Chapter 9 Amelia
AMELIA
The next evening, I changed my outfit four times before settling on the vintage burgundy dress and my practical boots. My studio is littered with discarded options—too formal, too casual, trying too hard, not trying hard enough. My brain refuses to shut up.
It’s just wine. And jazz. And Maya will be there.
Except Maya is sleeping with a man who puts something unusual in his chocolates, and you’re going to his friend’s private wine cellar, which sounds like the opening of a horror movie when you say it out loud—
“Stop,” I tell my reflection firmly. “You’re going. You’re interested. It’s fine.”
I spend the entire Uber ride bouncing my knee and counting streetlights—one, two, three, four, five. Pattern of five. Like Cassiopeia. Like the painting that Gabe understood. By the time we pull up to The Blue Room, my hands are shaking.
The club is everything I expected. From the outside, it’s unassuming—a simple door, a modest sign.
Inside, it’s dark wood and vintage fixtures, the kind of place that feels like it’s always existed.
Jazz spills from the speakers, and I recognize the song instantly—Miles Davis, “Blue in Green.” The exact piece Gabe mentioned.
He’s playing it on purpose. He remembered.
Why does that make my chest tighten?
Maya and Adrian are already at the bar. Seeing my best friend relaxed beside him should calm me. Instead, it sharpens my awareness that we’re stepping into something that feels… off script.
“You came.”
Gabe appears from a back room, no gallery suit now—dark jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His forearms are bare, callused, and—are those scars? Fine white lines vanish beneath the fabric
“I said I would.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“You did.” His smile is warm, genuine, reaching his gray eyes. “Come on. I’ll show you the real heart of this place.”
He leads us past the main bar, through a door marked Private, and down a narrow hallway lined with vintage concert posters—Coltrane, Monk, Mingus, Ella Fitzgerald. My fingers itch to photograph them, to paint them, to capture the history soaked into these walls.
“The building was constructed in the 1920s,” Gabe says, catching my fascination. “Originally a speakeasy. Some of the original fixtures are still here.”
The wine cellar stairs are narrow and stone, older than the building itself. I trail my hand along the cool wall, grounding myself in the texture as the light dims and the air cools.
The temperature drop makes my brain automatically skip to how that would affect paint drying times if I were working down here—and then we emerge into the main cellar.
“Oh,” I breathe.
It’s beautiful in a way I didn’t expect. Not sterile or modern, but organic—curving stone walls, aged wooden racks filled with bottles, a reclaimed wood table at the center surrounded by leather chairs that look older than I am.
The lighting is perfect—warm but not harsh, strategically placed to illuminate without glare. An artist designed this space. Or someone who thinks like one.
“Been curating the collection for years,” Gabe says, watching my reaction. “Some of these bottles have stories that would curl your hair.”
I move closer, scanning labels—French, Italian, Californian. The names and dates mean nothing to me, but they arrange themselves in my mind by color and typography. “It’s like a library,” I murmur. “But for wine.”
“Exactly.” He sounds pleased. “Every bottle is a story. A place and a moment, captured.”
Adrian pulls out a chair for Maya. Something passes between them—intimate, wordless. Maya catches me watching and gives a small smile that says I’m okay. I promise.
“I think this calls for something special,” Gabe says, moving through the racks with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where everything is. He selects a dusty bottle with a faded label. “1982 Bordeaux. Been saving it for the right moment.”
“Is this the right moment?” I ask, surprised by the flirtation in my voice.
“I think it might be.”
The wine catches the light like liquid garnets, and my brain immediately goes to figure out the color: alizarin crimson mixed with burnt sienna, touches of violet in the shadows, the way light refracts through—
“To a successful gallery showing yesterday,” Adrian says, raising his glass.
“And to new... partnerships,” Gabe adds, his eyes meeting mine over the rim of his glass.
I sip the wine. It’s extraordinary—complex and layered, with flavors I don’t have words for. “This is incredible.”
“1982 was a legendary year for Bordeaux. Perfect weather, perfect harvest.” Gabe settles into the chair beside mine, close enough that I’m aware of his warmth. “The tannins have had time to soften, let the fruit come forward.”
