Waiting for the Sun (Waiting for the Sun #1)

by Robin Hill

  “Why would you?”

  “I don’t know,” he says as he sidles up beside me at the island. “They’re not really my style.”

  “What’s your style?”

  He leans forward against the granite, his eyes fixed on the oils. A deep laugh rumbles in his chest, and he wears a smile when he turns to look at me.

  “That’s a good question,” he says. “I haven’t thought much about it. I just moved in and unpacked my toothbrush; that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

  “So you haven’t been here long?”

  “Almost ten years.” Darian pulls out a barstool. “Make yourself at home. I’ll open a bottle of wine.”

  I’m too anxious to sit, so I wander along the trio of French doors on the back wall of the kitchen and peer into the backyard. It’s completely private, enclosed in the same dense jungle of vegetation that borders the forecourt. The doors open to a covered patio, and just beyond that is an impressive rectangular pool.

  “This might be a little sweet. It’s homemade,” Darian says as he slides a glass of white wine across the island. He watches me as I look around, as if he expects me to say something.

  I’m kind of speechless. “It’s just—”

  “Not what you expected?” he asks.

  I take a seat on the barstool he pulls out for me and rest my back against the wooden slats. “No, not at all. It’s gorgeous, but it’s not pretentious. Not that I thought it would be. I actually envisioned you in a high-rise. It’s smaller than—okay, now I’m babbling.” I pick up my glass and take a long, slow sip. “The wine’s good. It’s homemade?”

  Darian laughs, his eyes glinting beneath the pendant light that hangs above him. “Yes, Gloria made it. It’s her new thing—making wine. You’ll meet her tomorrow. She’s my, um…how does one explain Gloria?” He raps his fingers against the granite, his lips pursed. “She’s like an overbearing mother who stops in unannounced and does things without being asked.”

  “And she forces her wine upon you,” I say.

  “And she forces her wine upon me.”

  “She sounds terrible.”

  He smiles. “She’s the worst.” His cheeks redden the tiniest bit, and I can tell he’s very fond of her. “Speaking of,” he says as he opens the door to the fridge, “she texted me earlier that she left some marinated, uh…something and asparagus in here…somewhere.”

  “Mmm, I love marinated something. Do you grill that?”

  “Hold on, smart-ass. Give me a minute.” He rummages through a stack of plastic containers, takes one out, peels off the lid, and sets it on the counter. “Marinated snapper, and yes, I can grill it…I mean, if you like seafood. You like seafood, don’t you? But if you don’t, that’s fine; we can order in. Or go out if you’re up to it.”

  “Snapper sounds great, but I’d like to freshen up and check my e-mail first.” I hop off the barstool and head toward the door. “Is my stuff in your…”

  “Right down the hall,” Darian says. He puts the container back in the refrigerator and closes it with his foot. “Let me show you.”

  I follow him to the set of double doors we passed earlier.

  An odd place for a master, I muse, noting its proximity to the dining room.

  “Here we are,” he says, standing against the door to hold it open. He jerks his chin at my bags sitting on the bed, atop a pink floral comforter folded over the foot.

  With my back to Darian, my eyes sweep over the details—the perfectly fluffed pillows, the uncluttered nightstands, the empty closet—and then burn with realization. The room is beautiful. It smells like lavender and fresh linen. It’s decorated like a five-star suite—formal but comfortable. And not his.

  He put me in my own room?

  “There’s a private bathroom with a Jacuzzi I thought you might like,” he says, still leaning against the door like he’s afraid to let it go. “I’ll get the grill fired up. Take your time, and if you think of anything you need, just let me know.”

  I need to be with you. In your room. In your bed.

  The heavy door crashes against the frame when it closes and makes me jump.

  Welcome to your dungeon, Frankie.

  Under different circumstances, I could really dig this. Every piece of furniture is oversized and nothing looks cramped. I doubt I could fit this stuff in my entire cabin, much less my bedroom. There are doors that lead into the backyard, which I already know accommodates a pool fit for a resort. And Darian did say Jacuzzi…

  There are worse dungeons.

