“Wine mission. The dean said we could break out the good stuff, but the waitstaff can’t find it.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I know where the best bottles are hidden.”
“Do you want help?” she offered, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them.
“Sure,” he said, his grin widening. “I get scared of the dark, so you can hold my hand.”
“Really?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, half-laughing, half-nervous.
“No, but you can still hold my hand,” he said, shifting the empty box beneath his left arm, then reaching for her with his right. The moment his fingers brushed hers, a current of warmth spread up her arm, pooling in her chest. It was familiar, like slipping into something soft and comfortable, a feeling that was both easy and electric all at once. They stood there for a beat, neither of them moving, then with a small, almost imperceptible shift, Chloe tightened her grip on his hand.
To get to the cellars beneath the college, they had to go through the bar, Deepers, past the jailed imp, then wind through a warren of narrow passages. Chloe followed John into the dimly lit tunnel. The scent of damp stone and dust clung to the narrow corridor, but it was his presence, his closeness, that filled her senses. She could hear the soft scrape of his shoes on the stone floor and the rhythm of his breathing, steady and low. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so acutely aware of another person.
The corridor opened into a small, low-ceilinged room, with high shelves lining each wall. The air was cooler here. There was a faint scent of cork and something pleasantly musty. Above them, the hum of a single dangling yellow bulb. Wooden racks lined the perimeter of the room, packed tightly with dark green and brown bottles, their labels curled or faded with age. A small stepladder leaned in one corner, and an open crate sat beside it.
“Have you been down here before?” she asked, looking around the cellar. Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the unspoken intimacy between them.
“Once or twice. I roomed with the keeper of the keys in second year,” he said. He put down the box he was carrying. “The stars might fade, and summers fly, but Lincoln College will never run dry.” She laughed as he moved toward a large, empty wooden shelf, testing how heavy it was. “And if you know where to look, there’s always something better hidden at the back.” He nodded toward the empty shelf. “Can you help me move this?” She went to take hold of the other side of the shelving unit, and together they shifted it just enough to reveal a hidden wooden door in the wall behind.
“In there?” she asked, a flicker of claustrophobia tightening in her chest.
“Don’t worry, it opens up inside,” John said, reaching for her hand again, and as his fingers entwined in hers, she felt like a compass finding her north. “Not many people get to see this. Are you ready?”
As he guided her through the small doorway into the dark cellar beyond, she was close enough to catch a trace of his aftershave, something warm and clean, faintly spicy. Once they were through, he turned to look at her, his eyes pools of light and shadow, impossible to read in the dimly lit cellar.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and as she made eye contact, she felt a rush of feeling, almost like wanting to cry. Her watch pulsed pink. “What’s that?” he asked, glancing at her wrist, a neon beacon in the dark.
“Nothing. An alarm…a, um, reminder to do my pelvic floor exercises,” she blurted. Why had she said that? She could have said anything! Luckily it was too dark for him to see her blush. There was no light in the hidden chamber, but John pulled out a torch and shone it around the room to reveal a small circular space, like an underground igloo, with bottles stacked in crates around the edges.
“Welcome to the good stuff,” John said, an edge of excitement in his voice. “It’s hidden back here to stop other colleges from stealing it.”
“Wow, I feel like Indiana Jones unearthing a long-lost treasure trove,” she said, then shivered, not just from the coolness of the room but from a keen awareness of John’s proximity.
“Indiana Jones and the Temple of Pouilly-Fumé?” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
“That would have a niche audience,” she said, then laughed. “If we pick up the wrong bottle, is a giant boulder going to come flying toward my head?” She watched as he shone the torch around the crates, inspecting their labels.
“Don’t worry, I will protect you from flying boulders,” he said, and though she knew they were only joking around, his words still ignited a small thrill.
“Do you mind holding the torch while I look?” he asked, handing her the torch handle.
Their fingers brushed as she reached for it, and they both paused a fraction too long, holding the torch between them. Eventually, he cleared his throat and then turned back to the crates behind him.
“So why did you leave dinner so suddenly like that?” he asked, eyes scanning the labels on the crates.
“Oh, it was silly,” she said, moving to stand beside him to better shine the torch where he was looking. “I asked Sean for a favor, to read a script for my boss. He said no, obviously. I was embarrassed. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“He’s sensitive about stuff like that,” John said gently. “He’s been burned before. I wouldn’t take it personally.”
“We had such a good talk this afternoon,” she said. “It felt like we put everything back to rights. Then I go and ruin it all by asking him for a favor.” Her voice caught. “It’s not even a good script.”
“Why did you pitch it, then?” John asked, as he picked up a bottle and wiped dust from the label. It was a simple question, but Chloe paused, struggling to find the answer.
“I don’t know. Because it felt like my job depended on it,” she said, her voice thin, unraveling. “I thought he’d just say‘sure,’ then never actually read it.” John moved across to inspect the next crate, and she moved the torch to follow his gaze. Listening to the sound of his breathing, so sure and steady, she was seized by a reckless urge to reach out and hold him. She took a small step back, to stop herself. “Maybe I just wanted a seat at the table again.”
John turned to face her fully now, and she held her breath, because she felt like he might be about to hug her. She desperately wanted him to. But he didn’t, he just said gently, “You seem a little lost, Chloe.”
Her spine straightened. She frowned. “I’m not lost.”
“Fine, you’re not,” he said with an edge of impatience.
