Serena

I saunter down the sidewalk outside Derek’s building, my purse slung over a tired shoulder and my feet aching from the hours of small town exploring I did this afternoon.

I enjoyed a cupcake from a bakery. Lunched at a sidewalk café. Played with puppies at a pet store. And helped a group of little old ladies locate the antique store they drove seventy-eight miles to come see.

A black Infinity SUV pulls out of the parking garage and comes to a stop at the curb. The passenger window rolls down, and I step near.

“Hey.” I give a short wave, my body tensing at the sight of him as if it instantly remembers the toe-curling things he did to me fewer than twenty-four hours prior. “Where are you two headed? Hi, Haven.”

“Hi, Serena!” Haven waves. “We’re going to Aunt Demi’s. Want to come?”

I glance at Derek. “We’re going to my sister’s for dinner. Hop in. She’s setting a place for you.”

“Oh, um.” I could tell him I’m not hungry. That I stuffed myself all afternoon. That I’m not entirely sure I can sit across from him, with his family, no less, and not think a million dirty thoughts.

“Come on, Serena!” Haven beckons.

“Yeah.” Derek’s voice is dry. “Come on.”

I’m getting mixed vibes from him, and a cool sweat lines my spine. Does he want me to go? Does he not? Are we setting a dangerous precedence? Should I be meeting his family? What do they know about my situation?

“You really want me to come?” I direct my question to him.

“Yes.” He gives me a stock answer and wears an expression I can’t read.

I lift a brow, and a rampant breeze ruffles my hair around my face. It’s evening now and has grown colder. I’m dressed for a balmy spring afternoon.

Grabbing the door handle, I climb in, silencing the confused commentary littering my thoughts and buckling up instead.

“Was surprised to find you MIA when we got home,” he says several blocks down the road.

“Just went for a walk,” I say. “There are some really nice little shops in this area.”

“A note would’ve been nice.” He flips his turn signal, staring ahead.

“Am I in trouble?” I sort of snort.

“Nope. It’s just a courtesy thing.”

“I’m sorry.” I hide my chuckle with the back of my hand. If I’m lucky, maybe he’ll punish me later. “I’ll leave a note next time.”

“Appreciated.”

“My phone actually works here, you know. You could’ve called me.”

He reaches for the radio, turning up the Disney station to drown out our conversation.

“Were you worried about me?” I glance at him.

His car rolls to a stop at a red light, and he turns to me. “Yeah. I kind of was.”

No one has ever worried about me. Not even my own father. He always paid other people to worry about me.

“Anyway.” I exhale and rattle on about a pug puppy I held today named Munch. He’s six weeks old with the most endearing under bite, and I almost walked out of there with him in my pocket. I’m not in any position to have a dog. And I’ve never owned an animal of any variety. But he was the sweetest little guy with the biggest brown eyes, and it was a severe case of love at first sight.

“Daddy, can we get a puppy?” Haven yells over the music, which clearly does very little to keep her from hearing the goings-on up front.

“No.” Derek shuts it down.

We pull onto a highway, heading toward yet another small town. I think it takes a special kind of person to love the small town life. Someone with a content nature. Someone who loves peace and quiet and stillness. Someone perfectly capable of being alone with their own thoughts. Someone unconcerned with comparing their happiness to the person’s next door.

Derek certainly seems that way.

“My sister,” he says as we pull up to a yellow ranch on a wide corner lot. An older Subaru is parked in the drive. “May or may not freak out when she sees you.”

I smirk. “What? Why?”

“She’s . . . kind of a fan. Which I didn’t know until last week.”

I’ve run into fans all the time, even though the whole notion of a socialite heiress having fans makes absolutely no sense to me, but the moment Page Six talks about you or Us Weekly publishes a photo of you, you become somebody.

I didn’t have a choice, but it is what it is. I have to respect that there are people out there who know my name and my business and that some of them believe they like me—the public version of me.

“It’s fine, Derek.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and step out, straightening my blouse and slipping my bag over my shoulder. “I’m sure she’s lovely.”

Derek takes Haven by the hand, leading her to the garage door, where he punches in a code and walks in like he owns the place. Maybe small town people do that? Small town families at least?

“Knock, knock.” He opens the garage entry door and pokes his head into what appears to be the kitchen. “We’re here.”

The scent of red sauce is carried on a breeze of warm air as we step inside.

A young woman with thick, dark hair piled high on her head is flitting around the kitchen, tending to boiling pots on the stove and a beeping timer on the oven.

