“Ay dios mio, I torched the son of a bitch.”
Dayton chuckled softly beside her, setting their bags in the foyer. “That would be my sister.”
Heart in her throat, she trailed behind him toward the kitchen. As they drew closer, the warm, sweet smell faded and was replaced by something more akin to burnt bread. A woman with long, straight black hair pressed buttons on the oven while fanning the contents of a loaf pan. She spoke with her back to them.
“Great. Mom’s going to ring my neck, or force me to remake it. I’d prefer the strangulation, to be honest.”
“Carmen,” Dayton said.
There was a pointed edge to his tone.
Spinning around to face them, she zeroed in on Kenna. She wore a black t-shirt dusted with flour. A sleeve of stained glass tattoos covered the entirety of her left arm. Her eyes were just like her brother’s, hauntingly depthless pools of black. Though they shared the same hair color and were of similar stature, it didn’t take long to deduce that they were fraternal rather than identical twins. The tip of her nose was small and delicate where his was sharp. Her jaw was angular while his was soft. Subtle differences set them apart.
“Carmen, this is Kenna.”
She didn’t mind the plainness of the introduction. It was better than being introduced as his administrative assistant or worse yet his girlfriend. Though she was inordinately nervous to be meeting any of Dayton’s family, she forged a brave front, extending a hand. “Hello.”
Carmen looked at her brother and laughed, a rich, throaty sound that filled the room. Ignoring the offered hand, she pulled Kenna in tight.
“We hug in this house.”
Citrus and floral perfume suffused the air. It was difficult to believe the two of them were related. Dayton’s sister was warm and welcoming yet she was hard-pressed to think of a time when he’d hugged her.
Had he ever done such a thing?
She braced her hands on Kenna’s shoulders. A dark freckle marked her left cheekbone, a lone spot amid the unblemished canvas of her face.
“Do you bake at all? I could really use a second opinion. Our mom’s a bit of a type A perfectionist so there’s a good chance her head will explode if I mess this up.”
A trained eye or nose wasn’t required to reveal the bread’s fate. “It’s a little charred.”
“Fuck, I knew it.” Carmen turned the pan upside down and shook it over the trash until the loaf fell out. Preheating the oven, she mumbled, “At least I have time to remake it.”
“Try baking it 10 minutes less, Betty Crocker. I’m going to take our stuff upstairs,” Dayton said.
Kenna wandered out of the kitchen, surveying the main area of the house. Everything was light, neutral, and tasteful, from the walls to the drapes to the furniture. A collection of antique brass tools stood beside the fireplace. Crystal coasters. Gold-framed oil paintings. Those minor touches of elegance, while understated, raised questions. Dayton had scarcely relayed anything to her about his upbringing.
“Mom doesn’t want you guys sharing a room,” Carmen called out.
“I’m 39 years old.”
“Just throwing it out there, brother.”
He grabbed their bags and cast her a flicker of a smile as he started scaling the carpet runner stairs. “It’s childish, but I was looking forward to holding you.”
She hated that those words, coupled with their imagery, had the power to clench her heart. More disturbing was the fact that Kenna wanted to be held by him. She longed to be wrapped in his arms, burrowed in his chest.
Slowly, it would heal him.
Their love, a light amid all of the dark that shadowed his existence. At that thought, her heart clenched for a different reason. She subconsciously referred to love in the plural and, though it was a small distinction, it sent her mind whirling.
An iciness enveloped her chest as she realized that some miniscule though irrefutable fraction of herself loved him.
She had fallen for the dark doctor.
Watching Dayton trot down the stairs in his snug-fitting denim, she swallowed. Her embarrassment made little sense. He was a psychiatrist, not a mind reader, yet she wondered if he heard the thumping of her pulse or detected the blood rushing to her cheeks.
* * *