  I don’t want to overthink this, but my mind is reeling and there’s no stopping it now. He kind of freaked out last night. Maybe this is his way of putting on the brakes.

  Maybe it isn’t personal.

  I drag my fingers along the smooth beveled edge of the dresser, catching sight of my appearance in the mirror as I pass. My hair looks like I slept on it all day, which I suppose I did, though my puffy, blood-shot eyes and sallow skin would beg to differ.

  Maybe it is personal.

  I pull my toiletry bag out of my duffel and take it into the bathroom. Except for the almighty tub with jets, it’s not that fancy. The lighting is better, and that’s all I really care about right now. My hair still screams light socket, but my face doesn’t look nearly as wasted as it did under the unforgiving lights of the bedroom.

  After a five-minute shower and a change of clothes, I exit through the patio doors in my room and walk barefoot across the cool stretch of flagstone to the barbecue area at the opposite end of the house. Darian’s head whips around as I drag one of the heavy black iron chairs away from the table. The man is a paradox. The smile he gives me suggests nothing of the last thirty minutes, and for a brief moment, I almost forget I’m upset.

  Are you upset? It’s just a room.

  “I poured you another glass of wine,” he says with his spatula pointed toward me.

  I open my mouth to speak and then close it. You’re such a wuss, Frankie. “Thanks,” I mutter instead as I sink into the cushion.

  “Fire’s almost ready. It won’t take long after that.”

  The far corner of the patio houses an outdoor kitchen complete with a built-in gas grill, and directly in front of it sits a black charcoal pit with smoke rising from the coals. It’s just a basic barrel with a grate, like something you’d find in front of a grocery store. Like the one I have, only safer.

  “Fire’s good,” Darian says, striding toward the kitchen door. “Let me just grab the—hey, are you okay? You don’t look well.”

  My eyes flick to his as he pulls a chair next to mine and sits beside me. His smoky fingers run the length of my hairline, tucking the frizzy pieces behind my ear that have taken to blowing in my face.

  Here’s your chance, Frankie. Say something.

  “Why don’t you use the gas grill?”

  Seriously?

  He sits back in his chair with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Never been a fan of gas, I suppose.” His head slants to the side, like he’s studying me. “I’m not used to having company. If you want anything at all, please…is it the wine? This batch is sweeter than normal. I can get—”

  “The wine’s perfect. I’m just…”

  Tell him what’s bothering you. Drink a glass of wine. Eat dinner. Have lots and lots of sex.

  I stare at the rivulets of condensation as they trail down the side of my glass. Darian moves it out of his way and reaches across the table to take my hand. I only let him hold it for a second before I pull it back and tuck it in my lap.

  “I’m just worn out,” I say.

  Darian leans forward with his elbows propped on his knees. “It’s okay if you don’t feel like eating. Or do you want something else?”

  “No. Thank you. I’m not very hungry. I feel terrible though. Gloria went to all that trouble, and you—”

  “Haven’t done a thing. It’s okay, Francesca. Really.” He rests his hand on my knee. “It’ll keep. We can have it tomorrow, and on my way home,
I’ll stop and pick up a few things to go with it…like chocolate.”

  “Fish and chocolate. Now that’s a combination I haven’t considered,” I say with a hesitant smile. “On your way home?”

  “I need to drop by my office in the morning, but I shouldn’t be long. And Gloria will be here.”

  Darian stands when I do and reaches for my arm. I think he might try to kiss me, but he doesn’t.

  “Take your time,” I say as I wrangle my chair under the table. “I still haven’t checked my e-mail, and I’m sure there are a few things that need my attention.”

  With a single nod, he pulls open the kitchen door and extends his hand. “Then come with me, milady.”

  I try to smile, but his enthusiasm has a sharp edge that’s beginning to cut. I think the only thing worse than having my own bed is that he wants to tuck me into it.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got it,” I say as I turn toward the patio outside my room. I make it a whole two steps before my eyes begin to burn.

  You’re just tired. Get some sleep.

  “Francesca?”

