Chapter 13 #2
He steps behind me, sliding his arms around mine and warming them with a slow, gentle motion. “How often does the plow get out this way in winter?”
“I don’t know. Probably not often since the club’s usually closed.”
“Shit.”
“I need to get back. I have to be there for tonight’s festivities. How would it look if the event’s director didn’t even show up?”
“With this kind of snow, Jay… I’m guessing tonight’s events are already canceled.”
I pull my phone from my pocket, hoping to call home, only to find no service. “Great. Do you think there’s a landline somewhere around here?”
“Probably,” he replies, eyes scanning the room.
“Let’s keep looking.”
We find a narrow set of stairs and begin our descent. The air grows colder with each step, and the dim light does little to push back the unease curling in my stomach.
“You okay?” Penn asks, his voice low and steady behind me.
A nervous chuckle escapes. “Have you… ever seen the movie The Shining?”
“Jesus… why did you have to bring that up?” he groans, though I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“I don’t know,” I practically squeal, my voice bouncing off the concrete walls.
We reach the bottom of the stairs and find a heavy door. Penn steps ahead, testing it. “Not locked.” He pushes it open, and I instinctively grab the back of his jacket, clinging like a lifeline.
“Did you hear that?” I tilt my head, straining to locate the faint, squeaking sound again.
“If you heard someone pounding on a typewriter… or see those twins… I’m fucking out of here,” he warns.
I chuckle, covering my mouth. “No, it wasn’t that. Just… squeaking.”
“Probably mice,” he mutters, eyes scanning the dim corners.
I shiver and press closer to him. “Great. Now I wish it was a typewriter.”
Penn flicks the light on. The fluorescent bulbs hum to life overhead, casting a harsh, pale glow over the rows of cardboard boxes stacked along the walls. The air smells of mothballs and peppermint, with a side of industrial cleaner that makes my nose wrinkle.
“This could take all night,” Penn says, surveying the space.
“Actually, we might have all night,” I admit. “If that snow keeps up…”
He shivers. “I am not spending all night in this creepy basement.”
I pull out my phone, checking for a signal. “Do you think we should find a phone first?”
“Let’s just do a quick sweep of the boxes first. Look for labels,” he suggests.
I step forward… and something whacks me square in the face. I scream, flailing like a ninja warrior.
“It’s okay,” Penn murmurs, gently pulling the offending strand from my hair.
“What was that?”
“Cobwebs,” he says, suppressing a grin.
“Eww,” I mutter, wiping my face. “Nothing says Christmas magic like a damp basement full of cobwebs.”
He smirks, clearly amused, and we dive into a quick search of the boxes. Banquet supplies. Patio furniture. Umbrellas. Old signage and banners. Chafing dishes. Champagne flutes. Artificial flowers. I let out a frustrated sigh.
“Everything but—”
“Found it.” Penn’s voice cuts through my disappointment. He brushes off dust from a box labeled XMAS—Fragile in black marker and sets it down.
“Thank God.”
“I don’t know… this feels too easy,” he says, eyeing me knowingly.
I crouch to open the box, and instead of the star for the nativity set, I find a horde of plastic skeletons staring up at me. “Of course. Wrong holiday. And yeah… no way was it going to be this easy.”
“Why the hell would someone mark it XMAS—Fragile?”
I shrug, matter-of-factly. “It’s the elf. He’s getting us back for stuffing him in the closet.”
Penn chuckles. “I’ve no doubt, but don’t worry. We’ll find your star.”
A louder noise suddenly echoes through the basement. I jackknife to my feet, heart thumping. Pulling out my phone, I switch on the flashlight app and sweep it around the corner.
Paint cans, ladders, tool chests, janitorial carts, mops, buckets. HVAC units, boilers, laundry machines, and humming water heaters. The old pipes creak and groan like the building itself is alive.
“It’s an old building. Pipes make noises,” Penn assures me, pulling me close. His warmth seeps into me, steadying my nerves.
