Chapter 5: Surly Romance: Chapter 5

Being hot and being a jerk should be mutually exclusive. Pricks like Darrel should walk around with a giant sign on their forehead that says ‘Beware. Will Bite.’

Instead, the stone-faced hunk rocks a square jaw and eyes capable of spitting hellfire even though they’re more of a Caribbean Sea turquoise than sulfur and brimstone.

He. Is. A. Jerk.

But do jerks regularly go around taking in orphaned children after their grandmother passes?

I think of the adorable little boys I met yesterday. Micheal and Bailey had me scribbling in my notebook until midnight, looking at Batman-themed rooms, and freaking over every detail because I am emotionally invested in these rooms being perfect.

It’s easy enough to pretend that I’m doing all the hard work here, but it’s only because of Darrel that I have this job. He’s putting in the effort. And the kids can see it. I will never forget the way they ran to Darrel like he was the lifeguard who’d splashed into the water to save them from drowning.

It makes zero sense.

In my world, people can be separated into groups.

Bastards like Darrel should go to one side.

Benevolent Mr. Scrooges belong in another.

The fact that Darrel is straddling the line is even more annoying. Why can’t he just pick a side? Why does he keep confusing me? Is he a jerk or is he a grumpy Daddy Warbucks minus the bald head and pipes that can belt out ‘I don’t need anything but you’ in the key of G?

I drum my fingers against the table, listening to the bustle in Jamaican Patties while a plate of crispy, golden fry jacks stares at me. Steam rises from the bowl of refried beans and shredded chicken breasts seasoned to perfection.

“You must really be upset if you can’t eat.” A dark hand falls over mine. The giant engagement ring is bright enough to have its own moon revolving around it. “I’m so sorry about that investment firm, Sunny. The CEO really did you dirty.” Kenya grabs a fry jack and tears it to pieces. “He deserves to pay for what he did to you and all those poor employees.”

“Huh?” I glance up. “Oh, yeah.” I’ve definitely been obsessing over the money I lost and not the oversized grump who’s opening his house to two wonderful young boys and doing everything in his power to make that home feel welcoming. “Yeah, it sucks.”

“I was so angry for you when I found out.” Kenya is a petite, sparkly-eyed optimist until she gets mad. And then she turns into a Pitbull in the red zone. “I already talked to Alistair. We’re going to track that guy down and force him to give you an apology.”

“Whoa, it’s not that serious.”

“Why is it not serious?” Her nostrils flare. “We’re sitting here at Jamaican Patties and you haven’t touched one fry jack.” She sticks up a dark finger. “Not one. This is a national emergency.”

I grab the flaky fry jack and stick it into my mouth. The outside has a crunch while the inside is soft and airy. It’s delicious. “Mm. See? I’m eating just fine.”

Kenya bends forward, her dark curls gliding over her shoulders. “Alistair said that CEO has been known to do shady things. He’s kind of like the black sheep of his family, but Alistair hired someone to track him. Once we get it sorted out, I’ll tell you.”

“Kenya, really, it’s fine.” Since my mouth is currently stuffed with fry jacks, it comes out more like ‘mmfa, mmmf mmfy mmff.’

My best friend continues her one-woman monologue. “You were so excited about that contract. You planned what you’d do to the offices for weeks. You even hired extra workers to get it done in time.” Her eyes lift to the ceiling and she firms her bottom lip. “I was right there with you when you shopped for the office equipment. I stayed up with you while you agonized over the designs. I lost sleep because of this project and the prick didn’t even bother to pay you? This is as much a blow to me as it is to you. I won’t be able to sleep at night until it’s resolved.”

I shudder. Kenya’s always been determined but, with Holland Alistair’s money and social network behind her, she could probably launch her own missiles and command Alistair’s hacker army.

“You don’t have to take it so personally.”

“Of course I do. You’re my best friend. Any attack on you is an attack on me.”

A swell of gratitude fills me and I jump around the table. Wrapping my arms around Kenya’s neck, I squeeze her close. She’s the only sense of normalcy in my life right now and I want to hold on to that for all I’m worth.

“Thank you. You’re amazing.”

“That’s a given.”

