by Regina Hart
“What is he going to do, knock me over the head and drag me to the altar?” Peyton was almost amused.
“Peyton!” Irene gaped at her. Small wonder. Her mother wasn’t used to such open subversion. “We’d hoped you’d reconsidered your impulsive decision. You’re never going to find another man who’s as good a catch as Bruce. He’s a rising star at your father’s brokerage.”
Darius’ smile flashed across her mind. Her mother had never been more wrong. Irene Biery Harris wouldn’t be impressed by Darius’s reporter’s salary. But he was a good person and a loyal friend. He made her heart pound and her body burn. That was more important to Peyton. “I don’t love Bruce, Mom. And he doesn’t love me.”
“You’ll grow to love each other.” Irene tossed a dismissive hand.
“I want to be in love before I marry.” Peyton sipped her lemon water. “And I want to be confident the man I marry loves me—”
“Love doesn’t always last, Peyton. Your mother and I are lucky,” her father interrupted. She heard his strained patience. “It’s more important to us that you’re well taken care of.”
“I can take care of myself.” Away from her parents’ influence, she’d never been more confident of her capabilities.
Carlson shook his head. “You haven’t given us any reason to believe that. Look at your most recent behavior. You assured us you’d return to New York in December and start planning your wedding to Bruce. Now we’ve learned you’ve moved to Trinity Falls and ended your engagement. You’re reckless and impulsive.”
“What were you hoping to accomplish?” Irene asked.
“You’ve both been telling me what to do, when to do it, and with whom.” Peyton looked from her mother to her father. “That was fine when I was four. I’m thirty. It’s past time I made my own decisions.”
Her father regarded her with stern dark eyes. “We’re trying to guide you so you don’t make mistakes like moving to some town no one’s ever heard of and breaking your engagement to a man who can take care of you in the manner to which we’ve made you accustomed.”
“Dad, I have a career.” Peyton carried her dishes to the dishwasher. “I’m accustomed to the manner in which I’ve been caring for myself.”
“You’re making a mistake, Peyton.” Irene turned to follow Peyton’s movements.
“Even if I am, it’s my life. It’ll be my mistake.” Peyton tossed the remnants of her soup into the garbage disposal. She rinsed her bowl, then loaded it into the dishwasher.
“I invited Bruce to join us for Thanksgiving dessert.” Carlson’s announcement made Peyton’s blood run cold.
She straightened from the dishwasher, closing the appliance’s door before facing her parents. “It’s your home. You can invite whomever you’d like.”
Peyton left the kitchen, ignoring her parents’ stunned expressions. Her back was straight, her shoulders squared. Inside, she was seething. They’d invited Bruce for Thanksgiving dessert. Obviously her parents weren’t done trying to run her life. But they were mistaken if they thought she’d continue to let them. Paraphrasing Janet Jackson, she was in control now. She owed a great debt to Trinity Falls—and to one sexy, sensitive, small-town reporter.
In the end, Darius kept his commitment to share an early Thanksgiving dinner with his father. Just because things hadn’t worked out with Ethel didn’t mean he and Simon couldn’t enjoy the holiday . . . he hoped.
Simon opened his apartment door in response to Darius’s knock. The older man’s eyes were wide and wild with stress and frustration. “I’ve burned the turkey. We’re having sandwiches.”
Darius nodded, taking in Simon’s sweats and bathrobe. “May I come in?”
“Oh. Sure, sure.” Simon pulled the door wide as he stepped back.
“Anything I can do to help?” Darius crossed the threshold and waited for his father.
“You can help me make the sandwiches.” The response was grumbled over Simon’s shoulder as Darius followed him through the apartment.
What a pigsty!
The living room looked like a spillover, walk-in closet. Discarded shoes marked a trail leading into the kitchen. The remnants of several days’ worth of fast-food meals covered the coffee table and half of the sofa. Simon had been living in the apartment for only four months. But it looked as though he’d been collecting trash for years.
How had his mother kept a spotless home when she’d lived with a man who elevated making messes to an art form?
