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He shoves the luggage inside a door off the kitchen while I look at the espresso machine with longing while downing the water.
He leans against the kitchen island, and the silence seems to swallow us whole. Darren’s rumpled shirt and wrinkled pants make him seem out of place in this pristine kitchen, but then maybe he’s always been out of place in a home like this. Everything is decorated in either cream or white, and the architecture screams old money with no room for sticky hands or dirty faces.
I can’t picture Darren growing up in a place like this. It looks more like a museum than a home. He runs a hand through his hair as he looks around the kitchen, his eyes settling on the back window that I notice looks out to a beautiful garden.
I stand behind him as he places his hands on the large farmhouse sink and hangs his head. “Are you okay?” I ask, raising my hand to place on his shoulder, but I lower it before making contact.
Darren tilts his head towards me like he wants to say something, but then he closes his mouth, turning away from the garden, his demeanor shifting.
“I need to wash my fucking clothes,” he says, pushing open the door off the kitchen to reveal the laundry room which looks bigger than my bedroom back in my apartment in Vegas. He proceeds to dump the contents of his bag into a nearby basket with force.
“Wow, you could have a whole servant’s quarters in here. Where’s the cot?”
Darren glares at me. “Boy, you don’t hide your disdain for wealth, and yet you accepted five-million dollars from me.”
“Accepted is not really the word I would use,” I grit out through my teeth.
I stand with my arms crossed over my chest, watching as he continues to try and figure out how to use the washing machine – and failing miserably.
“Why is this shit so fucking hard?” he growls, randomly turning dials and pressing buttons with no success, and I can’t help but enjoy his frustration.
“I would ask if you had someone who does your laundry, but I don’t want to get my head bitten off again,” I say.
He turns and glares at me. “Lottie doesn’t come until Monday,” he grumbles.
I sniff while leaning against the door jamb, my arms crossed over my chest as I watch him struggle.
I almost feel sorry for him—almost. He gives me a pleading look. “If you were planning on doing laundry at some point, could you throw some of mine in there?”
I pick up one of his shirts, looking at the tag. “Hmm, it’s not made with rayon,” I say sarcastically, “so I don’t think I know how to wash it.” I toss it back in the basket angrily.
“Jesus, are you ever going to act civil?” he responds.
I balk. “You want civil, you should have married one of your Cotillion dates.”
There’s a flare in his hazel eyes, the green burning brighter and taking over the brown. He stands close to me when he says, “If I wanted a debutante, I would have bought one.”
I look at the basket of laundry, and then back at him. “You want me to do your laundry?”
He steps away and looks at me with skepticism. “Yeah?”
“Is that a question or an answer?”
“It would be helpful,” he says with trepidation.
I smile. “Consider it a favor.”
12
Give All to Love
Evangeline
With my hair still damp, I throw on an oversized t-shirt and pad down the hall towards the stairs in my bare feet. I’d only intended to take a nap, but the hall is cast in the early evening’s dim light, making it seem cold and lonely. Along the walls are framed pictures of Darren at various ages, photographed with his parents. Some look as though they are from vacations they took, and others are posed family portraits. I stop and stare at one taken during his father’s campaign. Darren is sitting at one of the desks with a phone to his ear, looking like he doesn’t want to be there by the glare in his eyes while his father is standing nearby, talking to his wife. I feel this pang in my chest that shouldn’t be there. They looked happy, even amongst the chaos of the campaign going on around them.
I have to tear my eyes away from the photo to continue down the stairs. The house is larger than it looks from the outside, with long hallways and more rooms than needed for a family of three. There are several rooms upstairs, but they were all closed and dark, meaning Darren didn’t sleep in any of them, which leaves me to wonder if he slept at all.
My bare feet are silent against the hardwood floors as I step off the last stair, and I find myself standing outside of Senator Kerry Walker’s office.
