SUNNY
Darrel Hastings will not take his clothes off.
Prick.
If he’s starring in my dreams again, he might as well make it worth my while. What’s the point of imagining a grouchy, fully-clothed Darrel Hastings at three in the morning? I can just wake up and go toe-to-toe with Growly Bear in the flesh.
My fingers grapple for the buttons of his shirt so I can see some chest and we can get the party started, but my dream-hands are way less dexterous than my real-life hands.
Stupid buttons.
Why did I even dream up a shirt with buttons on Darrel? It’s so inconvenient.
In the darkness, Darrel lowers his head. Finally. Let’s get some action here, buddy. I pucker my lips and brace myself for a dreamy kiss. But there is none. Instead, he kisses my head and says something that I don’t understand but must be mildly insulting because it’s Darrel and he’s not exactly the type who sings my praises.
My eyebrows twitch.
I want to grab him, but my arms are so heavy.
Why do I feel so tired in this dream?
Darrel disappears and the world goes black again until a loud sound jars my eyes apart.
It’s still dark. I feel around my side before I can locate the vibrating alarm clock.
It’s my phone.
Four a.m.
Dang it. I wanted to wake up at three. That means I slept through the first alarm.
I moan and rub the back of my neck. Feels like I spent three hours getting run over by a Mack truck. I can’t imagine how traumatizing it would have been to do all that work by myself. Thank God Shanya hired that extra crew.
With their help, I set up the wall for the adjoining bathroom, painted the walls, and set up the furniture. We got a lot done, but I still have a few finishing touches to go before the rooms are fully ready.
It’s a school day, so I have at most… a couple hours before they leave camp and trod back to the farmhouse.
A yawn wracks my jaw and I feel the pull of sleep again. Shaking my head, I think of the boys. How did they do last night? Did Bailey cry for his grandmother? Did Micheal worry about the future with that solemn expression of his?
I hope seeing their new rooms eases their hearts and makes this new arrangement with Darrel feel less like living in a stranger’s house and more like being in a forever home.
When I first moved to America, we didn’t have money to decorate our house, no matter how rundown it was. I would have loved the opportunity to live in a gorgeous new room. Still, in the grand scheme of things, home wasn’t four walls, a leaky roof and neighbors who seemed to be getting it on like pigs at a greasy-hog fest at all hours of the night.
Home was my dad and my mom around the dinner table. Our weekly calls to family back in Belize. Soca music blasted in the daytime to drown out the sound of animalistic grunts upstairs. The tortilla mom baked on a hot camal fitted over a burner stove.
A brand-spanking-new room can’t replace a family. Micheal and Bailey don’t have their parents anymore. There’s nothing I can do about that. About their sadness. About their pain. I can’t imagine what that must feel like. How untethered they must be. But I do know that a room, a home… it means something. It can still be a refuge.
Sinking my hand into the mattress, I swivel my hips and prepare to jump off the bed.
Until I realize that I’m in a bed.
And it’s not my bed.
And it’s not my room.
And when the heck did I get here?
I jolt fully awake and survey my surroundings with wide eyes. Bare dresser. Closet. Balcony overlooking the tree line.
Where am I?
My gaze snags on the painting across from the bed. It’s abstract art. The same kind of swirling style that I saw in Darrel’s office.
Darrel.
My chest tightens.
Did I sleepwalk into Darrel’s bedroom last night? I was so exhausted that I barely got the energy to set an alarm on my phone before conking out. I can totally see myself getting up in the middle of the night to find a more comfortable spot.
Horror seeps through my veins and I slap a hand over my mouth, springing off the bed with so much force I nearly trip on the carpet.
What is wrong with you, Sunny?
Not only was sneaking into Darrel’s room a total violation of privacy, but he directly told me not to. In fact, Hastings left the therapy center and drove all the way here a few days ago just to keep me from seeing inside these four walls. Then he sent Dina to spy on me yesterday. Then he told Shanya he wanted me out of his house as quickly as possible.
After all that, I went and… what? Jimmied the lock so I could crawl under his covers, smell his pillows and have erotic dreams of him?
I moan into my hands. “I am an idiot.”
You’re an idiot who needs to get moving or these rooms won’t be done in time.
