Page 55 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
“Okay.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m trusting you, but just be careful out there and come right back in.”
While Three scoops up the flamingoes and heads out front, I take a couple of the leis, the leftover strands of lights, and a staple gun to the den. The room is freshly painted in a deep forest green. A chair rail of dark rich wood runs the length of the walls. In one corner is a large globe on a display you can spin, and I immediately hang a lei on it. Opposite the globe is a telescope with the business end aimed out the window. Another a great place to hang a lei.
The rest of the space is taken up by two overstuffed armchairs, a pub table flanked by a pair of high stools, and a small leather sofa across from the old brick fireplace. Built-in bookshelves line either side of the brick. But instead of books, the shelves are filled with Adirondack knickknacks like bears holding fishing poles and stained glass art featuring mountain scenes. It’s all expensive, but still rustic and kitschy.
Like my poor reindeer placemats now living in the garbage.
Dragging one of the stools over, I climb up to access the top shelves. I’ve got the extra strands of lights lassoed over my shoulder, and the staple gun wedged at my side. Lifting one end of the lights to the top right corner, I begin to attach the strand to the wall stapling every six inches or so. Then I climb down and nudge the stool over to begin the routine again. It’s slow work, but hopefully the effect will be worth it in the end. I’m midway through the process when Three’s voice rumbles from the doorway.
“Looking good, Hathaway.” I peek at him over my shoulder, and find him leaning against the door jamb. My cheeks flame hot at the compliment, not to mention the fact that I’m on top of a stool, so my butt’s basically at his eye level.
As if reading my thoughts, he adds, “For the record, I’m not talking about your …”
“Oh, I know!” I cough out a laugh. “But thanks for the heads-up.”
“I’m not staring at your head either.” His mouth goes crooked. “Just admiring your handiwork. And you were right. This was a great idea.”
My heart does a little leapfrog at this, until my inner Sara whispers in my ear again.
Don’t enjoy this too much, Sara.This is all temporary.
“Need any help?” he asks.
“Nope, thanks.” I hitch my shoulders. “I like doing some decorating myself for once.”
“So you want me to just watch you hang those lights by yourself?”
“That’s exactly what I want you to do.”
He salutes me, then ambles across the room dropping onto the sofa. “I guess I’ll just sit here and do what I’m told then.”
I swallow hard, turning back to my task and hoping my face doesn’t burst into flames. When I reach the bricked-in chimney above the fireplace, I place the last staple. I’m about to slide the stool to the other side, when I spot a wooden lever between the brick and the thick wooden mantel. Kind of like a cabinet handle.
“Huh.” My brows knit together.
“Something wrong?”
“Not wrong. Just weird.” I tug on the lever, and the handle moves easily at first. When I finally meet with some resistance, I pull down harder until something gives. And that’s when the other side of the fireplace shudders.
With a sound like a small, creaky cough, the whole bookshelf moves inward like it’s collapsing into the wall. Just a few inches. But the sliver of an opening appears.
The bookshelf is ajar.
“Whoa!” Three’s alreadyoff the sofa, a little-boy-on-Christmas-morning expression on his face. “Did you know your parents have a secret door to a secret room?”
“Ha! No.” I guffaw. “I’ll bet myparentsdidn’t even know about this space, or they probably would’ve turned it into a usable room during the renovation.”
Three slides between the bookshelf and the ladder, pushing against the shelving with both hands. The entire wall moves inward with a long, dusty groan. He cranes his neck, peering inside. “It’s a room all right. Maybe for storage or something.”
I climb down the ladder. “What’s in there?”
“I can’t see,” he says. “It’s pitch black.”
I creep behind him into the dark space, batting at cobwebs, resisting the urge to reach for the safety of his hand. When Three stops short, I bump into the back of him, grateful for the closeness in the dark.
Then suddenly there’s a click, and the space floods with light. I blink and Three’s holding on to a metal chain hanging from a naked bulb.
Moving out from behind him, I survey the now-lit room. There are stacks of boxes and a few crates, a couple of dust-covered oil paintings. Propped against one wall is a large framed mirror. A crack runs across the top, but the rest is perfectly intact. Three and I look at our reflections at the same time, our gazes finding each other in the glass.