And what was that smell?
“Dad, how can you live like this?” Darius gritted his teeth. Am I going to be sick?
“Don’t judge me, Darius. I’m doing the best I can.”
That was hard to believe. The stench grew stronger the farther into the apartment they came. Darius crossed into the kitchen and froze. A pile of dirty dishes stood in a sink full of filthy water. He’d found the source of the stench.
Darius stepped back. “Get dressed. We’re going out to eat.”
“What? Why?” Simon frowned his confusion.
“Can’t you smell that?” Darius gestured toward the sink. “Look around, Dad. Can’t you see this?”
“I just need to straighten up.”
“You need a hazmat team.” Although a hazardous materials team probably would condemn the place. Darius rubbed his eyes. “Get dressed. I’m not eating here.”
Simon looked around as though waking from a deep sleep. “It’s Thanksgiving. No place will be open.”
“We’ll find something.”
“Fine,” Simon muttered as he shuffled into his bedroom.
Minutes later, Darius sat at a booth in Trinity Falls Cuisine with a hastily dressed Simon. There were a few other patrons, mostly men, some alone, some with friends; a couple of students from TFU; and one or two couples.
The server had just brought their Thanksgiving plate specials: sliced turkey, stuffing, and broccoli. Simon attacked his plate as though he hadn’t eaten real food in months. Darius enjoyed the silence for as long as he could.
“Have you seen your mother?” Simon came up for air.
“I had lunch with her.” Such as it was.
“How is she?”
“Fine.” Darius cut into the soft sliced turkey. “You, apparently, are not.”
His father gave him a sharp look. “Yes, I am.”
Darius forked up stuffing. “Your apartment is a cry for help. It looks like you’re having some sort of emotional breakdown.”
“I’ve been busy starting a new life. I haven’t had time to fix the place up.” Simon went back to his early dinner.
“Mom’s starting a new life as well. The house has never looked better.” Was that a low blow?
“Your mother is still living in the house I half paid for.” Simon’s voice was tight with anger. “Meanwhile, I have to furnish an apartment and get to know a new neighborhood. I never thought I’d be paying rent in my retirement.”
“You said it was your decision to leave.” Darius sipped his iced tea. “You’ve made your bed. Now you get to sleep in it.”
“Your mother pushed me out.”
“What would you have done if you were her?”
“I wouldn’t kick someone out of his own home.” Simon gulped his soda, then slammed his glass onto the polished wood tabletop. “I’d have tried to work things out.”
“To do that, you’d have to take responsibility for the mistakes you’ve made.”
“What about the mistakes she made?” Simon pointed his fork at Darius.
“What mistakes?” Darius frowned.
“She never understood me.” Sighing, Simon stared morosely at his meal.
“Grow up.” The words burst from Darius without conscious thought.
“What?” Simon’s jaw dropped.
“Grow. Up.” Darius leaned in. “You’re like a spoiled child. Everyone else is responsible for your mistakes but you.”
“How dare you!”
“Mom never understood you, so she’s the
reason for your multiple affairs.”
“I didn’t have—”
“June never complained, so she’s the reason you didn’t take care of your son.”
“I’d’ve—”
“Instead of blaming them for your failings, you should be thanking them for carrying you all these years.”
“What?”
Darius’s face was hot. His muscles shook. Another Thanksgiving meal wasted. Why had he chosen today to confront his parents?
“It’s obvious from the filth in your apartment that Mom’s been cleaning up after you for the past thirty-four years.”
Simon’s eyes bulged from his head. “That’s bullsh—”
“And despite your lack of attention—or maybe because of it—Noah’s growing into a good man.”
“Don’t talk to me that way. You may be grown, but I’m still your father.” Simon’s voice was rough with anger.
“Then be a role model I can be proud of. Instead I have nightmares of following in your footsteps.”
“You could do a lot worse.”
Simon couldn’t believe his own words, could he?
“I don’t see how that’s possible.” Darius hailed their server for the check. The verdict was in; this was officially the worst Knight family Thanksgiving ever.