I release my mortification in a sigh, fold up the remaining horror into tiny pieces and stick it in the far corners of my mind. So, I violated a client’s trust just a teeny-weeny bit? It’s not like Darrel was there to see me rolling around in his bed, right? It’s not like he heard me begging for him to get naked.
“You’re good, Sunny. You’re good.” I press a palm to my chest. My feet hit the cold floor and I almost skitter back. “Where are my shoes?”
A glance at the hardwood floor reveals nothing.
I check the other side.
Still nothing.
I go on the hunt for my footwear. I don’t remember taking the sneakers off, but then I don’t remember crawling into Darrel Hastings’ bedroom either.
“Shoes? Shoes?” I drop to my knees, palms pressing into the hardwood floor as I call for the inanimate objects like they’re stray cats. Here, kitty, kitty.
I’m wasting time snooping around looking for my shoes. There are curtains to drape, carpets to lay, beds to spread, toys to artfully arrange on darling vanity dressers that I paid way too much for.
Getting frustrated, I crouch to my knees and glance under the bed. The duvet drapes the ground on either side. I push the comforter back. Are my sneakers within that dark abyss of shadows?
I grab my cell phone, flick on the flashlight and crawl closer to Darrel’s bed. I’m looking for my shoes, but I’m also curious if the mysterious secret he’s been trying to hide is tucked under here.
I stick my hand under the bed, waiting for a monster to bite my fingers. Instead, my hand knocks against a box.
Weird.
I drag the box out and notice several photo albums nestled inside. Somewhere in the caverns of my mind, I know I shouldn’t be sniffing around Darrel’s personal things, but I do it anyway.
The photo on the cover of the album is of a young Darrel holding a golden-haired baby in his lap. “That must be Claire,” I whisper, pressing a finger to the photobook. Claire’s green eyes are sparkling with life and mischief. She’s beautiful.
I’ve always thought of Claire as ‘Alistair’s first wife’. She was a haunting melody. A beautiful, ghostly figure that was always hunkering in the back of my best friend’s happily ever after.
It didn’t really hit me that Claire was Darrel’s little sister. I mean, I knew, but I didn’t care how it affected him. All I cared about was how Alistair would take care of Kenya and whether he’d truly gotten over his first wife.
Watching a young Darrel with his arms around his baby sister, both of them beaming at the camera, shakes something loose from my chest. A quiet understanding. A glimmer of care for the man behind the grumpy face.
My fingers splay over the edge of the book and I move to turn the page, but something stops me. Snooping under Darrel’s bed and looking at the cover of his photo album is already crossing several lines. I can’t, as an ethical interior designer, flip through a client’s photo album. Something inside just won’t allow me to do that.
Glancing over the cover one more time, I lift the album so I can put it back in the box. Something slips out and floats to the floor. It’s a loose photo.
I twist the cell phone so the light is shining on the picture. It’s a photo of Darrel. I can tell by the green eyes shirking away from the camera. He’s wearing a black hoodie. His hair is thick and shaggy. His skin is so pale he could disappear against a napkin.
Darrel looks like the hoodie guy. The thought jars me completely awake. I’ll never forget the creep who messed with me in high school and got taught a serious lesson.
I stare at the photo again and shake my head. There’s no way Darrel is the hoodie guy just because he’s pale and wearing a jacket in this picture. Besides, if I’d publicly embarrassed him in high school, he probably would have mentioned something.
I shove the picture back into the photo album, kick the entire box back under the bed and locate my shoes. They’re sitting neatly under the chest at the foot of the bed. I would never set my shoes so neatly on the ground. How did that happen?
Unfortunately, I have no time to unravel that mystery. I rush to the room across the hall. The dust settled overnight, but the smell of paint is still strong. I open the windows first and let the bedrooms air out. I don’t want the boys getting headaches from the powerful scent.
Next, I inspect the wallpaper in Bailey’s room to make sure it dried properly. When I’m satisfied, I put the finishing touches on my design. Lego Batman here. Bailey’s stuffed monkey there. Curtains over hooks. Succulents—because every room could use a succulent. Paintings. Pillows. Color.
Yes! I’m practically twirling and dancing like a Disney princess. This part is my favorite. Seeing the way all the blankets, colors and furniture tie everything together makes my heart sing.
