“I’ll bet,” she quietly conceded.
She fought against noticing how handsome he was in his dark jeans, the way his Patagonia fleece hugged his torso. The black curtain of hair falling across his cheek. She needed a distraction lest she stare at him the entire trip. Reaching for the media interface, she wavered, “Do you mind?”
“Please.”
After fiddling with the touchscreen, she managed to find the Bluetooth function that connected to Dayton’s phone. She didn’t know what she expected to fill the airwaves, but the sweet strumming and lilting yet grating vocals of Cohen’sSuzannewasn’t it. She served him a pained look.
“I sincerely hope you have something besides Leonard Cohen on your playlist. I can hardly listen to him for one song, let alone on a loop for a two-hour trip.”
“His worst stuff is miles better than that hipster folk stuff you listen to. I’m convinced you exclusively listen to those chain coffee shop soundtracks.”
Kenna jammed a finger into the arrow on the screen and her breath caught in her chest as the next title populated. “Greta van Fleet? I love them.”
“Kiszka’s vocals are wild. Pure artistry.”
Amusement tugged at her lips. “It’s funny you like them. Some people might refer to their sound as hipster folk.”
His attention fell to her and though she should have been concerned that, for those few seconds, he wasn’t watching the road, she was concerned only with the honeyed fire dancing in the black pits of his eyes. As Dayton returned his focus to the interstate, the lines framing his mouth creased.
“God.” The single syllable rode the coattails of his exhalation.
“What?”
“You’re even more beautiful when you’re smug. How is that?”
Kenna turned toward the window to hide the pink creeping over her cheeks, willing herself to forget all of the reasons her heart slammed against her chest.
She was heading downstate with her boss to meet his family and he was paying her compliments and he was perverse, a little violent even, but she had gotten in the car with him anyway. The implications behind that choice were too dark for her weary mind to explore. Slowly, her eyes shut and the rhythm of her breathing lulled her to sleep.
* * *
Her stomach dropped as they edged into the driveway. A black Toyota with Utah plates was parked ahead of them, which she assumed was Carmen’s rental car.
“I’ll get the bags.”
The trunk was already open and Kenna was too busy staring at the house to protest. A charming two-story with cedar shake siding painted a shade of green so light, it could’ve easily been mistaken for beige. A porch swing. Manicured shrubs lined the walkway. There was a garden of azaleas not unlike the one in Dayton’s yard, and their blooms were the same shade. It was shockingly normal and, while it defied her expectations, the iron gates and gargoyles she had pictured would have been too on the nose.
“Where are your parents?” she asked, shutting the car door. Dead leaves crunched beneath their feet as they headed toward the porch steps.
“Doing whatever it is retirees do. It’ll be well after six before they’re home. Carmen told me they’re dropping off supplies at the church for the holiday.”
Lingering on the second step, she looked up at him where he stood on the landing. “I guess I don’t understand why you wanted to leave so early, given that they won’t be home all day.”
“I wanted us to spend some time with my sister before we throw my parents into the mix, and I’d like to show you the house.” His lips parted as he surveyed the suburban landscape. “I worry that you might be uncomfortable once they arrive.”
She climbed the remaining steps.
“Why would you say that?”
It was then she noticed the screen door guarding the more decorative one, and she thought it was a strange design choice. Staring at the mesh, thoughts that were far from voluntary swarmed her. The smack of that same door hitting its frame back on the farm as she and her sisters migrated in and out of the house, dawn to dusk. Lugging baskets of apples to the porch until her arms burned as if they’d been set on fire. Her mother ducking her head out to call them in for a meal.
Most of the memories from her first 18 years of life were better off forgotten. It allowed a more crucial truth to click into place. The house may have held some key to further understand him. And that promise, however small, was worth the risk.
A whining erupted from the screen door.
His hand froze on the doorknob as he sighed, something he rarely did. “My parents don’t necessarily agree with what you’re aspiring to do. Nor do they care for the type of medicine I practice.”
He went into the house and she followed suit, her chance to reply dying as they stepped over the threshold. The smell hit Kenna right away. Something warm and sweet. Bananas and cinnamon. A repetitious beeping sounded within the home competing with a woman’s voice.