“Hey, hey,” Demi calls out, her back toward us. “I’m just finishing up. You guys go have a seat in the living room. Royal will be home any minute.”

Haven kicks off her shoes and runs off like she’s been here a thousand times and knows exactly where to go.

Demi shoves a pair of oven mitts over her hands and pulls a pan of garlic bread from the oven, waving away the smoke that escapes before quieting the beeping timer.

Pulling the mitts off, she wipes her brow and turns to greet us, her eyes landing first on Derek and then on me.

She freezes, her mouth hanging. “Oh. Uh. I-I’m . . .”

“Serena, this is my sister, Demi. Demi, this is Serena Randall. She’s a client of mine, and she’s staying in Rixton Falls. Temporarily.” Derek’s hands are folded in front of his hips, and I wonder if he’s always this formal.

Demi’s smile rises and falls, her eyes nervous. The woman acts like she’s stuck between a hand-shake and a curtsy, so I do her a favor and lean in for a hug. I doubt anyone out here kisses cheeks, and I don’t want to freak her out anymore than she already is.

She melts against me, exhaling and breathing me in, returning my hug with a tight one of her own. The scent of drugstore shampoo and raspberry body spray fills the air I breathe. She’s authentic. She’s real. I love that.

I pull away and offer her a warm smile. “So nice to meet you.”

Demi fans herself, remnants of oven smoke circling the three of us. “Had I known you were coming, I’d have made more than spaghetti.”

“I love spaghetti.” I shrug.

Derek places his hand on my shoulder.

I don’t know why.

But it lingers. And falls to the small of my back.

And puts me at ease.

It’s like he knows I’m out of my element, and it’s not that I need his reassurance or his comfort, but it’s a nice gesture, and he didn’t have to do it.

Demi watches us intently, scrutinizing her brother’s every move until he slips between me and the refrigerator and disappears in another room.

“Would you like any help?” I offer.

Derek’s sister blushes, staring around her modest kitchen like she has some kind of reason to be embarrassed, and shakes her head.

“It’s okay, Serena. Can I call you Serena?” She stumbles from the sink to the stove, gathering a colander and tongs and a bread knife.

“Of course,” I say. “Are you sure you don’t want any help?”

I offer my assistance, knowing full well I’ll look like a bumbling idiot who doesn’t know her way around a kitchen, but it seems like the polite thing to do in this instance, and perhaps it’ll help her get over the initial shock of preparing dinner for someone she’s only ever seen in the glossy pages of a magazine.

“Um.” She glances at the spread on her counter. “If you want, you can drain the spaghetti noodles?”

I pick up a pair of oven mitts and place the colander in her sinks. This I can do.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask, carefully pouring the pot of boiling water into the strainer.

“Since Christmastime,” she says. “I’m substitute teaching at a school here in town, and Royal’s going to law school. Well, he’s pre-law right now. Two more years, and he’ll finish, then he’ll go to law school.”

“Will he be joining Rosewood and Rosewood?”

Demi saws off garlic break slices from the hot loaf on the pan. “I don’t think so. He wants to go in a different direction.”

“Good for him. I assume your father would give him a job in a heartbeat. Couldn’t be easy to walk away from a guaranteed job after college.”

Demi pauses, glancing at me. “I mean, he’s following his heart, but I think there’s some hurt there between my father and Royal. He won’t admit it, but something happened a long time ago, and my father didn’t believe Royal, and . . . I won’t bore you with the details, but it really hurt him, and I just don’t think he wants to depend on my father, you know? I think he wants to carve out his own path.”

“Very admirable.”

The garage door swings open, and an incredibly handsome man with searing blue eyes and dark hair cut high and tight and tattoos covering his forearms steps in, dropping a leather messenger bag next to the stove. He doesn’t see me at first, just goes to her.

“Hey, babe.” He kisses Demi, slow and soft, his hand slipping up the side of her neck, and when he pulls away, he notices me. “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

“You’re fine.” I smile and nod.

“This is Serena,” Demi says. “Serena, this is my Royal.”

Her Royal. I love that.

We shake hands, his posture straightening and his gaze, to my relief, not recognizing me.

“Smells great.” He pats Demi on the ass and struts off, and I hear him greet Derek from the next room as Haven squeals.

Demi snorts through her nose, shaking her head. “Haven loves Royal. They’re like two of a kind. They act like they’ve known each other their entire lives, and she just met him last Christmas.”

“Some men are just great with kids, like it comes natural to them.”

“Derek’s that way. He should get some kind of Father of the Year Award.” Her lips form a hard line. “I still can’t believe Kyla won primary custody. Sorry. I’m probably giving you way more information than you wanted.”

