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The kettle whistles, the high-pitched sound snapping my attention to the present moment. The spout is too close to the window, causing clouds of steam to condense on the glass pane. Awesome. One more thing to clean.
I pour hot water over the tea bag, leaving it to steep while I attack the window. But my mind is in turmoil and tears sting my eyes, so I throw the used cloth in the sink, grab my mug of tea and wander outside.
Striding to the furthest corner of the yard, I take a seat on a bench under a willow tree. I take a deep breath and gaze toward the forest where Draven and I shared a magical night, expecting the view to cheer me up. But whereas I remember the foliage being a deep shade of emerald green, the leaves are gray, and the forest overall bleak and dreary. I take a sip of tea to lift my spirits. I swear I poured a spoon of sugar into my mug, but the tea is bitter.
I put the mug down and turn my gaze to the Woodburn mansion. As I survey the imposing exterior, it's hard to remember how overwhelmed I felt when I arrived at the grand and stately house. It feels like so long ago, and so much has changed in a few short weeks. I was timid and afraid when I arrived, but now I feel like a different person.
Home.
The word feels loaded now. I thought I knew what that meant when I left my father's house, but it's taken on new meaning since meeting Draven. My home is wherever he is. I never want to leave him, and that certainty gives me the courage to stand up to my dad.
The tears I held back in the kitchen resurface, stinging my eyes, and I glance at my phone. There are a dozen missed calls and messages from him. Waiting for him to call me again is the coward's way out. It's time to pull up my big girl panties and return his call, so I head back to my room.
Draven's room is palatial, but my room is modest, and the plain surroundings suit me perfectly. I'll let Dad see enough to know I'm safe and comfortable, but no more than that. There's no telling what he'd do if he knew the Woodburns are wealthy.
Draven gave me a laptop. It has all the bells and whistles, and when I protested, he pushed back, saying he had a bunch of spare hardware lying around. He couldn't explain why it came in a box, wrapped in plastic, but he's adorable, and I'm grateful for the way he cares for me.
Setting myself up in a comfy chair, I take a deep breath and dial. A pang of guilt stabs my heart when Dad's puffy red face fills the screen. His balding head is covered in thinning strands of hair, highlighting shiny patches of skin. He looks more disheveled than usual.
"Hey, Dad." I missed him for a split second before realizing he's deliberately made himself look worse to make me feel bad.
"Where have you been, kiddo? I tried calling a bunch of times," he says, shoulders sagging.
It's a ruse to make me feel like I've neglected him, and he's suffering because I'm caring for other people, not him. It's a crock, and I won't stand for it. He should have been nicer to me when I was around, but it's too late now.
"Sorry I haven't called, but I've been busy. You know what it's like. New job, new town, that kind of thing," I shrug.
He smiles, and his eyes wander, keenly surveying the room behind me, gleaning information he can use to his benefit. "Looks like you've landed on your feet."
God, I wish I didn't have bad thoughts about my own father. But I've spent a lifetime protecting myself from him. I can't help it, but I'm conflicted.
"It's a comfortable home, and the Woodburns are a nice family."
"Woodburns, huh? You're not qualified for anything, so what type of work are you doing for these people?" He studies me with piercing scrutiny.
"I just help out around the house and run errands. That type of thing," I shrug.
"So let me get this straight. You're a housekeeper. Is that right?"
This conversation is torture. We are tiptoeing around each other, but I know there's a blow coming, and I'm steeling myself for when it lands.
"Yes, Dad." I cross my arms over my chest and huff out a breath, resisting the urge to give him a lecture about what constitutes an honest day's work.
"And tell me about these Woodburns? Is there a man my age in the house?"
Is he trying to get a rise out of me? Making out that I deliberately left home to move in with a man. What's his endgame? Bile rises to the back of my throat, and I'm disturbed by what he's suggesting.
"No, Dad. Mrs. Woodburn is a widow. She's a really nice lady, and it's just her and her son."
"I don't recall you telling me the name of the town."
I didn't tell you because I don't want you to find me.
I fuss with the camera, adjusting the angle of the screen, deliberately brushing my finger over the microphone. "It's an old town, on the edge of a new housing development near sscr…mmphhff…ooods."
"What did you say?" He leans closer to the screen.
"You haven't told me any of your news yet. What happened to that deal you were working on?" I ask, throwing the conversation back to him. "The shipment of—" I don't actually know what he was working on. He never told me.