Okay, Alistair’s cockiness is rubbing off on her. I pat her hand. “You don’t have to worry. I’ve got other jobs lined up.”

“What other jobs?”

I ease away from her. “This and that.”

“Are they design-related jobs?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And you’re getting the money upfront?”

“Yup.”

“Then why do you still look so stressed?”

“I’m fine.” Translation: a surly neuropsychologist with muscles like a god keeps running through my mind and driving me crazy. I routinely want to choke him and get him naked. Please help.

“You’re getting red.” She points to my cheeks. I slap a hand to my face, mortified. The black on my dad’s side gave me dark skin, but the Mayan genes running through my veins makes it clear when I’m flustered.

“It’s just… the fry jack is hot.”

Kenya nods and seems to buy my explanation. “Do you need some help with the new projects? Money or—”

“I don’t need money,” I say quickly. Kenya’s overly generous and I don’t want our relationship to morph into the kind where we’re constantly outdoing each other in the gift department. Unlike my best friend, I do not have a billionaire willing to fulfil my every wish. I’d empty my bank account trying to keep up with her.

“Well, do you want me to move back in?” Kenya asks.

I laugh. “Do you want to move back in?”

Although Kenya’s got a nice job and an entire publishing house in her name, she still calls my cramped apartment ‘home’. Mostly because it would be inconvenient for her to rent her own place when she spends all her time with Belle and Alistair at their penthouse mansion.

Since I love company and my best friend, I have no problems with her randomly dropping in for a sleepover. It’s even more fun when she brings Belle, my little accomplice-in-arms.

“Not really.” Kenya scrunches her nose.

I laugh at her antics. The fact that she wears her adoration for Alistair on her sleeve is cute. “I’m good, but thanks for asking.”

My cell phone begins to dance on the table. Both Kenya and I jerk our attention there. Darrel’s name flashes across the screen. I take a panicked breath and lunge for the device, but I’m too late.

“Why is Darrel calling you?” Her eyebrows pop to the top of her forehead.

“Darrel?” I open my mouth and gasp. “Why is he calling me?”

“I just asked you that.”

“I’m as shocked as you.” So… lying to my best friend is not a habit I believe in. It makes me feel like an awful human being, but Darrel asked me to keep his guardianship quiet until he can talk to Alistair. Under normal circumstances, I’d totally ignore his request and spill everything to Kenya. But this isn’t just about me and my beef with the hot therapist.

Two innocent children are involved, and I don’t know why Darrel wants to keep it under wraps, but I’m sure he has a good reason. Maybe the kids are in danger or have to be hidden from something. I won’t let my big mouth get me in trouble with this one.

She narrows her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Sunny.”

“I’m not lying.”

Kenya gives me the Caribbean mad-stare I am done with you and your nonsense get your butt in the chair right now you have so much explaining to do finger-jut of doom. “What’s going on with you and Darrel?”

“Nothing. I swear.” I scoop my purse out of the chair and back up while I talk fast. “I have to go now. I’ll call you.”

“Sunny!” she bellows my name.

I crash through the doors of Jamaican Patties and jump into my car. Once I’m a couple miles away, I call Darrel back.

“Sunny,” he growls my name.

My brain scrambles like cracked eggs in a skillet. I’m still not used to Darrel Hastings speaking to me. With actual words that have actual meaning. And the way he gruffly calls my name…

“I left the house key with Dina. You can pick it up from her.”

“You’re trusting me with your house keys? What if I clean out everything in your farmhouse?”

He grunts. “You don’t strike me as the type who’d like the food in jail.”

I snort out a laugh. Did the Almighty Grump just… crack a joke with me?

“Wasn’t a joke,” he grumbles as if he can read my mind and wants to make sure he doesn’t get his grouch card revoked.

I cough to hide my laughter. “Is the house empty?”

“Are you asking as an interior designer or a thief?”

Another joke? Is this an alternate dimension? Has Darrel been swapped with an alien? “Does it matter?” I smirk. “I’d be long gone by the time you find out.”

He clears his throat. “I have sessions all morning, and the boys went to school.”

At the mention of the boys, I grow sober. “How are they?”