If I had more time, I would have done even crazier things like a custom-made bed that doubles as a ping pong table or glow in the dark paint for Bailey’s room but, alas, they’ll just have to be satisfied with two crazily fun yet sophisticated bedrooms instead.
The sun creeps over the horizon, leaping over the woven rug and the flowing blue curtains in Micheal’s room. I adjust a picture frame just so and clasp my hands.
Done.
Everything is as perfect as I can make it.
The thrill of completing the challenge sends a tingle straight to my toes. I throw my arms up and stretch to the ceiling.
I wonder what their reactions will be?
My imagination takes over. I see Bailey’s sparkling blue eyes behind clear, window glasses. Micheal’s reluctant smile spreading over his face. Darrel behind them both, giving me an impressed look…
No, forget Darrel.
He’s not in my imaginary victory lap.
This is all about the boys.
Can they get here already, geez? I feel like a kid waiting for his parents to wake up on Christmas morning.
Abuzz with anticipation, I turn my attention to cleaning Darrel’s house. My mama always said that I should leave a place better than I found it. I’ve never, in my professional career, left a client’s home dirty after I’m through with it.
Unfortunately, the construction guys left a mess and I’m tuckered out by the time I clean all the plastic, trash, and sweep up the dirt left from their treks in and out of the house.
I check my watch and run a hand through my hair. The boys should be getting up by now. When are they coming over?
Five minutes pass.
I tap my cell phone and consider calling Darrel. Then I reject it because I don’t really want to talk to him right now. He’s still the jerk who wants me out of his life. Why would I sign myself up for a fight this early in the morning?
Fifteen minutes pass.
I change the sheets on Darrel’s bed and hope like crazy he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
Twenty minutes.
The couch starts looking mighty comfy and I force myself to pace up and down the stairs so I can remain awake. I’ve spent almost eighteen hours getting these rooms together. I have paint in my hair, on my skin and all over my clothes. I smell like sweat and drywall. That couch is too expensive for a stench like mine. I know. I bought it.
Eventually, I make my way to the porch where I sit on one of the chairs nestled around a beautiful table. I’ll be able to hear the boys coming. Plus, I won’t be stinking up any more of Darrel’s expensive furniture. Win-win.
The sun climbs a little farther in the sky. Bursts of orange, yellows and reds stretch over clouds just puffing to life. Trees wave in a gentle breeze and I can’t help but close my eyes.
Five minutes.
I’ll sleep for five minutes. Surely, Darrel and the boys will be back by then and I’ll get to see their happy reactions.
The scent of bacon tickles my nose. Since bacon is better than sleep, my eyes fly open. An ache in my head reminds me that sudden movements would not be in my best interest and I let out a breath as I try to reacquaint myself with reality.
After a second of groggy blinking and dry mouth smacking, I try to sit up. My back hurts, and I remember that I chose to nap in a chair that’s bent at an angle perfect for torture.
Something salty runs down my face. Why am I sweating? I touch my neck and find even more sweat. The sun is sending laser beams of doom at my face and I jerk fully awake. How long was I sleeping out here?
This is not okay. I’ve been taking care of my skin since high school. I’m just as susceptible to damage as any other skin tone. Using sunscreen is a must when I’m hit with those UV rays. It’s about beauty as much as it is about health. And I’ve been in the sun for… I check my watch and cringe. Gah!
Muffled laughter erupts from inside the house. Is that Darrel? My nostrils flare. If I start seeing dark spots on my skin after this, I’m going to send him my dermatology bill.
Pushing myself out of the chair takes effort because I’m tired, cranky, and starving. My stomach gurgles, urging me toward the scent of that delicious bacon. Whether or not Darrel Hastings gets a tongue lashing about leaving me to burn in the morning sun will be determined by how much bacon I can steal from him.
I open the front door of the farmhouse, pleased when it doesn’t make a sound. Yesterday, I asked one of the workmen to oil the creaking joints. Best decision ever. It allows me to sneak into the house under the cover of silence.
Pots and pans clank in the distance. The scent of bacon gets stronger and I’m willing to forgive Darrel because I’m a decent human being and… is that coffee I smell too?