  I stop. Clear my throat. “Yes?”

  “Nothing. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  I open my eyes in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and to my surprise, relief is the first thing I feel. Relief that Darian’s at work and I don’t have to face him just yet…and relief that he won’t catch me in his Doors tee that I slept in last night. I trade his shirt for one I actually own, but I stay in my fuzzy monkey-print guys-suck pajama pants, which, thankfully, I had the forethought to pack.

  The second I open my door, the irresistible pull of bacon wraps around me and lures me toward the kitchen. I poke my head around the corner and watch Gloria conduct breakfast like it’s a symphony. A short, slightly plump little thing with a head of graying curls, she scurries from the stove to the sink to the pantry to the fridge and then back to the stove where her gaze finds me.

  “Ms. Valentine, good morning,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron.

  She rushes toward me, and I brace myself for a smothering hug, but she pinches my cheeks instead.

  “I am Gloria, Darian’s, uh…Darian’s Gloria.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Gloria. Please, call me Frankie.”

  “Yes, Ms. Frankie.”

  She smiles brightly, and her unflinching gaze follows me to the other side of the island where it lingers on me for long seconds before it falls away. Heat rises in my cheeks from the attention.

  “Darian says you’d be hungry this morning, so I fry up bacon and eggs to go with tostadas. You sit.” She points to a barstool, and I do as I’m told. “You sleep good, Ms. Frankie?” she asks, turning back to the stove.

  She bends to check the flame and then glides across the limestone to the far right cabinet for a glass. I’m so amused by the way she darts around the kitchen, I fail to answer her, which is evident when she turns to face me, hand planted firmly on her hip.

  “Yes?” she says. “You sleep good?”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you.”

  Now bent over with her head in the freezer, I struggle to hear her muffled voice above the clanking of ice.

  She shoots up and stares at me again expectantly. “Yes? Texas?”

  “Texas, yes,” I say, fingers crossed I heard her right. “Outside of Austin.”

  She grabs the milk from the fridge, takes a mug from the stand on the counter, and then turns on the Keurig. It gurgles and hisses as the rich scent of fresh coffee wafts toward me.

  “You don’t have much of an accent, Ms. Frankie,” she says. “Unlike me.”

  She breaks into a fit of giggles, and it’s impossible not to join her.

  “Not really. It only comes out when”—I drink tequila—“I’m tired.”

  She sets a cup of heavily creamed coffee in front of me. “Café con leche. Strong coffee and milk. Darian says you like Coke Light”—she pours a miniature glass bottle of soda over ice and places it beside the mug—“but café con leche is traditional so you have that too.”

  “Thank you.” I’m not much of a coffee drinker, but no way in hell am I arguing with her. “So how do you know Darian?”

  “Oh, that boy. I changed his diapers.” She waves her hand in the air as if to downplay their relationship, but there’s an unmistakable gleam in her eyes and a hint of pride in her smile.

  It’s clear she’s just as fond of him as he is of her, and for some reason, that thought comforts me.

  “I used to work for his mama,” she says as she flutters about the kitchen. “But then, you know…” Her head tilts from side to side and her eyes widen. “Wait, you do know, yes?”

  I nod over the rim of my mug. “About the accident? Yes, he told me.”

  “Well, the dummy decided he had no use for me after that, but I knew better. Can you believe he tried to fire me?” She pushes a basket of grilled buttered bread toward me. “Tostadas,” she says, gesturing toward the coffee I’m holding. “You dip.”

  I nearly choke. “He what?”

  “Men are loco, Ms. Frankie,” she says. She transfers bacon and scrambled eggs to a plate, slides it to me across the island, and then leans back against the counter with her arms crossed. “Half the time, they don’t know what they want, and when they do, they don’t know how to ask for it. He needs me; I stay. Simple. Plus, I’m a lonely old lady. I make him play cubilete with me.”

  I pick up my fork. “What’s cubilete?”

  “Oh, Ms. Frankie,” Gloria says, flashing the biggest grin I think I’ve ever seen. “You eat up and I show you.”