There’s a long pause as if Darrel is considering whether it’s any of my business.

I hold my breath.

“As well as can be expected, I guess. They didn’t mention their grandmother again, but that doesn’t mean they’re not grieving in their own ways.”

My heart flops in my chest. “I know it’s not much, but I’m going to do my best to make these rooms perfect for them.”

“I believe you.”

They’re only three words. Just three simple words. But it’s as close to a compliment as Darrel Hastings has ever paid me. In fact, this is the closest to a mutually respectful conversation we’ve ever had.

He clears his throat. “One more thing. I’ve locked all the doors in the farmhouse except for the boys’ room and the office. Every other bedroom is off limits.”

My curiosity spikes. Why did Darrel go to such lengths to block me off? Is there something in one of the rooms I shouldn’t see?

“Don’t tell me you’re hiding a dead body in your house?”

His end of the line goes silent.

My smile droops. “You’re… not, right?”

“Goodbye, Sunny.”

The dial tone rings in my ear with creepy finality. I gulp down my unease. Mysteries and Darrel Hastings go hand-in-hand. Kenya told me a long time ago that no one knows why Darrel suddenly quit his job making piles of money and enrolled in school to study brains. He didn’t even tell his late sister Claire about it. What if the truth is more morbid than any of us expect? What if Darrel’s obsession with brains came… after his first kill?

I imagine the emotionless cyborg as a serial killer. Scythe in hand. Eyes of steel. A jaw line as sharp as a knife. Then I laugh at my own imagination. I’m being ridiculous. It’s not like I don’t know anything about Darrel. He’s friends with Alistair and a good uncle to Belle. He’s not a danger to the kids or to me. Besides, this is a job with a hefty price tag. One I need now that my money is in the wind along with the CEO of Stinton Investments.

Whether Darrel likes it or not, I’m going to be all up on his house. And I might even stumble on that secret he’s trying to hide.

My car slows down in front of a gorgeous farmhouse with a sprawling garden out front. Towering trees wave their fronds at me like hula dancers greeting tourists just off a plane. Sunshine dances on the zinc roof and spills over the porch, racing past the trailing ivy hugging charming white trellises.

It’s a house that does not suit the imposing Darrel Hastings at all. Which is one of the main reasons I had no idea the home I’d designed was for him.

“The client wants a refuge. Somewhere he can come home and decompress, forget about his day, be one with nature. You know the shtick.”

“Whoa. He’s willing to shin out this much to pretty up a farmhouse? He could build a castle with all this cash.”

“It’s what he wants, and he’s willing to pay so we get it right the first time. Don’t let me down.”

I love projects where money is not an object. It allows my creativity to flow, unhindered by a pesky budget that squeezes me into corners and forces me to find more creative ways to bring my vision to life. I never thought I’d be back here, designing two more rooms.

I stick the key into the lock. It turns with a click. The door creaks loudly when I step inside. I push it back and forth and listen as the creaking gets worse. I’ll find some oil later and apply it to the joints to get rid of that noise.

I let the door smash into place and observe the rest of Darrel’s home. The farmhouse has an open concept plan with lots of windows admitting sunlight and revealing the gorgeous forests surrounding the property. Pillows, rugs and paintings in muted tones tie the rooms together. The design flows just as beautifully in the living room and kitchen spaces.

I eye the wine rack sitting neatly on the counter and turn away. Just because I know the client personally doesn’t mean I should make myself at home.

First things first. I need measurements.

Heading back out to the car, I grab my tool kit and drag it into Darrel’s house. It takes a couple tries before I find a bedroom door that will open—Darrel wasn’t kidding when he said he’d locked up.

Finally, I stumble on the right place. The room is on the second floor. Third door on the right. A peek inside reveals two suitcases open in that careless way that children do everything. Clothes litter the floor.

A bunk bed is pressed against the wall. I scrunch my nose. What on earth? Apart from the dresser, closet, and a black and white painting of a random old man on the walls, this room could be a prison cell.

“Where’s the color, Hastings?” I turn in a slow circle. “Where’s the life?”

Thankfully, the room looks like it’s a good size and there are tons of windows. I’m just eyeballing it, but I don’t think I’ll have to tweak my designs too much.