“You two seem to have known each other forever,” I say, gesturing between Gabe and Adrian. Because I need to understand the dynamics and the relationships before I get too deep into whatever this is.
“Since we were kids,” Gabe confirms, swirling his wine. “Grew up three houses apart. Got into plenty of trouble together.”
“The kind of trouble that shapes who you become,” Adrian adds quietly, and there’s weight in those words that makes me pay attention.
“What kind of trouble?” I ask because apparently my self-preservation instinct has taken the night off.
Gabe and Adrian exchange a glance—some silent communication I can’t interpret. “The usual kind,” Gabe says lightly. “Breaking windows. Stealing bikes. Testing boundaries.”
But there’s something underneath that answer, something unspoken that makes the air feel thicker.
I sip my wine and watch Gabe’s hands as he gestures, talking about the wine’s terroir and vintage characteristics. My eyes keep getting distracted—long fingers, callused at the tips from piano keys, the way he holds the glass suggests he likes being in control.
“The ‘82 pairs perfectly with dark chocolate,” Adrian is saying. “The tannins complement the bitter notes without overwhelming them.”
“True, but I’d argue the ‘86 is better with your truffles,” Gabe counters, reaching for another bottle. His forearms flex as he works the cork, and I find myself watching the movement with far more interest than is appropriate.
Get it together, Stone. You’re a professional artist having a wine tasting, not a teenager.
“The ‘86 is too fruit-forward for my chocolates,” Adrian argues. “It fights the subtle flavors instead of enhancing them.”
Gabe leans back in his chair. “You’re being a snob. The ‘86 has complexity you’re dismissing.”
I hide my smile behind my wine glass as they debate, but I’m hyperaware of how close Gabe is sitting. Close enough that I can smell him—that woody scent with undertones of smoke and something else. Whiskey maybe. Or cedar.
“Here, I’ll prove my point.” Gabe stands and moves to another section of the cellar, and I can’t help but admire the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.
Stop staring. Oh god, Maya noticed you staring. Focus on the wine. The wine is a safe thing to focus on.
Except now Adrian is explaining something about wine regions to Maya in a low voice, angling his body to give us privacy, and Gabe shifts his chair even closer when he returns.
“Your brushwork in that centerpiece was stunning,” he says quietly, just for me. “The way you captured movement in what should be a static image. I kept seeing it differently depending on where I stood.”
“You noticed that?” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear—a nervous habit, stop fidgeting—but I can’t help leaning toward him. “Most people just see the overall composition. They miss the individual strokes.”
“Hard not to notice. The technique is...” His fingers brush against mine as he reaches for his glass, and a zap shoots up my arm. “Captivating.”
My brain short-circuits. “I could show you my studio sometime,” I hear myself say. “If you’re interested. In the technique. And the... process.”
Smooth, Amelia. Very smooth. Why don’t you just write ‘I LIKE YOU’ on your forehead?
“Very interested.” Gabe’s voice turns rougher, and he leans in closer. “Though I suspect your talents extend beyond just painting.”
My breath catches. “The studio has excellent lighting,” I manage, my fingers now somehow tangled with his, and I can feel my pulse hammering where his thumb brushes my wrist. “Perfect for studying... details.”
“I’ve always appreciated,” Gabe pauses, his free hand moving to brush my shoulder, trailing down my arm in a way that makes me shiver, “fine details.”
The moment stretches, charged and intimate, and I’m about to say something probably ill-advised when footsteps thunder down the stairs.
A waiter—young, clearly stressed—appears in the cellar entrance. “Mr. Dawson, there’s a health inspector upstairs. Says he needs to do an immediate inspection.”
I feel Gabe’s fingers tighten slightly on mine before he releases my hand smoothly, his expression shifting to professional concern. “At this hour? That’s unusual.”
“He’s quite insistent, sir. Says there was a complaint about... smell.”
Something flickers across Gabe’s face—too fast for me to read—before his easy smile returns. “Well, we can’t keep a city official waiting. Adrian, would you mind entertaining the ladies while I handle this bureaucratic nonsense?”
