In utter bewilderment, I unpeel the fabric from my face. It’s stretchy fabric. It’s—
Argh! Gross! It’s Krista’s Spanx!
She must have dumped them in here to hide them. Urgh. Urgh. They were on my face. With a shudder, I throw them down, as far away from me as I can. I need to get out of here. I’ve had enough of this hellhole. My back aches and my legs feel squashed. But how do I dare creep out when Krista might come in at any moment with random shape wear to hide?
Then my phone lights up with a new message. From Joe. I look at his name warily for a moment—then click on it.
Dessert is served in the wine cellar. Bean and I will be your lookouts. You can make it if you go now. X
The cellar is down a set of stone steps, leading from a door just outside the kitchen. When I was little I was terrified of it. Now, as I cautiously descend the steps onto the old brick floor, the place looks just as it ever did: musty and shadowed, with cobwebs thick in every corner. The racks of wine are on the far wall, although they look pretty empty now. Dad must have been running down supplies before the move. Hanging on a cord from the ceiling is a single lightbulb, glowing dimly. Beneath that, a tea towel has been spread on an upturned tea chest, and on that is a platter bearing a selection of the most delicious-looking desserts I’ve ever seen. There’s a mini cheesecake, a huge dollop of pavlova, a mound of chocolate mousse, five strawberries, and a couple of slices of cheese, with crackers.
I can’t help laughing out loud with delight. It’s a feast! There’s cutlery, a glass of water, and even a napkin. This must be Bean’s doing.
Without hesitation, I pull up an ancient metal stool and dig in. I’m almost swooning as I shovel chocolate mousse into my mouth—then I turn to the pavlova, which is just as good. Hats off to Krista: These caterers are awesome.
I’ve just taken a bite of strawberry when I hear the sound of the door opening above and leap to my feet in fright, still holding a half-eaten strawberry. Oh God. Please don’t say I’m going to be caught here, scoffing the posh food…
“Don’t worry,” comes Joe’s voice. “Only me.”
I hear his footsteps descending the stone steps and then there he is, impossibly elegant in his black tie, holding a bottle of champagne.
“Bean wanted to bring this to you, but she’s been waylaid by Lacey,” he says. “So I said I’d do the honors.”
“Oh,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks. Also, thanks for not giving me away in there,” I add gruffly as he opens the champagne with deft hands. “And backing up the Olympic-athlete story.”
“Pleasure,” says Joe. He pours out two glasses and hands one to me. I watch the bubbles fizzing to the top, my stomach knotting up. As he lifts his dark eyes to mine, I draw breath, then stop. I want to know things I can’t ask.
“What?” says Joe.
“Nothing.” I swallow. “Just thinking about…you know. Moving on.”
“Yes. Of course.” He lifts his glass in a toast. “To moving on.”
“To moving on,” I echo obediently, even though the phrase gives me a little pang in my heart. “Don’t let me keep you,” I add, after sipping.
“Oh, I’m in no hurry.” He nods at the chocolate mousse and perches on a nearby barrel. “Eat some more.”
“I will,” I say as I sit back down, although I weirdly seem to have lost my appetite. I see Joe’s eyes move briefly to my neckline and away again, and I can guess what’s in his mind. The candle charm. The Smallest Diamond in the World. It felt so precious when he gave it to me. A magical talisman that would protect us through all our months apart.
Well. So much for that.
Just then, music blasts through the air, and we both jump. They must have turned on some extra speakers above us, because the thud-thud-thud is coming right down into the cellar. I hear a distant whoop and imagine Krista or Lacey making shapes on the dance floor.
The beat of the music is infectious, even muffled by the ceiling. Joe takes a sip of his champagne, his eyes on me all the time, and I take a large gulp, trying to keep my cool. I had a lot of imaginings about tonight. But being alone with Joe Murran in the cellar, with chilled champagne and the seductive thud of music, was not a vision I ever had.
A shaft of light is illuminating his face, right on his cheekbone. Why does he have to be so good-looking?
“Last dance in this house,” he says at length, lifting his glass again.
“Yes. Except I’m not dancing. And neither are you.”