“What was that?”
“Cobwebs,” he says, suppressing a grin.
“Eww,” I mutter, wiping my face. “Nothing says Christmas magic like a damp basement full of cobwebs.”
He smirks, clearly amused, and we dive into a quick search of the boxes. Banquet supplies. Patio furniture. Umbrellas. Old signage and banners. Chafing dishes. Champagne flutes. Artificial flowers. I let out a frustrated sigh.
“Everything but?—”
“Found it.” Penn’s voice cuts through my disappointment. He brushes off dust from a box labeled XMAS—Fragile in black marker and sets it down.
“Thank God.”
“I don’t know… this feels too easy,” he says, eyeing me knowingly.
I crouch to open the box, and instead of the star for the nativity set, I find a horde of plastic skeletons staring up at me. “Of course. Wrong holiday. And yeah… no way was it going to be this easy.”
“Why the hell would someone mark it XMAS—Fragile?”
I shrug, matter-of-factly. “It’s the elf. He’s getting us back for stuffing him in the closet.”
Penn chuckles. “I’ve no doubt, but don’t worry. We’ll find your star.”
A louder noise suddenly echoes through the basement. I jackknife to my feet, heart thumping. Pulling out my phone, I switch on the flashlight app and sweep it around the corner.
Paint cans, ladders, tool chests, janitorial carts, mops, buckets. HVAC units, boilers, laundry machines, and humming water heaters. The old pipes creak and groan like the building itself is alive.
“It’s an old building. Pipes make noises,” Penn assures me, pulling me close. His warmth seeps into me, steadying my nerves.
I nod, pointing desperately toward the stairs. “That was the only box marked XMAS. Let’s try somewhere else.”
We hurry back up the stairs, feet pounding as if the twins—or some other horrific characters—are chasing us. Penn slams the door behind us, then points to another set of stairs. “Let’s go that way.”
We climb quickly, the chill clinging to our coats. At the top, we find a door that opens without a key.
“This is better,” he says, a glimmer of relief in his eyes as we calm.
We walk down the hall, the floorboards muted under our steps, and push open the door to a billiards room. Felt pool tables gleam in the dim light, dark wood paneling stretches along the walls, and mounted hunting and fishing trophies stare down at us. The faint scent of cigars lingers.
“Billiards room,” I say, stating the obvious.
“That looks fun,” he replies, eyes lighting up as he points to the tables.
“I thought you might like that.” I slip my hand into his, and for a moment, the world outside feels miles away. “Let me show you my favorite room.”
I guide him to a door and open it. Instantly, the rich scent of old books surrounds me, a far more pleasant assault than the basement ever was. The library is massive, the shelves climbing to the ceiling, a rolling ladder resting against them like a bridge to another world. A fireplace stands ready to crackle, and I can almost imagine sinking into a leather armchair with a book in hand.
“It’s perfect for you,” he murmurs softly, his voice carrying a weight that makes me glance up at him. There’s a quiet awe there, like he’s absorbing more than just the room—like he’s taking in a piece of my world.
His gaze shifts, landing on the old desk in the corner, and before I can react, he’s across the room with a landline in his hand. “It works.”
For a fleeting moment, a pang of disappointment hits me. I like being locked away from the real world, having this stolen bubble with him. But then I remember my role. I’m the event director, and everyone is probably worried.
I cross the room, leaning over the desk, and punch in my parents’ number. My dad answers on the second ring.
“Hey, Dad. I’m at the country club, and the snow is coming down hard. How are things there?”
“I’ve been calling for the last hour. Are you okay?”