We sneak past the grand stairwell. Up two levels. Down a narrow hallway.
She leads me into a corner of the house I’ve never seen. Which says a lot, since I was sure I’d seen everything in this place. Guess not.
She pushes aside an antique mirror. It’s the biggest mirror I’ve ever seen.
It flings over easily despite its size. My eyes go wider when I see what’s behind it. There’s a small wooden door.
She pulls out a key from her pocket—silver and old—and slips it into the lock.
“Victoria,” I whisper, leaning close, my breath ghosting her ear. “Are you about to murder me in a hidden hallway?”
“Don’t tempt me,” she jokes as she slips inside first.
I follow. She closes the door behind us with a quiet click.
The room is dusty but quiet, and the air smells like the room hasn’t been aired out in decades.
It probably hasn’t, by the looks of things.
“What is this place?” I ask, running my fingers over the peeling wallpaper.
“It was added during Prohibition.” She drags her hand along a wood-paneled wall. “My great-grandfather used it to make and store bootleg booze. It’s been boarded up for decades, but I found the key in an old ledger.”
She glances back at me, eyes gleaming in the low light. “No one knows I come here.”
“You’re full of surprises, Little Bird.” I step closer.
Despite how small the room is, it’s still wide enough to hold a faded green velvet couch and a vintage record player perched on an old crate.
She walks over to the record player, gently dusting off the top with her sleeve.
“Does it work?” I lean over the crate beside her.
She glances over her shoulder, smiling. “Yeah, it still works. It’s just a little dusty.”
I nod toward it. “Then turn it on.”
She raises a brow, teasing, “You trying to dance with me?”
I shrug, stepping closer until our arms almost brush. “You trying to get out of it?”
She laughs under her breath, the sound warm and dangerous. Then she crouches beside the crate of vinyls.
“You realize I have to pick the right mood.” She flips through records. “Jazz? Blues? Cheesy ’60s love songs?”
“Surprise me,” I challenge, watching her.
She pulls out a vinyl, holds it up to the low light, then slips it from its sleeve.
She sets it on the turntable. The needle scratches before melting into a slow, old-school tune.
The soft tune settles over us in no time.
I hold out my hand, and she takes it, her fingers threading through mine.
We start to dance. If you can call it that.
It’s awkward at first.