I stop in the living room that has an open view to the kitchen. My jaw drops when I see the swirl of activity.
Bailey is bent over the counter, fiercely rolling flour out with an empty glass of wine. Micheal is stirring a pitcher of lemonade. Darrel is at the stove. He places one of the flattened flour pieces into a pan of oil and jumps back in obvious fear when the oil crackles around the offering.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stunned.
The chaos in the kitchen scrambles to a stop. Three pairs of eyes bore into me—one green, one brown and one crystal blue.
Bailey shoves his glasses up his nose with a flour-stained finger. “Sunny!”
“Sweetie, what’s…” My eyes dart to Micheal next. “What’s going on?”
“We’re making breakfast.” Bailey fastens me with a little-boy grin.
“O-oh.”
“Why are you so sweaty?” Micheal asks.
I hit Darrel with a scowl. “That’s a good question, Micheal. I, too, would like to know why I’m sweaty?”
Darrel gives me an appraising look. What? He’s never seen a half-black, half Mayan woman walking around two shades darker than she was yesterday?
“We’re making fry jacks,” Bailey announces. His blue eyes carry a sheen of pride. “We got the recipe from the internet.”
“It was surprisingly easy to find.” Micheal gives a non-committal nod. “Although I doubt it’ll taste as good as yours.”
I sniff. “Is something burning?”
“Oh, right.” Darrel pounces on the pan and flicks the fry jack out of the oil. I try not to cringe too hard when I see the blackened, twisted morsels.
“Ta-da!” Bailey gestures to it with a flourish.
I pull my lips into my mouth because he’s precious and adorable, but that is the ugliest fry jack I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Do you need some help?” I walk toward the kitchen.
Micheal hurries to stop me and throws out both arms. “Ah-ah.”
I blink in surprise.
He meets my gaze with a firm stare. His curls are bigger and messier than they were yesterday, rising in soft, black spirals. He purses his cupid’s bow lips. “You’re not allowed in here.”
“Why not?” I eye Darrel. Is this part of his ‘keep Sunny out of the house’ plan? Did he drag the kids into it too?
Micheal points to the table. “Sit down. We’ve got it.”
I glance at the fry jack that Darrel flicks into a heap of equally burnt and hard-looking pastries.
“We’re doing something nice,” Bailey informs me, tightening his grip on the empty wine bottle.
“Oh, sweetie, I appreciate that.” My fingers twitch. I so badly want to snatch the wine bottle away and replace it with a proper rolling pin. The fry jack dough will be thick if they don’t use the right tools.
“Micheal said it wasn’t fair that you were working all night while we ate s’mores,” Bailey informs me. Bless his heart. He’s still going to town with that wine bottle.
“Because it isn’t,” Micheal mumbles. From the quirk of his pink mouth, he looks pleased to be acknowledged for his part in the ‘surprise Sunny with breakfast plan’.
“Mr. Darrel said we should make fry jacks.” Bailey spins and pins Darrel with a bright look. “Right?”
He grunts and nods.
Basic Darrel Hastings communication.
“Really, guys. I appreciate it.” I cringe when Darrel tosses the fry jack in the pan and darts back like a child under his mother’s skirt. The man carries himself like a military sergeant but gets spooked by crackling fat. “As much as I love what you’re doing, I can’t just…” Micheal taste tests his lemonade and then pours a gallon of sugar into it. My hand levitates slightly. “Sit here and do nothing.”
Translation: please for the love of all that is good Belizean cuisine, let me into that kitchen.
Bailey shakes his head, further snatching his curls away from gravity. I’m starting to think that the boys’ rolled into the kitchen the moment they woke up. Darrel still seems a little groggy with sleep and the boys’ hair is going in every conceivable direction but down.
“No school today?” I wonder out loud.
“We get to go in half-day.”
“Because yesterday was grandma’s funeral,” Micheal clarifies.
The reminder of their grandmother sends a visible dark cloud over the room. The light in Bailey’s eyes sputters out and Micheal stares into the mug of lemonade like he’ll find the answer sheet to his year-end exams at the bottom.
I clear my throat and quickly change the subject. “What movie did you guys watch yesterday?”
Micheal pipes right up and starts talking about Batman. Bailey interrupts constantly, feeding off his brother’s excited energy.
