The heavy oak door swung shut, muffling the sounds of the ballroom. A sliver of bright light from the hallway remained, cutting across the dusty stone floor. I took a deep breath, letting the cool, earthy air calm my frayed nerves. I was finally alone.
Then a hand shot out and pushed the door.
The soft, definitive click of the latch echoed in the sudden, tomblike silence.
My head snapped up.
Rhys Callaghan stood there, blocking the exit, his broad shoulders filling the frame. The single, low-wattage bulb above us carved his features into sharp angles and dark hollows, making his eyes gleam with an unnerving intensity. He’d trapped us. Trapped me.
“Problem?” I asked, my voice coming out colder and sharper than I intended.
“Just admiring the architecture,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to be absorbed by the stone walls. He took a step into the cellar, then another, moving with a predator’s unhurried grace. The door was at his back. There was no way out.
“All this stone and wood,” he mused, his eyes never leaving mine. “Built to last. Built to contain something valuable, something volatile. ” He stopped, closing the distance between us. “A lot like you, I imagine. ”
My pulse gave a startled, heavy kick. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you’re done making ridiculous metaphors, I need to measure the dimensions of this space. ” My hands fumbled in my bag for my laser measure, my fingers suddenly clumsy and cold.
He was in front of me before I found it.
In one fluid movement, he closed the final foot of cool air between us. He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. I could smell him now—leather, a faint, clean scent of soap, and something uniquely him, something warm and spicy that messed with my concentration.
He braced a hand on the wine rack just beside my head, the sound of his palm hitting the wood startlingly loud in the quiet. The move was both casual and deliberate. He had me caged.
“This binder,” he said, his voice dropping even lower as he nodded toward the navy blue book clutched to my chest. “All these schedules and color-coded tabs. You really think you can plan a life. Plan a feeling?”
“I’m not planning a life, I’m planning a wedding. It’s my job to control the variables. ”
“There’s no such thing as a perfect day,” he countered. “The best things, the real things, happen in the variables. They happen when the schedule falls apart, when the wrong song plays, when you get caught in the rain. ”
A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold air traced a path down my spine. My lungs felt tight, as if the cellar was running out of oxygen. “That’s a nice, romantic notion for a photojournalist. For the rest of us, getting caught in the rain just means you get wet and your hair gets ruined. ”
His lips tilted in a half-smile that was pure, wicked temptation. “Is that what you’re afraid of, Ava. Getting your hair ruined?”
“I’m not afraid of anything. ” The lie tasted like ash in my mouth.
“I think you are. ” He leaned in closer, and my entire nervous system went on high alert, screaming danger and yes all at once. The heat radiating from his body was a tangible thing, a magnetic force pulling me in. “I think you’re terrified of anything you can’t organize into a neat little list. A single moment of chaos. ”
His voice was a silken rasp. He leaned in another fraction of an inch, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
“One unscripted kiss. ”
My breath hitched. My world narrowed to the space of a single, charged exhale. For a terrifying, exhilarating second, I thought he was going to do it. I imagined the press of his lips against hers, the scratch of his stubble, the taste of him.
He saw it. He saw the flicker of curiosity in my eyes. He saw me lean in, just a millimeter.
My own lips parted on a silent, involuntary gasp.