Page 29 of Waiting for You

I turned toward the wooden door and pushed my weight against it.

It didn't budge.

I grabbed the iron handle and yanked it back, with the same result. The handle turned freely, but the door stayed cemented to the frame.

"What's the holdup?" Xavier asked from behind me.

"It's locked."

"Step back. Let me try."

I turned and gave him a dry look. "If I can't force it open, what makes you think you can?"

"I'm not saying you lack upper body strength," he said, waving me aside. "I just want to look at the mechanism."

I rolled my eyes and stepped aside.

He gripped the handle and shoved. The door didn't rattle.

He took a step back, his broad back to me, bracing one hand against the doorframe while he inspected the hinges where the door met the frame. Without turning around, he said, "Besides the obvious mechanical failure… I lift weights several times a week. I can deadlift considerably more than you."

"That's a blatant lie," I scoffed. "Your physique shows zero evidence of aggressive gym routines."

He turned around to face me, a wicked smirk pulling at his mouth.

"It's all hidden under the suit," he purred. "You'd have to strip the clothes off me to see the results for yourself."

We both went dead still.

Neither of us dared to breathe, let alone speak.

My legs finally gave out. I stumbled backward, found an empty wooden crate, and sank onto it. The damp chill of the cellar had been gnawing at my bare arms since we walked in, and now that the adrenaline was crashing, goosebumps erupted across my skin.

He watched me shiver. "You're freezing."

"I am," I admitted through chattering teeth. "I'm not Violet. She runs at a core temperature that defies human biology."

He let out a short laugh, grateful for the out. "She always has. We'd be standing outside in the dead of winter, shivering and breathing clouds of vapor, and her bedroom would somehow be a frozen tundra. I have no idea how she didn't catch pneumonia constantly."

"I asked her about it once." I wrapped my arms around my ribs. "She told me she preferred the cold."

"She would."

I rubbed my bare shoulders. He watched my hands for a moment before grabbing his suit jacket off the wine barrel where he'd draped it.

"Put this on." He held it out.

"What do you think happened to the lock?" I asked, reaching for the warm wool.

"The internal latch probably jammed," he said. "Happens constantly in these old, humid buildings. We could call the event staff."

"I left my clutch and my phone upstairs at the table."

"Same."

I stared at him as it settled in. "So we're trapped."

He swept his gaze over the tight little room, the towering racks, the guttering orange sconce, the suffocating quiet, before locking his eyes back on mine.