I grin and rest my knuckles on my chin, listening to Micheal’s assessment of the movies and chiming in when I have a thought. He’s surprisingly well-read for an eleven-year-old. Not that it’s surprising me. He’s been through a lot, and he carries himself in a mature and reserved manner.
“Alright, boys. Wash your hands. I think what we have is enough for our meal.” Darrel swings the basket of fry jacks—can I call those abominations fry jacks?—to the table.
Micheal uses both hands to lug the heavy jar of lemonade over to me.
“Did anyone set the table?” Darrel asks.
“I’ll do it!” I raise a hand.
He glances at me, his stare prying and intense as if he’s trying to see my thoughts. I squirm. Why is he looking at me like that? He doesn’t know I broke into his room and slept on his bed, does he?
No way. Darrel wouldn’t have left the kids on their own in a tent out in the woods. He might be gruff and annoying, but he’s also overprotective. It’s the downside of being so darn careful. He overthinks everything. These poor kids are going to live with a border-line helicopter dad.
Another covert glance in his direction shows he’s still watching me. Certain that he’s just staring because he wants to know when I’ll be gone, I return his look with a scowl.
His eyebrows jump. What? He thinks just because he’s serving me fry-jack-shaped coal, I’m going to be nice to him? I’m not that desperate for friends.
After rolling my eyes as a non-verbal sign of my disgust, I stalk past him and open the nearest cupboard. Inside are a line of stainless-steel pans that look like they’ve never been used. I try the next cupboard and the next. Where are the plates?
“Over here,” Darrel says.
A defiant frown creases my mouth. “I would have figured it out on my own.”
Darrel’s lips quirk up. Did all those fry jack fumes get to him? What’s so funny?
I turn away from his heart-bustlingly sexy smile and reach for the plates in the cupboard. Without warning, he slides in behind me. His body hovers over mine and his deep voice growls, “Let me help you.”
The kitchen’s warm from all the cooking, but it just got flaming hot. “I’ve got it handled.”
“I’m sure you do.” His voice carries a tinge of amusement. Darrel grabs the plates, stretching his arms and caging me against the counter.
I turn slightly and get an eyeful of his glorious chest. He changed into a light blue shirt that shows off his flexing biceps. He skipped shaving and the scruff around his scrumptious lips is calling to me like the bacon.
I lick my suddenly dry lips. Memories of last night’s dream waft to mind. Snuggling into Darrel’s chest. Kissing his abs. Wrapping my hands around his neck and dragging him on top of me…
Crap. I duck under his arm and whirl away, my chest heaving violently.
Darrel gives me an innocent look. “You okay?”
I’m buzzing with adrenaline and attraction and he’s Darrel Stinking Hastings.
I cannot do this right now.
“Fine,” I spit out. “Where are the spoons?” I stomp around in search of cutlery, glad when Bailey and Micheal come traipsing back into the kitchen after washing their hands in the bathroom.
At least with the kids here, Darrel’s stare doesn’t feel so… sultry. What is up with him? It’s like his gaze changed overnight. Usually, his eyes hold a hard glint, like my very existence offends him. Today, there’s… I don’t know. There’s something different and it’s freaking me out.
“How did you boys sleep last night?” I ask as we all settle around the table and eye the unsavory mound of fry jacks. After a collective inhale of fear, in which we all pause and wonder who’ll suffer through the taste first, I share out one for myself and slip another into Bailey’s plate. “Wasn’t too cold, was it?”
“Bailey drooled. As usual.” Micheal’s teasing is quiet, but it gets the point across.
His little brother slants him a nasty look. “Did not!”
“You so did. I was swimming in your drool.”
“Shut up.”
“Bailey. Micheal,” Darrel warns in a low voice.
The boys pepper down immediately.
It’s sexy that he doesn’t have to raise his voice to calm them. It’s sexy the way he spears out bacon for Micheal and Bailey before he shares out the burnt, near inedible portions for himself.
And holy crap, I am not thinking about how sexy Darrel Hastings is right now while chewing a piece of fry jack that’s as hard as a biscuit.
Before the silence can get too thick, Darrel grabs the mug of juice and pours Bailey a glass. “They appreciated the surprise.” His eyes catch mine. “Thank you.”