  Gloria is a wonderful distraction. She regales me all morning with stories Darian would probably wish she’d kept to herself. I laugh so hard and for so long my stomach muscles ache. She seems thrilled that I’m here, like I’m the only living proof she has that Darian exists outside these walls. We munch on tostadas, drink mug after mug of café con leche, and play countless rounds of the Cuban dice game. At a quarter ‘til noon, my phone vibrates with a text from Darian, and Gloria stands.

  “You take that, Ms. Frankie,” she says, patting my shoulder. “I need to get to this mess anyway.”

  My brows furrow. “Absolutely not,” I say. “You made me an amazing breakfast, and I’m cleaning up.” I hop off the barstool and make for the sink while Gloria stares after me. “Besides, it will give me something to do while I wait for Darian.” I glance at my phone, to the text that tells me he’s going to be late. “And it looks like I’ll be waiting a while.”

  It’s strange being alone in someone else’s home. You get this sense of who they are, and it’s usually vastly different from the person they claim to be. But as I wander through Darian’s house, I get nothing, except what I already know—that he’s incredibly private. Other than his mail stacked on the kitchen counter, there isn’t a single thing that suggests he lives here.

  The home’s plantation-style is in the details; the layout itself is much more modern. Each room leads to another, so if you keep walking in the same direction, you’ll end up right where you started. It’s one big square, and in the very center is a courtyard, which is where I spend most of my day.

  Despite the constant humidity, it’s surprisingly cool, and the four walls that enclose it don’t do a thing to stop the breeze blowing in from the gulf. It’s furnished with black wicker couches with cream-colored cushions and a teak dining set. Giant turquoise planters of yellow lantana adorn each corner, and a stone fire pit sits in the center. It’s hands down my favorite part of the house.

  I bring my laptop outside and work from the dining table beneath the generous shade of an umbrella. Party-planning is a get-what-you-give kind of business, and maybe, if I gave a little more, I’d feel better about eventually quitting my day job. It’s easy to sell prepackaged boxes. It’s also incredibly boring. My heart is in consulting, but ever since my father died, I’ve lost interest. There’s nothing worse than helping other people celebrate while you’re grieving. But t
he truth is, some part of me will always grieve him, and I can’t keep pushing everything else aside because of it.

  The table rattles beneath my vibrating phone as “Pony” by Ginuwine blows up the quiet courtyard. With my thumb hovering over the Answer button, I stare at Jane’s smiling face until the call goes to voice mail. It’s safer to text her. That girl is like walking truth serum, and the second she hears my voice, she’ll know something’s off.

  Frankie: Hey!

  Jane: Too busy to talk to your BFF?

  Frankie: Sorry, bad signal.

  Jane: So? How’s Darian? How’s the house?

  Frankie: Darian’s good and the house is amazing.

  Jane: Is it weird being surrounded by his family?

  Frankie: I’m not. I haven’t seen a single picture.

  Jane: Nothing? Not even Anabel?

  Frankie: Nothing.

  Jane: I was worried her pictures might trigger your nightmares.

  Frankie: How’s Jacob?

  Jane: He keeps asking if you’ve met Mickey Mouse.

  Frankie: LOL. Tell him he’ll be the first to know.

  When the sun dips below the walls of the courtyard, I close my laptop and head inside, but as I reach the double doors to my room, my eyes lift to the staircase that frames them. I set my laptop on the floor at my feet and circle around the banister.

  I’m not snooping; I’m exploring, I tell myself as my feet navigate the steps.

  The staircase culminates in a rectangular landing flanked by two more sets of doors. The one on the right is ajar. I poke my head inside and find a small library with floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with more books than I could ever imagine a personal library to hold. Unable to resist the pull, I step over the threshold and drag my gaze over the hundreds of titles.

  I take it back. This is my favorite part of the house.

  Darian has a little of everything—from English lit to true crime—but science fiction is the clear front-runner.

  Finally. Something personal…and something he would’ve shared with my dad. The thought warms me, but at the same time, a wave of unease crawls over my skin because I know I shouldn’t be up here.