off his sandwich and dishing himself up some salad. "Thanks for this," he told Kayla. "Exactly what I needed after my grueling adventure with Rochelle."
"You're not going to worm your way out of this," Rochelle said. "You got my address from my sister."
"That'd be telling. Couldn't we say that I really wanted it, and I'm a persuasive guy, and leave it at that?"
"He brought me a plant," Rochelle said. "A hydrangea. And then he planted it." She was glaring at him as if it had been a body.
"He did, huh." Zoe's eyes were big, round, and brown. Deceptively innocent, Travis would have called them. She didn't look like she was suffering any loss of brain cells to him. "Why?"