©2026, Vampires Love Garlic, Ashley Chapman

Notes: I encourage you to listen to Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” for this chapter. Such a pretty piece, and it fits. 🙂

10

Heather

I Don’t Believe in Ghosts

But I can feel them over the next few days. They haunt McKenzie’s basement, vivid imaginings that make my work feel important even though it’s only for an engagement party.

Narcissa went back to California. She had to meet up with a wedding coordinator. She left me the key to the outside entrance of the basement, and for the past week, I’ve been coming and going as I please.

McKenzie hasn’t come down into the basement.

Thank God.

I swear that man knows I was all but melting for him when I saw his chest.

He’s come to the café every day, as usual. He drinks his latte and looks over the rim of his cup, newspaper in hand, those dark green eyes searing into me like we’re sharing some sort of secret. I don’t know what secret he thinks it is we have. I’ve caught him staring once or twice at work, a sparkle in his eyes like he finds something amusing.

So I’m glad he’s left me alone at his house.

It’s Saturday afternoon.

I’ve finished working at The Pirates’ House and am down in the basement, attaching garlands to the back bar. I’ve already dusted all the bottles and shelves. It’s raining outside. I can hear it over the rock music playing through my earbud. It’s a pleasant sound, mingling with Bon Jovi and the strains of Debussy coming from upstairs.

Debussy?

I turn off my music, remove my earbud, and listen.

Someone’s playing the grand piano. It’s definitely not a recording I’m hearing.

There’s something so wonderfully romantic about the gorgeous music drifting down the basement stairs, harmonizing with the rain. This weather was almost made for “Clair de Lune.”

I find myself gravitating toward the stairs.

The music pulls at my heart, hypnotizing me, carrying me up the stairs and to the grand ballroom. I step inside and stand quietly, leaning against the wall, the music building up emotions inside of me that make my heart soar and my eyes tear.

McKenzie is seated at the piano, fingers moving effortlessly over the keys. He’s bowed over, dressed in a white button-down shirt and black trousers, his Rolex flashing in the dimmed lights of the chandeliers. His brow is furrowed, but with each note he plays, I can see his face relaxing. It’s like each strand of music is washing away his frustration.

I forget sometimes that he’s a businessman, that he works hard. He has a life outside of coffee, and he must put his whole heart and soul into his business to be able to afford the lifestyle he has.

Here, though, the businessman disappears.

Here, he is just a man playing an instrument and finding peace in it.

I’m embarrassed again, this time because I can feel my spirit yearning to meet his. I wish I could comfort him, could help him carry whatever it is that weighs heavily on his mind.

I’m intruding on something personal, and I scoot toward the doorway, hoping he doesn’t notice me.

“Stay.”

The command is soft, and I pause.

“I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Stop apologizing.”

He glances away from the keys, still playing.

“Your playing is beautiful,” I whisper.

I don’t know how he hears me, but he smiles.

“Do you play, Heather?”

I shake my head.

No. I wish I could play. I’ve never had much time to learn. Between school and work, my hours are full of books and coffee. It would be a treat to be able to sit down and relax at a piano.

“Would you like to learn?”

His question throws me off guard.

“Eventually?” I say.

“Now?”

“Now?” I echo.

He stops playing and slides to the side of the bench. He pats the sleek black wood, and I find myself walking to him. I sit at his side and let the gentle hint of his cologne wrap around me.

He takes my hands, tenderly, and places them in their appropriate positions on the white keys. He speaks softly, something about “Middle C” and basic scales, but I don’t hear a word he’s saying. I can’t. He’s so close, so very close. His breath is warm against my skin. His voice is low, deep, entrancing. I want to look at his face, but I know it will be close to mine and I’m not sure what I will do with that.

He gives me instructions, then encourages me to relax my fingers. They’re stiff…just like my back, neck, and shoulders are.

This shouldn’t be so intimate.

He’s giving me a piano lesson, and…

Oh my gosh.

What is he doing?

He gets off the bench and stands behind me. He closes me into the barrier of his arms, his chin nearly resting on my shoulder, his breath hot and welcoming against my neck and ear.

“Put your hands on mine,” he instructs. “Feel, Heather.”

Oh, I’m feeling all right.

I’m feeling a lot.

“Relax,” he says softly.

“I can’t,” I whisper back.

My hands move on their own, resting atop his. My hands are so small in comparison to his, and I always thought I had big hands. I can see every scar on my skin, every chip in my nail polish.

He begins to move his fingers, and mine glide along with his.

The motions are incredibly smooth, incredibly relaxed, and I shiver when he whispers against my ear.

“Foot down on the damper.”

I do as he instructs, some sort of magic compelling me to do everything he orders.

Together, we make music.

And as every note plays, as the piano sings its haunting melody, I can feel myself resting in his embrace.

I know it’s not really an embrace.

But his chest is strong against my lower back. His blonde strands tickle my cheek.

I can feel his breath blowing across my jaw, soft and terribly sensual.

I’m in dangerous territory here.