“It’s fine.”

“I guess every family has drama, right?”

“So true.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Demi calls toward the next room. The kitchen table is already set. Five places. Paper napkins. Thin, ceramic plates with a blue floral pattern around the edge. The cups are mismatched, all of them filled with large ice cubes. She notices me taking in the table arrangement and blushes. “Sorry. Someday, we’ll have nice china and dishes that match.”

“No, no,” I say. “I love it.”

And I mean it. It’s quaint. Homey.

A stark reminder that things don’t need to be perfect to be perfectly wonderful.

Haven and the men come back, and we all take seats as Demi brings the food to the center of the table in mismatched serving ware in shades of olive green and mustard yellow. Hand-me-downs, if I had to guess.

“Smells delicious, Demi. Thank you so much for preparing this beautiful dinner for us tonight,” I say.

“Shut it, Derek.” Demi kicks Derek under the table, and I’m confused. “He was two seconds from making fun of my cooking. I’ve gotten much better, I’ll have you know, dear brother.”

Derek’s lips fight a smile and he pretends to be shocked. “You’re a great cook. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

“You’re only here because you didn’t want to cook dinner for Haven. Let’s be real for a minute,” Demi fires back.

“Some things never change.” Royal shoves a mouthful of spaghetti in his mouth.

The food is passed to me, and I take a small portion since my stomach is still full from my afternoon indulgences.

“See, now you scared her away from my cooking.” Demi points to my plate.

Derek shoots her a look, then turns to me. “I was kidding. Demi can cook. I wouldn’t make you eat here if she couldn’t.”

“No, no.” I wave them off. “I had a late lunch at Maraschino’s today.”

“The sidewalk café on Radcliff Street?” Demi’s face lights.

“Yes, that’s the place,” I say.

She swats Royal’s arm. “That’s where we need to go on Saturday. I’ve been dying to try it. I hear they have to-die-for cinnamon bread pudding.”

“What’s she roping you into this weekend?” Derek says under his breath, glancing to Royal.

Royal smirks. “Antiquing. She’s on an old-things kick.”

“Old things?” Derek huffs.

Demi sits up straight, swirling pasta around her fork. “Ever since Brooks, I’ve just been on this anti-materialistic kick. I don’t care about shiny, new things. Or expensive things. I like things with history. Things that matter.”

She places her hand over Royal’s, and their gazes meet, followed by languid smiles.

Derek rolls his eyes. “This week it’s old things. Next week it’ll be things that remind her of her childhood. Slap bracelets. Caboodles. Troll dolls. What am I missing?”

Demi throws her head back, laughing, and the table shakes when she kicks Derek’s shin once more.

“Gameboy, Tamagotchi, Polly Pocket, Barbie Fold-N-Fun house, Popples, Gak . . .” she rambles on.

“I had Gak,” I pipe up.

My father had Eudora take me to Universal Studios once, and they had a Nickelodeon store. I was nine, and Eudora let me buy a case of Gak in every color.

“I’ll never forget the smell,” I add.

“How could you? It was awful,” Demi says, her nose wrinkled. “It would make your hands stink when you played with it.”

“But it was so much fun though.” I used to tear off chunks of Gak and place it all around the house to annoy our housekeeper, who was thoroughly disgusted by the fact that any little girl would want to play with stinky slime when she had a perfectly good dollhouse in the next room.

“I think Delilah has my old Caboodle.” Demi pouts. “She was always stealing stuff from me. Never had to worry about Daphne though. She left my stuff alone.”

“Daphne was smart,” Royal chimes in.

“Who are Delilah and Daphne?” I ask.

“Our younger sisters,” Derek answers, chewing his food.

“They’re twins,” Demi adds. “You’d hardly know it. They’re uber different and they don’t look anything alike.”

“So there are four of you?” I ask.

Derek nods. Not only did he have the childhood home I only ever dreamed of, but he had the big, perfect family to boot.

Good for him.

I sigh, taking another bite of Demi’s spaghetti, which is delicious simplicity at its finest. I’m sure the sauce is jarred and the pasta is boxed, but it’s good just the same.

“You’re not saying much, Miss Haven,” I say to the little blonde with red sauce staining her face. She smiles, looking to me then to her daddy.

“She was hungry,” Derek says, ruffling her hair.

“Daddy.” She brushes his hand from her hair. “You’re going to mess up my hair.”

“Not cool, Derek.” Demi plays along.

