Mad About You

looked like a slightly wilted flower.
    "Hey, relax," he said with a wink. "You're doing great—the food's a big hit."
    "Think so?" she asked, glancing around. "Frank called me at the last minute to fill in for him. If I do a good job maybe he'll call again."
    Ladden twisted to take in their brightly lit backdrop. "The entire hotel is hopping. Who's giving this party?"
    Betsy shrugged. "Somebody rich, I suppose. All I know is Frank's paying me cash." She swiped at his shoulder. "Oh, your shirt is a mess. I'm sorry."
    He waved off her concern. "Don't worry about it—but I think I'll duck into the men's room for a little repair. Is there anything else I can do?"
    "I might need you to find the ice man when you get back."
    "Sure thing." He craned his neck, looking for a rest room sign.
    "Ladden."
    He turned back, his eyebrows raised.
    "You're the best." Betsy's eyes shone with gratitude and affection.
    Ladden swallowed and shifted nervously. Why couldn't he simply fall for Betsy? After all, she was pretty and sweet. It was high time he got the silly notion of Jasmine Crowne out of his head. He gave her a fond smile. "Thanks, Betsy. I'll be right back."
    He stopped to retrieve his dark suit jacket from a shelf under one of the skirted tables. The pungent smell of warm chlorine led him across a concrete footpath, away from the crowd, to a large kidney-shaped pool dotted with floating candles.
    A dimly lit changing house sat at the opposite end, and he headed toward the men's side, already rolling up his sleeves. Whistling under his breath, he pushed open the heavy wood door and stepped into the large bathroom, the soles of his stiff shoes scraping on the terra-cotta-tiled floor.
    A gasp and a movement stopped him in his tracks and he nearly choked in surprise. "Jasmine?"
    Standing crookedly beside a padded bench in an area surrounded by lockers, she clutched one black high-heeled shoe to her chest. "Ladden?"
    He simply stared at her for several seconds, then his words tumbled out around hers: "What—"
    "—are you—"
    "—doing here?"
    The overhead lights caught the highlights in her upswept hair and bathed her skin with a sunkissed glow. Desire flooded his body and he fought to maintain control. She was stunning, even wearing a puzzled expression.
    "Didn't you imagine I would be attending a political rally for Governor McDonald?"
    Incredulous, he raked his hand through his hair. "I'm here helping a friend. I had no idea this party was for the governor." He glanced around the room. "But what are you doing here?"
    She held up a small adhesive bandage. "A blister. The ladies’ room is locked."
    Their compromising situation struck him full force and he began a slow retreat. "Oh, hell—the media will fry us if anyone sees us." He held up his hand. "I'll go out first. Wait ten minutes, and if you don't hear anything, the coast is clear."
    "Okay," she agreed, her eyes wide. "Goodbye."
    His heart slammed against his ribs so hard, the beat echoed deep in his ears. When he felt the door at his back, he turned and yanked the latch. When the door refused to budge, he put more muscle behind it. Only after he set aside his jacket, used both hands, and still the door wouldn't give did panic begin to mushroom in his chest.
    "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice squeaky.
    "The door's stuck."
    "Well, unstick it!"
    "I'm trying." He braced his foot against the frame and pulled on the rusty latch with all his might. After jiggling the knob side to side, he said, "I think it's locked. Didn't you say you couldn't get inside the women's rest room?"
    Her eyes closed briefly. "Yes."
    "Maybe the latches are faulty."
    "Oh, my God." She dropped her shoe and covered her mouth with her hands.
    "Okay, don't panic," he said, more for his benefit than for Jasmine's. "Maybe there's another way out." He walked into the locker area and studied the high windows around the perimeter of the room. After testing a small table for sturdiness, he climbed up and succeeded in cranking open a window—six inches.
    "I can't even get my hand out to wave a flag for help," he said.
    "We can't attract attention, anyway." Her voice trembled. "You and I locked in a bathroom together—this would look very, very bad."
    He pulled out his phone. "I’ll call the friend I came here to help. She’ll come down to let us out." Then he sighed and held up his phone. "No signal. You?"
    She opened her purse and retrieved her phone, then her shoulders fell. "No. What are we going