Page 26 of The Vines Between Us
The cellar was smaller than I remembered, or perhaps Hugo and I were simply larger than the boys who had once played hide-and-seek among the barrels. Rain drummed against the small windows set high in the walls, and occasional flashes of lightning cast strange shadows across the stone floor.
"We're soaked," Hugo observed, pushing wet hair from his face.
I glanced down at my clothes, which clung to every contour of my body. Hugo's white t-shirt had become nearly transparent, revealing the lean muscles beneath. I looked away quickly, but not before he caught me staring.
"Remember the last time we got caught in a storm down here?" he asked, his voice lower than before.
I did remember. We'd both just turned eighteen, hiding from a sudden downpour much like this one. We'd ended up kissing for hours in the dark, surrounded by the rich scent of aging wine and the distant rumble of thunder.
"That was a lifetime ago," I said, but I couldn't keep the roughness from my voice.
Hugo took a step closer. "Was it?"
The lantern light caught the golden flecks in his brown eyes. Droplets of water clung to his eyelashes and traced paths down his cheeks. I found myself reaching out to brush one away, my fingers trembling slightly as they made contact with his warm skin.
He caught my hand before I could withdraw it, holding it against his face. "Alexandre," he whispered, and the way he said my name made something inside me ache.
We gravitated toward each other slowly, inevitably, like planets caught in each other's orbit. His breath mingled with mine, his lips just centimeters away. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the familiar scent of him beneath the rain and earth.
A tremendous crack of thunder shook the cellar, startling us apart. A cascade of dust fell from the ceiling, and the lantern flickered ominously.
"The storm's directly overhead," Hugo said, his voice unsteady. He stepped back, creating distance between us. "We should check the structural integrity. These old cellars sometimes leak during heavy rains."
I nodded, grateful for the excuse to move away, to catch my breath, to regain control of the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. But as we busied ourselves examining the ceiling and walls, I couldn't help glancing at Hugo, wondering what might have happened if the thunder hadn't interrupted us.
And I couldn't deny that some part of me hoped for another chance.
Chapter Nine
ALEXANDRE
Ifollowed Hugo's battered green truck along the narrow road that separated our properties, watching dust kick up behind his wheels in the golden evening light. The storm had passed hours ago, leaving behind that peculiar freshness that follows summer rain—the scent of wet earth and renewed growth hanging in the air.
After our near-kiss in the cellar, we'd spent the afternoon in careful distance, focusing on practical matters: checking drainage systems, securing loose equipment, taking inventory of salvageable tools. The tension between us remained unacknowledged but palpable, like an overripe fruit ready to burst at the slightest touch.
When Hugo had invited me for dinner at his place—"Nothing fancy, just simple food and decent wine"—I'd hesitated only briefly before accepting. The prospect of returning to Henri's empty house, with its dust-covered memories and half-finished letter, held little appeal compared to Hugo's company, even with the tension between us.
His truck turned onto a gravel driveway flanked by wildrosemary and lavender, and I followed, parking beside him in front of Claude's villa. Unlike Henri's austere stone manor, Claude's home was a riot of color—terra cotta walls with bright blue shutters, climbing jasmine framing the doorway, ceramic pots overflowing with geraniums lining the front steps.
"It's exactly as I remember it," I said as I stepped out of Henri’s old beat up Citroen 2CV.
Hugo smiled, unlocking the front door. "Claude believed a house should reflect its owner's soul."
"Henri would have said that's frivolous."
"And Claude would have said Henri needed to loosen his cravat." Hugo's laugh was warm as he pushed open the door and gestured me inside.
The interior hit me with a wave of nostalgia. Where Henri's home was all dark wood and traditional furnishings, Claude's villa exploded with color and texture—walls painted in warm ochre and deep azure, mismatched furniture arranged for conversation rather than formality, bookshelves overflowing with novels and art books instead of leather-bound classics and financial ledgers.
"Make yourself comfortable," Hugo said, heading toward the kitchen. "I'll open some wine."
I wandered through the living room, taking in the eclectic collection of objects that spoke of Claude's life—a hand-carved chess set from Morocco, a collection of vintage film posters, shelves of vinyl records, and everywhere, photographs. Claude smiling from mountain peaks, Claude surrounded by friends at village festivals, Claude with his arm around a teenage Hugo.
"He never threw anything away," Hugo called from the kitchen. "Said memories were too precious to discard."
I moved to the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame as I watched Hugo navigate the space with practiced ease. He pulled ingredients from the refrigerator, chopped vegetables with swift, confident strokes, adjusted burners on the ancient stove.
"Can I help?" I offered.