This marks the first dinner I’ve had, to date, where the conversation didn’t revolve around each guest attempting to one-up each other. Nothing was superficial. Nothing was forced. Nothing centered around money or lavish vacations or waitlists or uptown gossip.

Best of all, no one asked about me. There were no prying questions. No information-seeking. Nothing to make me squirm in my seat and wish I’d stayed back.

“I’m stuffed,” Royal declares a while later.

Derek rubs his chiseled stomach and leans back, exhaling. Demi sighs. I stare at my empty plate.

Royal rises, his dish in hand, and stoops down to kiss the top of Demi’s head. “Thanks, mama.”

I stand next, offering to take the remaining empty plates. “Let me clean up.”

“No. I couldn’t.” Demi waves me off.

“I insist.” I smile, knowing full well I’ve never done a dish in my life and it’s high time I learned. “I’d be honored.”

Demi looks to Derek, seeking approval, and he shrugs.

“Why don’t you help me, Derek? It’s the least we can do since your sister so graciously opened her home to us tonight.” I lift my brows. If I’m going to be elbows deep in soapy dishwater, so can he.

“Yeah, Derek.” Demi folds her arms, lips bunched and eyes lively.

He stands, unbuttoning the cuffs of his white dress shirt and rolling them up, eyes locked with mine.

My heart jumps.

I ignore it.

“Come on, Haven, let’s go play Legos in the living room. Your daddy’s going to clean my kitchen. Let’s go before he changes his mind.” Demi takes Haven’s hand and they follow Royal into the next room.

As soon as we have the kitchen to ourselves, I take a good look around and fully realize the sizable task I just agreed to.

“Ready?” I ask.

He nods, lips tight, and I make my way to the sink, grabbing a stopper off the ledge and running warm water.

“You still mad at me?” I ask.

We’re separated from the rest of the crew by a single wall, but they may as well be a world away. Right now, it’s just us.

“I was never mad,” he says.

“You’re hardly talking to me,” I say, leaving my other question unanswered. Is this really about last night?

“I just don’t have anything to say.” He grabs a half-empty bottle of dish soap and squeezes it into the water current.

“Were you really worried about me?”

“I’m kind of responsible for you right now. I’d like to know where you are.” He groans. “Jesus, I sound like Eudora.”

I nod. “You do.”

“It’s not like that.”

“I know.”

Derek shuts off the faucet, plunging his hands—the very hands that freely roamed my body last night—into the soapy mix and fishing for a sponge.

“I wash. You dry,” he says, taking a dirty plate and dunking it in the water.

We’re arm against arm, and within minutes, we have a workable system going. I hand him a sauce-covered ladle when he’s not paying attention, and he turns, brushing against it with his white-shirt.

“Oops.”

“Shit.” He steps back, examining the cherry-red mess on his crisp white shirt.

My hand lifts to my mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry.”

I grab a rag and dip it in water, bringing it to the stain and blotting, only the water seeps and bleeds, turning the stain pink and his white shirt see-through.

I’m amused, if only because that wasn’t intentional.

Derek takes another step back. “Serena, stop. This isn’t a wet t-shirt contest.”

“A what?” My nose wrinkles as I play dumb. He’s seriously getting agitated over a stupid dress shirt. “What’s a wet t-shirt contest?”

He pulls the clinging, wet fabric away from his body and sighs.

Which is precisely the moment I dunk the rag in the water once more and throw it at his chest, creating yet another wet, transparent spot. His full mouth is pulled into a frown until he glances up and sees the mischief in my eyes.

“Seriously?” He charges toward the sink and skims his hand over top of the dirty water in a sweeping gesture that splatters my cream-colored blouse until it’s equally as transparent as his shirt.

My jaw hangs as the water quickly turns from warm to cool and my top sticks to my skin.

“Okay, that’s not fair.” I splash him again, this time getting his face.

“Oh, no, sweetheart. That’s justice. Believe me. I know all about justice.” He flicks the top of the water until a blob of apple blossom-scented bubbles lands in my hair.

“That’s all you’ve got?” I flick the bubbles onto the ground, head cocked.

Derek smacks the dishwater with a splayed hand and a wave splashes up, soaking both of us simultaneously.

I think he did it on purpose.

He smirks.

Oh, yeah. He absolutely did it on purpose.

Glancing at our current states, we may as well be standing here half-naked at this point.

“All right, all right. Truce.” I extend my hand.

“Truce.” He meets it, and a current of electricity passes between us.

His stare meets mine, and then it falls.

Lower.

Lower still.

Still holding my hand, he pulls me against him. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”