I notice a door that looks out of place in the wall. Approaching it cautiously, I twist the knob and push. My eyes widen when I notice an en suite bathroom.

“Now we’re talking!” I let out a bark of laughter and rub my hands together, evil villain during his opening monologue style. Ideas are bursting out of me like a game of whack-a-mole. It would be perfect if the office was next door to the guest room. I could connect the boys’ rooms via the bathroom.

Oh this is sweet.

The thrill of a new challenge is beginning to bubble up in my stomach. I always get a little insane when I’m at the start of a design. Something about taking a blank canvas and transforming it into something new makes me feel alive.

“The bed will go here.” I turn in a slow circle and point to the empty space with a flourish. “Or can it fit?” I rub my chin as I speak to myself. “The room looks smaller because of this giant bunk bed.”

I lift my arms and flex my muscles at the silence. Do I have enough strength to push that heavy piece of furniture? Deciding to ignore it for now, I snap my tape measure from my tool kit and measure the walls.

When I get to the wall where the bunk bed is wedged into the corner, I narrow my eyes. This bunk is an eyesore. Where did Darrel pick it up? Military boot camp? I chuckle. It wouldn’t surprise me if he did.

Something colorful on the top bunk catches my eye. I draw near to the bed and press on the tips of my toes. Crap. This is a tall bunk bed. I can’t quite get a good look. A few frantic jumps is my next try. When that doesn’t work, I reach for the bunk bed ladder.

I need to see what’s on that bed. Especially if it’s connected to Bailey. It’s much easier to design Micheal’s room because he’s got clear interests and a more solemn personality, but I’m still looking for a key piece that I can implement in Bailey’s room.

Bailey is the Energizer Bunny on crack. Yesterday, he jumped from one topic to the next, making it impossible to extract a clear design point from him.

I put my tennis shoes on the first rung, realize I probably shouldn’t be scaling on top of their beds with my dusty sneakers and slip them off. Ready to try again, I clamp my fingers on the ladder and pull myself up.

The bright red that I saw on the bed belongs to a stuffed toy. It’s a scrawny orangutan with a stitched smile and big eyes. The toy is scuffed and dirty in places. The stitches for the eyes are falling apart, making the monkey look like it’s winking in a sleazy way.

“Interesting,” I muse. “Does Bailey like animals?” I bring the monkey to my face. “Hey, are you flirting with me?” The slight increase of pressure from my hand causes the monkey to squawk like a radio.

“Goodnight, son. Daddy loves you.”

My eyes widen. I squeeze the teddy bear again and the same recorded message croaks out. The voice doesn’t sound familiar. Does it belong to Micheal and Bailey’s late father?

My heart pinches. These poor boys. I want to wrap them in my arms and give them a proper hug until the world stops hurting them.

“What are you doing?”

That voice did not come from the monkey.

Shocked, I throw the monkey back on the bed with both hands, not realizing that I need those hands to prevent a smackdown with the ground. By the time I remember to keep my grip on the ladder, gravity’s already decided that I’m going to be its next victim.

Crap.

Crap crap crap.

I grunt, trying to hook my toes around the steps so I don’t flail wildly to the ground. It doesn’t work and only upends me further, quickening my descent.

I’m falling off the ladder and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Heart in my throat, I squeeze my eyes shut.

Brace myself for a harsh landing.

Maybe a broken arm.

A broken neck?

I’m not that far from the ground, am I?

Darrel snatches me from the air before I find out whether necks can crack from falling off bunk beds. I’m not sure what he was intending, but if he was going for a smooth superman catch, it fails spectacularly. My elbow connects with his jaw and he curses, wheeling us around.

Oops—“Sorry,” I hiss.

His body stumbles backward, propelled by the motion of catching me and the fact that he may now need jawbone surgery. One more backward step and he’s down like a boxer getting wiped out by Tyson.

My head slams against his chest, forcing me to wonder if it would have been softer if I’d just landed on the ground. What is this man made of? Rock?

“Ugh.” I rub my chin.

Darrel lifts his head and slants me a glare that’s dark enough to level cities. Does he have no other expression than soft glare and angry glare? Geez. It’s not like I pushed him down. Why is he so angry with me?