I nod, pointing desperately toward the stairs. “That was the only box marked XMAS. Let’s try somewhere else.”
We hurry back up the stairs, feet pounding as if the twins—or some other horrific characters—are chasing us. Penn slams the door behind us, then points to another set of stairs. “Let’s go that way.”
We climb quickly, the chill clinging to our coats. At the top, we find a door that opens without a key.
“This is better,” he says, a glimmer of relief in his eyes as we calm.
We walk down the hall, the floorboards muted under our steps, and push open the door to a billiards room. Felt pool tables gleam in the dim light, dark wood paneling stretches along the walls, and mounted hunting and fishing trophies stare down at us. The faint scent of cigars lingers.
“Billiards room,” I say, stating the obvious.
“That looks fun,” he replies, eyes lighting up as he points to the tables.
“I thought you might like that.” I slip my hand into his, and for a moment, the world outside feels miles away. “Let me show you my favorite room.”
I guide him to a door and open it. Instantly, the rich scent of old books surrounds me, a far more pleasant assault than the basement ever was.
The library is massive, the shelves climbing to the ceiling, a rolling ladder resting against them like a bridge to another world.
A fireplace stands ready to crackle, and I can almost imagine sinking into a leather armchair with a book in hand.
“It’s perfect for you,” he murmurs softly, his voice carrying a weight that makes me glance up at him. There’s a quiet awe there, like he’s absorbing more than just the room—like he’s taking in a piece of my world.
His gaze shifts, landing on the old desk in the corner, and before I can react, he’s across the room with a landline in his hand. “It works.”
For a fleeting moment, a pang of disappointment hits me. I like being locked away from the real world, having this stolen bubble with him. But then I remember my role. I’m the event director, and everyone is probably worried.
I cross the room, leaning over the desk, and punch in my parents’ number. My dad answers on the second ring.
“Hey, Dad. I’m at the country club, and the snow is coming down hard. How are things there?”
“I’ve been calling for the last hour. Are you okay?”
“Bad reception, but I’m okay. I’m inside and safe. But tonight’s events—”
“Cancelled,” he interrupts, and relief blooms in my chest.
“Ask about a plow,” Penn murmurs quietly, his hand brushing mine for a fleeting second, sending a little spark up my arm.
“Is that Penn? He’s with you?” my dad asks, his voice tight with worry.
“Yes,” I answer, smiling.
“Thank God.” Relief floods his tone and hits me square in the chest like a snowball. “Okay, Jaylynn, I’ll see what I can do about a plow, but they’re busy. It might not be until morning. Really, I don’t want you guys on the roads tonight. I want you both to stay safe inside… and keep warm.”
“Okay, thanks Dad. We will. Give everyone a hug for me, and we’ll see you all tomorrow.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
I lower the phone and catch Penn’s gaze.
His shoulders slump just a fraction, a quiet, almost faint exhale.
He must have heard a part of the exchange—the relief that my dad knows he’s with me.
It’s touching him more than he’s letting on.
I have no doubt that this amazing man wants to belong, to be trusted, to be welcomed.
“Dad was relieved to hear you were with me,” I murmur, reiterating what I’m sure he heard, as I lightly brushing my arm against his.
“He said that?” His voice is low, almost hesitant, as he eyes me, needing to hear it again.
“He’s been trying to call, worried about us.”
“Worried about you.”
“Worried about you too, Penn.”
“Yeah?” The word is soft, vulnerable.
My chest tightens. “Yeah… he cares about his family. And you’re family, Penn.” I press my hand against his chest, feeling the solid warmth there. His throat works as he swallows, and I add gently, “He wants us to stay inside… warm.”
I watch him shift, taking in the library around us—the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the fireplace that could swallow us in its glow, the snow-dusted windows framing the world outside. His expression softens, something tender threading through the mischievous spark in his eyes.
“Well, it’s still early. How should we pass the night away?” he asks, that familiar twinkle there again.