“Of course.” Adrian’s voice is perfectly steady, but I catch him exchanging another weighted glance with Gabe.
“Don’t be too long,” I call after Gabe, emboldened by wine and attraction. “You promised to tell me more about the acoustics down here.”
He flashes me a smile that makes my stomach flip. “I won’t keep you waiting, beautiful.”
After he leaves, I try to focus on Adrian’s explanation of the ‘86 vintage, but my brain won’t cooperate.
It’s spinning—the waiter looked genuinely worried, not just annoyed, and there was something about the way he said smell complaint that seemed specific, and why would someone complain about smell at a jazz club, and Gabe’s expression changed for just a second before he controlled it, and—
“The ‘86 really opens up after about thirty minutes,” Adrian is saying to me, and I realize I’ve completely lost the thread of the conversation.
“Sorry, what?”
Maya shoots me a look that’s part amusement, part concern.
Footsteps on the stairs again. Gabe appears, straightening his cuffs as he descends. He looks completely relaxed, unbothered.
“Everything okay up there?” I ask.
“Just some nonsense about a smell complaint.” Gabe slides back into his seat, picking up his wine glass. “Walked the inspector through the whole place—spotless, naturally. He didn’t find anything unusual. Probably a competitor trying to cause trouble, or drunk customers playing pranks.”
He says it so easily, so smoothly. And maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s my crazy brain that picks up stuff, but something about his tone doesn’t quite match his relaxed posture. Like he’s performing casualness rather than feeling it.
But then his hand finds mine under the table, warm and solid, and he’s asking about my studio again with genuine interest, and I choose to let it go.
You’re paranoid. Maya’s been making you paranoid. It was just a random inspection.
“Now, where were we?” Gabe’s eyes find mine. “Ah, yes, you were going to tell me about your workspace.”
I nod and launch into an animated description of my studio—the skylight that gives perfect north light in the mornings, the way I’ve organized my supplies by color, the wall where I pin reference photos and sketches that probably look like a conspiracy theorist’s bulletin board to anyone else.
Gabe listens as if every word matters, asking questions about my process, how I decide when a piece is finished, and the difference between what I see in my head and what ends up on canvas.
“Sometimes there isn’t a difference,” I admit, more honest than I planned to be.
“Sometimes I paint things I don’t remember deciding to paint.
I’ll step back and see something—a face in the shadows, eyes watching from a window—and I don’t know if I put it there deliberately or if it just.. . emerged.”
“The subconscious at work,” Gabe says thoughtfully. “Like improvising jazz. Your fingers find notes your conscious mind didn’t plan.”
“Exactly like that.”
Above us, the jazz continues drifting down—saxophone and piano weaving together in a haunting melody. The music seems to seep into the stone walls, resonating in the space between us.
“That’s one of mine,” Gabe says softly. “That recording. From about three years ago.”
I listen more carefully, hearing the piano now as a distinct voice. “It’s beautiful. Melancholy but not... sad. Something else.”
“Longing, maybe. Or recognition of something lost that you didn’t know you’d lost.”
The words settle into my chest, heavy and true. I meet his eyes across the dim cellar, and something passes between us—understanding, attraction, the recognition of similar darkness.
This is dangerous, my rational brain whispers. You barely know him. He’s friends with Adrian. There are too many red flags to count.
But I’m so tired of being careful. Of painting darkness from a safe distance. Of organizing my life into neat categories where everything makes sense.
“The acoustics down here are incredible,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “The way the music travels.”
“The stone walls create natural resonance,” Gabe explains, but his attention is entirely on me. “Would you like to hear it live? I keep a keyboard upstairs in my office.”
“I’d like that.”
Maya catches my eye, a silent question—are you okay, is this okay, do you want an out?
I give her the smallest nod. I’m okay. I’m choosing this.
Even though I don’t know what “this” is yet. Even though every rational part of me is screaming warnings.
Sometimes you must step into the darkness to really see what’s there.
And right now, with Gabe’s hand warm in mine and jazz echoing off ancient stone, I’m ready to step.