“Kenzie…” I struggle to speak, my heart thumping so ferociously I’m sure it’s blocking my vocal cords.

“Kenzie?” He laughs. “I usually get ‘Mac’ for a nickname, but I like it. I can live with Kenzie.”

“Thank you for the lesson.” I swallow hard. “But I need to get back to work downstairs.”

“I’m making you uncomfortable.”

He doesn’t ask, doesn’t sound offended. He just states it.

“No,” I answer honestly. “And that’s the problem. I shouldn’t be comfortable with you. Not like this, anyway. You’re a little too close.”

He moves away, and suddenly, I’m cold. It’s like he took all the warmth with him.

I feel like I’ve been rude, and a knot forms in my stomach, a familiar guilty sensation of knowing I’ve disappointed someone. I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. I’m the one who was having feelings I shouldn’t.

“I’m sor…”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize, Heather.”

There isn’t a trace of disappointment in his voice, and I look over my shoulder at him.

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “I was a little too close. That’s on me, not you. I’m glad you came up here. I wanted to show you something that might give you inspiration for the engagement party.”

“Your house gives me inspiration enough!” I laugh, relieved that he’s not angry.

“Oh, but you’ll like this.” He grins, that darn dimple tugging at his cheek. “I’m fairly certain, if we were in a fairy tale, this particular surprise would be the gingerbread house that snags you.”

“That doesn’t sound sinister.”

I shouldn’t be so comfortable bantering with this man. He’s rich, gorgeous, thoughtful, engaged… Yet despite all the hot feelings and the desire to melt into a puddle of goo when I see him or hear him, I feel safe to be myself. He doesn’t mind my quirkiness and my nerdiness, and it makes me like him even more.

His smile warms, and he gestures for me to follow him.

He pulls out his phone as we make our way into the basement, and as soon as we’re downstairs, he plays a song, a slow jazz version of “Blue Moon.” He sets his phone on one of the tables, then moves to a door next to the back bar.

I’ve noticed this door every time I’ve come down here, but I’ve never opened it.

“Picture it,” he says, waving his hand as though he’s painting a scene. “Slow jazz from the Roaring Twenties. Everyone in their finest flapper dresses and pearls.” He grins, pulling a key from his pocket and slipping it into the door’s keyhole. “The air is heavy with cigar smoke. Not really, but for imagination’s sake. Alcohol glimmers in gold and ember as it’s poured illegally into crystal glasses. And then, goodness gracious, but it’s the coppers!” He flings open the door and springs back with all the drama the situation requires, and slips into a New York accent. “Everybody out! Out! No more service today!”

He sweeps low and waves his arm to the darkness beyond the door.

And I know what it is before I’ve even taken a step forward.

It’s a tunnel. He’s found a Savannah tunnel under his house. In his basement.

I can’t breathe.

No, really. I can’t.

I step past him and into the musty, dank, dark corridor that extends from his basement.

It’s about ten feet deep, and I close my eyes, putting my hands to the far wall, feeling how there’s more on the other side. It’s a thin wall, put there by time and erosion. Dirt falls away beneath my fingertips, and I can almost hear the voices that may have once been here. Perhaps the Underground Railroad once circulated through this tunnel. Voices whispered with fear and anxiety, or perhaps with hope and excitement. When Yellow Fever struck Savannah, perhaps the sick were housed right here, underneath a mansion, secluded from everyone.

My heart. My heart feels full.

I’m going to cry again.

“I found this a few months ago,” McKenzie says behind me. “I opened the door, found a wall, and pushed through it. Took a little work.”

I can’t speak.

“I hired some people to work on it. Didn’t tell the city yet. Probably somewhat unethical, but hey, it’s my house. I don’t need a whole ton of people down here.”

I breathe in deep, letting the old smell surround me, letting myself simply be.

“Heather?”

His voice is soft, concerned.

“You all right?”

“You found a tunnel,” I whisper, patting one of the walls as though it’s a living thing. “You found a tunnel, and you’re sharing it…with me?”

“I couldn’t think of anyone who would appreciate it more. Narcissa wanted to see your reaction. I’m recording you. Hope you don’t mind. She’ll be thrilled if you are.”

“Thrilled?” I croak.

I’m far beyond thrilled.

I’m experiencing an existential dream.

I turn away from the closed end of the tunnel and make my way back into the basement.

Before I can think better of it, I jump up on my tiptoes, fling my arms around McKenzie’s neck, and squeeze him like I’m never letting go.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my tears falling onto his designer shirt. “You have no idea what this means to me. You’ve discovered a piece of history that hasn’t been seen in who knows how long, and you’re sharing it with me. I could write my thesis on this. Thank you.”

His arms come around me, slowly, and he pats my back as one might when consoling a child.

“It’s my pleasure… Heath.”

I know he’s returning the favor. I shortened his name to “Kenzie,” and now he’s giving me “Heath.”

And the thrill that ripples from my toes all the way up into my hair follicles has nothing to do with the tunnel.