CHAPTER 14
Almost twenty minutes after dinner, Irene escorted Bruce into the sitting room, where Peyton waited with her father for their Thanksgiving dessert.
Bruce Grave looked like everything he wanted to be: wealthy and well connected. His lightweight V-neck oatmeal sweater and skinny gold slacks draped his model-slender frame. His soft, ebony curls gleamed. His fair skin was still ruddy from the cold.
Peyton had settled onto one of the pale silver–cushioned armchairs. Her father, dressed in a simple black cashmere sweater and black pants, had taken the other. That left the settee for Bruce and Irene.
Darkness had fallen outside. Carlson had pulled the heavy cream drapes closed over the room’s two windows. A standing floor lamp provided ample light. But the room still felt shrouded in secrets and shadows.
Carlson and Irene appeared watchful as Peyton came face-to-face with the man who was her ex-fiancé—and who would remain that way. Bruce’s expression was guarded. Whose idea was it that he try to reconcile with her? Was Irene that determined to get a husband for Peyton? Did Carlson want his protégé to take care of her? She could almost feel sorry for Bruce. Neither Carlson nor Irene took failure well.
“Hello, Bruce.” Peyton slipped her hand into the right front pocket of her cotton-blend pants and brushed it over the ring box.
His brown eyes took in her snow-white crewneck sweater and leaf-green, straight-leg pants “You look lovely.”
Too little, too late.
Bruce waited for Irene to settle onto the spindly silver settee before taking the space beside her. He played the gentleman when it suited him. Pity it didn’t suit him more often.
Images of Darius giving her his coat when they were trapped in the archives, escorting her to her door each time he brought her home, tucking Ms. Helen’s hand into the crook of his arm to help her to the parking lot ran through Peyton’s mind. He was chivalrous to his bones.
Peyton blinked. The images disappeared and she was back in her parents’ salon. “Shouldn’t you be spending Thanksgiving with your own family?”
“Peyton, don’t be rude.” Irene adjusted her sapphire skirt as she crossed her long legs.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Peyton stood, crossing to the glass-and-sterling-silver coffee table in the middle of the room. “I’m just wondering what Bruce hopes to accomplish with this visit.”
It was clear whose side her parents had taken. Their lack of support depressed her. Peyton served the bowls of pumpkin pie and vanilla ice cream.
“I would have thought my motive was clear.” Bruce tried a debonair smile as he took the spoon and bowl of pie and ice cream from her. “I’m here to win you back.”
He looked so sincere, gazing deeply into her eyes. She would have fallen for his act—if she hadn’t known him.
Peyton gave him a wide-eyed look. “Is that all right with Leila?”
Bruce’s pretty face stiffened. “What does Leila have to do with us, honey?”
“She was with you in your office the evening I called to break off our engagement, remember?” She served her mother the pumpkin pie à la mode.
“We were working.” Bruce’s dark brown eyes appeared confused.
Peyton laughed without humor. She was strong and in control as she never had been before. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“Why does it matter whether his secretary was in his office?” Irene gestured toward Peyton with her dessert bowl.
“Leila wasn’t working with him. She was working on him.” Peyton gave her father one of the two remaining desserts, then returned to her armchair with the last bowl.
“What does that mean?” Carlson added pie and ice cream to his fork.
Peyton studied the suddenly speechless Bruce. Was that fear she saw in his eyes? It should be. “His devoted secretary was giving him oral sex while he was speaking with me—”
Bruce’s soft features darkened. His laughter was forced. “That’s absurd.”
“That’s disgusting!” Irene’s sharp tone denounced her.
“That’s ridiculous.” Carlson’s growl condemned her.
Peyton heard again the rustling sounds as Bruce squirmed in his chair. She recalled his breath panting and hitching into the phone.
“I heard the two of you whispering on the other end of the line.” Peyton wasn’t certain from where her words came; months of frustration boiled over. “You were moaning as she sucked you to completion.”