My heart stops beating. “Uh…”
“Micheal, you want some of this?” Darrel diverts his attention to the eleven-year-old who nods.
I watch the juice fill Micheal’s cup and slosh against the glass rims. It feels like my insides are liquid too and I have no idea why I’m so flustered right now.
To feel normal again, I foolishly stuff my mouth with a fry jack and live to regret it. “Bwah, uh.” I stick out my tongue. When all the males around the table—including Darrel—look a little heartbroken, I cough. “I mean… yum.”
“Let me try.” Darrel bites into the fry jack and his eyelashes flutter like the fans of a submarine.
Bailey scrunches his nose when he bites into one and it disintegrates to black dust in his hand.
I grab a napkin and tap my mouth, so I don’t have to eat anymore.
Micheal is the first to laugh and it makes everyone jump a little. The eleven-year-old throws his head back and guffaws so hard that tears stream down his face.
“This is…” he gasps for breath, “so awful. Who made this stuff?”
Bailey’s carefree giggles join him. “We did.”
Darrel’s lips tremble. “I think there’s room for improvement.”
“Yeah, that’s…” I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. “That’s one way to look at it.”
After the fit of giggles passes, we swipe bacon into our fists and I lead the kids up the stairs to their rooms. Their reaction is everything I could want. Bailey makes a running leap at his animal-print bed and falls into it, grabbing his stuffed toy close.
“You fixed him?” Bailey gasps, holding up the new and improved orangutan toy.
“Nothing a little needle and thread couldn’t handle.” I smirk. Now, the monkey’s eyes are bright and alert. He no longer looks like he’s flirting with me.
When it’s time to show Micheal his room, I lead the boys through the adjoining bathroom and catch Darrel’s impressed look in the mirror.
That’s right. I’m that good, Hastings. Don’t forget it.
Micheal doesn’t say anything when he sees his room, but he doesn’t have to. His eyes take up over half his face and he stares at all the little touches—the Batman symbol pillows, the action figures, and the photo case—with his jaw falling open.
The black and yellow themed walls are the perfect balance of moody and bright. Plus, it’s the kind of design that can grow with him into his teenaged years without feeling cartoonish.
“This is really good, Sunny,” Darrel says, as if he’s surprised.
I’m sure you’re happy that I’ll be out of your hair now. “Thank you,” I respond instead. No need to show my petty side in front of the boys.
“Thank you.” Micheal gives me a look full of meaning. Like he’s not sure what he’s feeling, but the feelings are good.
“You’re welcome.” I give his shoulder a squeeze.
Bailey roars and races into his bedroom through the adjoining bathroom. “This is so cool!”
“That’s going to be fun,” Micheal grumbles sarcastically, but his lips arch up in a smile that he can’t control.
“Alright, buddy.” Darrel captures Bailey and swings him into his arms. “You need to get ready for school.”
“Already?” Bailey pouts.
“Just because you’ve got a half day doesn’t mean you should take it.”
“Boo!” I call.
“Yeah, boo!” Bailey yells.
Darrel slants me a hard look. It’s the exasperated, can you just be quiet look that I’m accustomed to getting from him. “Sunny, can you not encourage the kids to skip school?”
“It’s not skipping school if they have permission,” I argue.
“What she said,” Bailey points at me.
Darrel shakes his head. “Bailey, Micheal, get ready for school.” His green eyes zero in on me. “And you.”
A shudder runs down my spine and heat pools in my belly. “What about me?”
“Wait for me. I’ll take you home.”
“I have my own car,” I answer sharply. He’s Darrel Hastings and he’s gorgeous, great with his two boys and his growly voice is doing crazy things to my insides. I need to be harsh right now because the alternative is nauseating.
Darrel narrows his eyes slightly. “I’m taking you home.”
“Why are you being so—”
“I don’t want you driving while you’re exhausted.” His voice is tortured. So are his eyes. “It’s dangerous.”
A heavy realization dawns. He’s thinking about Claire’s accident.
I stare into his eyes and weigh my options. I should argue. I should tell him exactly where he can take his gruff, barking orders.
Instead, I dig my fingers into my jeans and spit out, “Okay.”
