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No, it wasn’t. “I guess.”
“Oh, come on. You can be proud of this stuff. You earned it.” He moved to his right and picked up a frame. “Is this your dad?”
Darren knew the picture, but he didn’t want to be reminded of how things used to be. At least the reminder of Dad cooled him down. “It was after we won the league championship my senior year.”
“And this one? Clearly that’s your mom. Is that your younger brother?”
“Cody, yeah.”
Isaiah moved over and looked at few of the older awards. “Swimming, baseball, soccer. What didn’t you do, Mr. Jock?”
“The school needed everyone to play to field a team.”
“Still.” Isaiah picked up a picture from a swim meet with Darren on the starting block. “Oh my God, you’re like thirteen in this picture.”
Face burning, Darren took the award and set it down. Why had his mother used that photo? He was such a dork at that age. “My mother put this stuff out. I’m . . . I was never here much, so she just did what she wanted.”
“What do you mean?”
Darren motioned for them to leave. Better get Isaiah out of here before he died of embarrassment. Or worse, begged Isaiah to kiss the fuck out of him.
“I almost never lived at home. They sent me to boarding school, and in the summer we went to the house in Rhode Island. I doubt I used this room more than eight weeks a year.”
“Really?”
“Yep. C’mon. I’ll show you your rooms.”
“Rooms? You mean I get a suite too?”
Darren rolled his eyes. “You don’t think my mother would let you stay in a shoebox, do you?”
“Probably not.”
They walked down the hall, past the staircase, and Darren stopped at the second door. “This is the room my cousins always fight over. It’s not as big as the one we just passed, but it’s quieter, and I’m told the bed is more comfortable. Firm.”
“I like sleeping on firm things.” Isaiah smirked, and at this rate, Darren would spend most of the weekend under a cold shower.
He hurried into the rooms. “This is the sitting room, the bedroom is over there. There’s a closet for your stuff, the dresser should be empty, and the bathroom’s at the back of the room.”
“I get my own bathroom?”
“All the rooms have their own bathroom. At least on this floor.” He pointed up. “There are some rooms upstairs that are smaller and don’t have one, but I don’t think anyone ever stays there.”
“Ever?”
“The nanny and some of the house staff used to use them, back when my parents had live-in staff. They stopped hiring live-in staff when Cody went to school.”
“Oh.”
“Well, take your time. If you want to relax, I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”
“Why are you in a rush to leave?”
Because if he didn’t get space, he might flirt the fuck back. “You probably want time to settle in.”
Isaiah dropped his bag. “Done.” He prowled toward Darren, sending his pulse into a stutter.
Darren’s voice came out choked. “What?”
“Can you show me what I most want to see now?”
“Y-yes. I mean, what do you want to see?”
Isaiah’s smile was like a damning stroke to his . . . resolve. “Your music room, of course. What else?”
Isaiah
The “basement” of Chateau Gage was as impressive in its own way as the rest of the house. No attempt was made to preserve the age or feel of the original house. Built for teenage boys by parents with an unlimited budget.
The game room had a TV the size of the pool table behind the couch. The weight room had enough weights to train the university football team and enough cardio machines for everyone else. And the wet bar belonged in a nightclub, not the basement of someone’s house.
Tucked into the far corner, just as Darren had said, the music room looked like a bunker from the outside. The cinder block exterior belied the perfect interior. To Darren, it might have felt like an attempt to isolate him, but the acoustics were perfect. And it had a Steinway grand piano.
“I can’t believe your parents bought a Steinway for your practice room.” He’d only played one once, and it was the difference between a Toyota and a Maserati.
“They moved this down here when they bought the Fazioli for the music room on the main floor.”
“No fucking way. You have a Fazioli?” Forget Maserati, a Fazioli was the Bugatti Veyron of pianos.
Darren’s face lit up, a departure from his usual downplaying of his family’s wealth. “You need to play it before you go. The sound is unbelievable.”
“I can play it?”
Darren gave him a bewildered look. “Of course.”
No “of course” about it. It was probably a half-million-dollar piano. Not just anyone should be able to touch that.
“It was made to be played,” Darren said.
Isaiah fucking fanboyed. “That would be . . . oh my God, are you serious?”