“Peyton!” Irene’s blush rivaled her ruby sweater.
“I don’t have to listen to these accusations.” Bruce’s voice shook.
Peyton arched a brow. “If you stay here, you do.”
“Peyton.” Carlson tried a reasonable tone. “You don’t have any reason to be suspicious of Bruce. I’m in the office with him sometimes six days a week. I’ve never noticed any romantic gestures between him and his secretary.”
“Their affair isn’t the kind of thing they’d publicize in front of you.” Peyton glanced at her father.
“Is that the reason you ended our engagement? You think I’m having an affair? With Leila?” Bruce gave a scornful laugh.
“No.” Peyton returned her dessert to the tray on the coffee table. “I broke our engagement because I don’t love you. But one of the reasons I don’t love you is that you’re a cheating dog.”
“Honey, how can you say that?” Bruce stood, spreading his arms. “Yes, Leila is a very beautiful woman, but I proposed to you. I love you.”
“You see, Peyton?” Irene pressed her hand against her chest as though preparing to swoon. “How can you doubt his love?”
“Easily.” Peyton turned away from her mother and back to Bruce.
“Do you have any evidence to back up your suspicions?” Carlson sounded impatient.
So was she. “Do you mean like videos, photos, or panties in his condo? No.”
“Then what makes you think Bruce is a cheater?” Her mother sounded confused.
“Why don’t you tell them, Bruce?” Peyton returned her ex-fiancé’s stare.
“Tell them what?” His mendacious eyes were wide pools of innocence. “Honey, you’re starting to sound crazy.”
“I was crazy before. Now I’m thinking straight.” Peyton pulled the ring box from her pocket and crossed to Bruce. Taking his hand, she placed the box in his palm and wrapped his fingers around it. “I’ll decide who I’m going to marry. And I’ve decided it won’t be you.”
Peyton strode from the salon and made her way to her old bedroom. It had become her parents’ guest room when she’d moved out years before. She’d never felt so empowered. She was in charge now. She would live where she wanted to live, be who she wanted to be, love who s
he wanted to love. She couldn’t wait to return to Trinity Falls—and Darius.
Thanksgiving evening, Darius straightened his shoulders as the front door of Doreen Fever’s country-style home opened.
“You look like shit.” Ean stood on the other side of the door, concern in his olive eyes.
“Thanks.” Darius crossed the threshold as Ean stepped back, opening the door wider. In contrast to the brisk chill outside, the Fever home was comfortably warm.
Excited conversations and laughter almost drowned out the sound of the football game being played on television sets in various rooms around the house. Straight ahead, Darius recognized the neighbors gathered in Doreen’s living room. They exchanged smiles and nods as he waited for Ean to close and lock his mother’s front door. For years, the Fever family’s open house was a popular way to spend Thanksgiving evening. It offered great company and even better desserts.
“It was that bad?” After putting away Darius’s coat, Ean led him farther into the home Darius knew as well as his own. Their lifelong friendship allowed the men to converse in comfortable shorthand.
“I should have gone to Florida with Quincy and Ramona to spend Thanksgiving with Q’s parents.” Darius nodded at a few more people as he wound his way toward Doreen’s kitchen. The air was rich with the scent of confectioners’ sugar, chocolate, cinnamon, and other spices. “He sent me a text this afternoon.”
“I got one, too.” Ean spoke over his shoulder. “I wonder how he’s adjusting to Philadelphia. He didn’t seem that happy when he came home last week for Dr. Hartford’s retirement banquet.”
Darius followed Ean into the kitchen. “I’m concerned about him.”
“Quincy will be just fine.” Doreen stepped forward, offering Darius a plate with a healthy chunk of her famous Trinity Falls Fudge Walnut Brownie.
“Doreen, you’re a saint.” Darius took the plate and fork his friend’s mother handed him. Then he crossed to Ms. Helen seated at the kitchen table in a bulky green sweater and pale brown slacks. He kissed the elder’s cheek. “Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Helen.”
“It’s good you came, Darius.” She squeezed his shoulder.