We move toward the basement door, which is heavy and awkward to tug open. Cole follows me down the creaky stairs. It’s dark in here, and when I reach the bottom I flick the light switch, which stutters on. Not that it does a lot of good—the corners are still dark.
I cringe. “This looks like the perfect place for a murder.” Ugh, I hate being down here. It’s creepy, a stereotypical basement. I clear my throat and dig for the sketches to show the basement reno. “Too bad I can’t just fill this in with dirt and call it a day.”
Cole gives a throaty laugh, which turns the corners of my own mouth up. “I forgot how much you hate spaces like this.” He inches closer to me and peers over my shoulder to the drawing. I can feel the heat of his chest warming the space between our bodies.
“Um. So. Since we’re losing storage space upstairs, we’ll take out that shitty ancient bathroom against the far wall and make more shelf space for storage down here. I’ll also reorganize the basement’s shelving and storage to make it more useful and functional. We can save on the cost by getting pre-fab shelving units and customizing those.”
“Xander will appreciate that,” he murmurs, and the small hairs on the back of my neck rise at the brush of his breath on my bare skin.
It has to be this murder basement, making me hyperaware of everything around me. Right, I think with a scoff. Keep telling yourself that, Lauren.
I turn to face him, schooling my expression. “Do you have any questions about what I’ve shown you?”
His eyes peer down into mine, and I fight the urge to squirm. What the actual fresh hell is going on with me? “Nothing comes to mind,” he says.
I give a curt nod. Time to go home, regroup, maybe have a glass of wine and reactivate that dating website account I let lapse. Clearly it’s overdue. “Okay, thanks.” I grab my phone and start banging out a text to Xander, letting him know I’m available to talk anytime tomorrow. I’m in the office all day.
When I try to hit send, the message won’t go through. My single bar of signal is sketchy at best. “Crap,” I mutter. “I’ll have to try again upstairs. Your brother needs to get some damn Wi-Fi in this joint, too.”
Cole laughs. “I’ll make sure to tell him that.”
I plod back up the stairs and grip the door handle. Go to turn it, but it won’t twist. I frown and try harder. “Is this stuck? Or…” No, it can’t be locked. I turn to face Cole. “Do you have a key?”
He blinks at me and his brow furrows. Reaches past me and tries to twist the knob. It won’t budge for him, either.
“Please tell me you have a key,” I whisper.
But the apologetic look in his eyes is answer enough.
Shit.
We’re locked in the murder basement.
Cole
Lauren’s eyes grow wide. She turns back toward the door and resumes pulling on the knob, like it’s suddenly going to unlock itself. Her back is one long line of tension, and I can see her arms straining. “Shit, come on, open up, you stupid door!” Under the anger in her tone I can hear a hint of panic.
I reach over and cup her shoulder. “Kitten, you have to stop. It’s not going to open. We’re locked in.”
“Don’t you have one of those Swiss Army knives or a lock-picking tool?”
My lips quirk and I struggle to keep my expression even. “I left my thieving tools in my other pants, sorry.” In my rush to shower and dress and get back here before Lauren in order to surprise her, I nearly forgot my wallet, and I didn’t think about my multitool at all. After all, why would I need it here?
The fear in her eyes makes me kick myself.
I know exactly why she hates dark spaces like this. In sixth grade, some asshole eighth grader locked her in the janitor’s closet, with a broken light bulb and only a sliver of light under the door to see by. She was in there for hours before anyone discovered her.
It’s not something she talks about to anyone. But I know it petrified her, since she’s always been afraid of the dark.
She doesn’t know how I retaliated against that little cocksucker. I waited weeks to do so, in order to keep him from blaming her. Then I stuffed a tuna sandwich through the slats of his locker on the Friday afternoon right before spring break. His locker smelled so badly when we returned to school that it made the entire hallway reek, and the janitorial staff had to work overtime to purge the smell—okay, that part I felt bad about. Everyone called the bully kid Fish after that, even through high school.
I draw her into my arms and rub her back. I keep my voice firm to help pierce through her panic. “Lauren, relax, it’s okay. Let’s just take a moment and think this through. But I need you to stay calm.” Her skin is warm and soft even though her shirt, and I resist the urge to let my fingers stroke her the way I want to. I feel my dick stirring due to the soft brush of her breasts against my chest, and I make sure my pelvis is far enough to not give away my desire.