The walls are paneled with white wallpaper embossed with the Adinkra symbol. The only things that aren’t are the appliances.
“I could live in here,” she says as she strolls through the space, touching every surface with a reverence I wish I could inspire. She opens the fridge. “SubZero, commercial size and empty,” she mutters.
“I hate cooking for one, so I eat out.”
“Or at my mom’s,” she quips and throws me a teasing smile over her shoulder before she walks over to the butler’s pantry.
“Holy shit. You’ve got more dishes than a restaurant.”
“Yeah, my mom loved crockery. I inherited her collection and even though I’ll probably never use them, brought it here with me.”
“I’d eat on these every day.” She sighs and gazes at the cabinets while I gaze ather.
Her profile is sharp and striking. Only the outrageously full swell of her lips hints at the lushness of her whole face.
A dainty jawline, straight broad-bridged nose, and high cheekbones form the perfect pedestal for her upward sloping almond- shaped eyes. Her lashes are dark, thick, and nearly straight.
On a heavy sigh, she lets her head loll back and closes her eyes.
I stop staring and am instantly alert. “What’s wrong, Sin?”
“I wish I’d been born wealthy instead of good looking and smart.” She casts me a baleful look.
“What?” I bark a surprised laugh then quell it when she scowls and walks out of the pantry.
“Wait, are you serious, Sin?”
“Yes, money is freedom and choice.”
I shake my head. “No it’s not.”
She shuffles over to the bar and hoists her lush ass onto the buttery yellow leather chair that cradles it so perfectly I’m jealous of it. It’s closer than I’ve been in a long time.
She props her elbow onto the counter and rests her chin on a closed fist.
“So, if you didn’t have bills, you wouldn’t work?”
“Of course I would work. But not like this. For people who lie, backstab and care more about cozying up to sources instead of reporting on them.”
I slide into the stool next to hers. “What happened?”
She and slumps in her seat. “I hate my job.”
I nod in understanding even though I’m surprised. She’s always talked about work as a calling. But as I think about it, she doesn’t talk about it much at all. If I didn’t bring up her column every Sunday, she might not talk about it at all.
“I’m not sure I even want to be a journalist if this is all it’s going to be.” She looks despondent.
“You love your job.”
“I love the idea of it. The possibilities it holds.” She lets out a sigh and stares straight ahead unblinking.
“But the reality?” I prompt when she doesn’t continue after a few seconds.
She shakes her head slowly and blinks as if to clear her vision. “Therealityis I’m stuck with an editor with an aversion to thinking outside the box and I pissed off the one person I needed to impress. And you know what? I don’t care. She’s an asshole and if she liked me, it would mean I was, too.”
“Not necessarily, but I get your point.”
She purses her lips. “I took this job because I wanted to be back in DC, but also because I wanted to do something that didn’t consume me the way investigative work used to. I thought this was what I wanted.”