I ease myself up slightly. “When did you get here? I didn’t hear you come in.”

He tries to sit up, but he stops midway and flops back down.

Is he seriously injured?

Panic sets in. Darrel’s the type of client who’ll sue for damages. I don’t have any money for medical fees. I can barely cover my car insurance after paying off all the accounts I owe.

Throwing my irritation away, I focus on making sure he doesn’t have to visit the hospital. “Are you okay?” I grab his face and lift, checking the underside of his jaw. He’s clean-shaven today, which is helpful. There’s already a slight bruise forming from where my elbow connected with his chin. “Oh.” I cringe. “That looks like it hurts.”

His breathing thickens and his frigid stare makes me want to dive under the covers.

“I can’t sit up because you’re pinning me to the ground,” he growls.

Oh. “My bad.” I scramble to a sitting position, but moving that fast makes me dizzy. A strange pressure builds in the back of my head. My legs turn shaky, and I know I’ll just face-plant again if I try to stand. Putting a hand to my temple, I gasp out. “Just give me a second.”

My heart is roaring in my chest, my hands feel clammy and my throat is tying itself up in a tight, little bow. What the heck is this? Why do I feel so strange?

There’s a light touch on my chin and a deep, growly voice says, “Breathe, Sunny. Just breathe.”

“I am breathing,” I snap and gasp out at the same time. It’s not breathing that’s the problem right now. It’s the way my throat is tightening up and making me feel like I’m choking.

“You’re not choking. A second ago, your sympathetic nervous system triggered the fight-or-flight response, flooding your body with a burst of energy so it could respond to danger. Now, you’re feeling the effects of a withdrawal as your frontal lobe—”

“Stop. Talking,” I choke.

I’m breathing.

I’m okay. No broken skulls in sight.

And Darrel’s still annoying. So he’s obviously fine too.

Except he’d probably be annoying even with his jaw wired shut so… that’s no guarantee that he shouldn’t still visit a hospital.

Picturing Darrel Hastings in a body cast glaring at nurses and doctors is the weirdest mental image ever, but it’s funny enough that my breathing becomes steadier and the knot in my throat goes away.

My mind clear, I press my fingers into my chin to test if there are any bruises. It’s a little sensitive to the touch. Did I break skin when I slammed my face into Darrel’s glorious pecs?

“You won’t need stitches.” Darrel grunts. “You’re fine.”

“And you?”

He makes a pained sound and places a hand on his jaw. I can’t tell if he’s playing up his discomfort for sympathy points or not, but I did wallop him in the face pretty hard. These elbows are no joke. I’m ‘skin and bones’ according to my ancient Mayan grandmother who believes that good Mayan girls should be a little plump in order to be attractive. These arms of mine can turn into weapons with the right amount of pressure.

My fingers probe his jaw again. “Is your face the only place that’s hurting?” I move my touch to his shoulders. His neck. His chest.

I should probably focus on finding injuries but, instead, I’m savoring the opportunity to be this close to a non-growling Darrel Hastings. His body is absolutely magnificent. What would it be like if he ditched the glare and all these clothes?

He sits up abruptly, shoving me aside. “Stay off ladders.”

“I wouldn’t have fallen if it wasn’t for you.”

His eyebrow jumps. “How do you always have a comeback?”

“Now you sound like my mother.”

He rolls his eyes.

“It’s your fault, Hastings.”

“That makes no logical sense.”

“You’re the one who came in here and surprised me.”

He shakes his head at me, causing a lock of his hair to tumble over his forehead. My heart leaps to full attention. Gorgeous.

I pounce to my feet, arms stiff at my sides and a scowl curling my lips. I’m going to ignore how stunning he looks right now. And I’m going to forget how hard and manly he felt when I was on top of him. I can’t hurl insults properly when I’m thinking of how attractive he is.

“You weren’t supposed to be home at all. What are you doing here?”

He lifts his gaze to the ceiling. “I… forgot something.”

“Yeah right.” I laugh disbelievingly. “You said you have meetings all morning.”

“They got… canceled.”

“Bull. You came to check on me, didn’t you? Because you don’t trust me to be in your house alone.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’m not going to take your prized science books, Darrel.” I scoff. I was joking about cleaning out his house earlier. Did he actually take me seriously? Ridiculous!

I wouldn’t have survived all these years as an interior designer if I had sticky fingers. One of the basics of the job is trust. People allow us into their sacred spaces, allow us to touch their things and the memories associated with them because they believe we’ll give them something better. Stealing from clients would be extremely violating, not only to them, but to my craft.

He scoffs. “I told you why I’m here.”

I study his stony expression. “Okay. Maybe it’s not that you’re afraid of me stealing. Maybe you didn’t want me breaking into your bedroom.”

His pure green eyes snap away and I know I’ve stumbled on the truth.

“What exactly do you not want me to see?”

“Have you gotten your measurements?” He grips my wrist and tugs me from the boys’ room. “If you don’t need anything else, you can head out.”

“Why are you always kicking me out of places?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grunts, still dragging me down the hallway like his ultimate dream in life is to become a bodyguard on Maury.

“You tried to kick me out of the center when I saw Bailey and Micheal. Even before then, you tried to kick me out of Alistair’s bachelor party.”

He grunts. “I thought you were crashing the event.”

“You thought I was a stripper.”

“I thought you were somewhere you didn’t belong.” His eyes narrow on me. Sunlight hits them with fire and they come to life with embers of gold and brown. “Because you always are.”

“That’s untrue.”

“Get out, Sunny.”

“There are nicer ways to say that.”

“I don’t have time for this.” He continues to pull me.

We’re in the living room now. I grab the handle of the sofa and try to plant my legs on the ground.

“I haven’t measured the office yet,” I bawl out.

With a huff, Darrel brushes close to me and pries my fingers off the couch. “I’ll measure it for you.”

“I don’t trust you. I have to do it myself.”

“Tough luck,” he growls in my ear.

I swear, I don’t intend to make the little whimper sound when he hovers close to me. It just… happens. Darrel Hastings is standing directly behind me, legs spread and body arched over mine, growling into my ear as I breathe hard and fast. If that’s not going to be fodder for every dirty dream I ever have going forward, I don’t know what is.

My fingers loosen on the couch and he seizes the opportunity because he is a heartless super-grouch with not an ounce of human emotion in his chiseled body.

Darrel turns me around, hefts me up like I’m a sack of potatoes and throws me over his shoulder. My lips have a proper introduction with his rather cute behind as he marches to the door.

“Hastings!” I scream, fisting my hands and pounding his butt. Firm, but not the point. “Put me down!”

“No,” he says simply. The screen door slaps open and closed. A bucket of sunshine pouring on my face is the only indication that we’re now outside.

“You’re being ridiculous!”

“Guess I’m spending too much time around you. It’s starting to rub off.”

“Jerk.”

He just grunts.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re only allowed to work when I have time to be home to supervise you.”

“Are you kidding me? That’ll take forever.”

He marches angrily down the steps. My head bounces against his back with every angry descent. He smells like mint and sandalwood.

I’d sniff him like a drug if he wasn’t so infuriating.

“Hastings!”

No response.

“You promised I could do whatever I wanted with this design!”

Still nothing.

I open my mouth to yell at him again when, suddenly, Darrel goes still.

Since the only view I have is of his posterior—which, again, really isn’t that much of a hardship—I don’t know what he’s looking at or what’s making his muscles get all stiff and tense under my body.

The sound of wheels turning over gravel is my first clue.

The second is a door slamming open and shut.

“Hastings?” A feminine voice that I’ve heard before but I can’t place rings over the too-quiet front porch.

Darrel drags me off his shoulder and flings me on my feet like I’m the radioactive spider that’ll turn him into a superhero. His eyebrows pinch together and a flush spreads over his neck.

The expression on his face would be hilarious, if I didn’t notice the two little faces in the car.

My eyes widen. “Why are Micheal and Bailey here? Shouldn’t they be in school?”

Darrel whips his head around to investigate the car too.

The no-nonsense social worker I met yesterday nods stiffly at me and then focuses on Darrel. “Hastings, we need to talk.”