The rain was still coming down in torrents, the streetlights reflected in the ever-increasing puddles. “Maybe not in this weather,” I admitted.
“I have a spare room,” Darien said. “Just in case you’re thinking I’m offering you a place in my bed, as well as a roof over your head.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything.” Which was the truth, my brain still short-circuiting at Darien having brought me home. What did it mean that he trusted me enough to reveal his address? That he believed I was innocent? Or was it just like he’d said that he was too tired to do anything else?
When he climbed out of the car, I followed, the two of us running to his front door where a small porch provided shelter from the worst of the rain while he located his keys. “I wasn’t expecting to bring anyone back,” he offered as he fit his key in the lock. “So the place might be a bit of a mess.”
“I’m sure I’ll cope.”
Once he’d unlocked the door, Darien hesitated, probably asking himself what the fuck he was doing, before he pushed it open and walked in. I made a big production out of wiping my shoes on the doormat before following him into the living room. I wouldn’t say it was a mess, but it was obvious he’d left in a hurry. The TV was on, but muted, playing to no one. There was a dirty plate on the coffee table from whatever Darien had eaten for dinner. And the sofa bore the telltale effects of previously having had someone sprawled across it, the cushions in disarray.
As for décor, it was eclectic, modern furniture battling with an array of plants and ornaments. Even the artwork on the walls couldn’t seem to decide whether abstract or traditional was the preference, a piece full of blocks of color sharing a wall with an oil painting.
Darien followed my gaze with a shrug. “I put up what I like. Hayden always claims I’m confused, that I need to decide what I’m into and stick to it.”
“It’s nice,” I said, and I meant it. “Far nicer than my mother’s place. I don’t think she even likes half the stuff she’s got on display. It’s mainly there as a status symbol, or because it was a gift and shedoesn’t want to offend the giver.” I pointed at the TV. “Sorry for disturbing your evening. I hope you’d finished whatever it was you were watching.”
Darien gave a quiet laugh. “It’s fine. I think I can live without finding out whether Regina caved to pressure from her family and gave up prostitution.” At my raised eyebrow, he elaborated. “Unusual documentaries are kind of my thing. The one I was watching tonight was about grandmas who escort. It was kind of eye-opening.”
“I bet.” There was a bookcase over by the far wall, and I wandered over to study it. Again, there was an eclectic feel to it, books on travel competing for space with post-apocalyptic thrillers.
“Are you hungry?”
I should have been when I hadn’t eaten since lunch, but apparently your neighbors organizing a lynch mob was an effective appetite suppressant. Who knew? “I’m fine.”
“I can make you a sandwich. Or…” Darien’s brow wrinkled. “I’ve got soup. Only the canned kind that keeps forever, but most of the time, it’s just as good as the stuff that costs twice as much.”
“Is that for the apocalypse?” At his blank stare, I pointed to a book. “I thought these were stories, but given your love of documentaries, I’m thinking you might use them as research.”
Darien laughed. “God, I hope not. Or I’m as good as dead if the end of the world arrives tomorrow.”
I’ll protect you.The thought came from nowhere and, for one horrifying moment, I thought I might have said it out loud. Where the fuck had that come from? Darien wouldn’t thank me for going all macho on his ass for a post-apocalyptic event that wouldn’t happen. He’d given me a place to stay for the night, not confessed undying love. “I think we might be safe tomorrow. I reckon we’ve got another couple of weeks, at least.”
“Pasta?” Darien offered, his mind still on food. “That doesn’t take long. Or an omelet? I’m not a great cook, but I can manage that.”
“Honestly, I’m fine.”
Darien rescued the remote control from where it had gotten wedged between the sofa cushions and turned the TV off. His gaze strayed to my bag. “I guess I’ll show you the guestroom, then. I’ll need to make the bed up, because… Well, because like I said, I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I can do that. You’ve done enough tonight.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.” I tried not to stare at Darien’s tight arse as he led me up the stairs, but failed miserably. He seemed unaware of my scrutiny, more interested in pointing out the bathroom and demonstrating how the shower worked. Once he’d led me into the guestroom, he muttered something about bedding and left.
It was a nice room, most of the space taken up by a double bed when I would have been happy with a single. Hell, I would have been happy with a mattress on the floor. Once you’d slept in a hard and extremely narrow prison bunk, you had much lower expectations for sleeping arrangements.
A small ceramic gray lamp sat on a nightstand next to the bed, its color matching the plain curtains hanging at the window. A single wardrobe with drawers beneath it took up the rest of the space. By the time I’d finished my study of the room, Darien was back, his arms full of bedding. “How about we do it together?” he suggested. “That way, it should take half the time.”
I accepted the compromise, and we spent the next few minutes fitting, smoothing, and straightening together until we decked out the bed to match the lamp and the curtains.
“My mum,” Darien said as he saw me looking between the three things.
“Huh?”
“She believes in things matching. She seems to think guests will run away screaming if I confront them with mismatched décor.”
I liked these brief insights into Darien’s character and background, storing them away to contemplate later. “She chose the gray?”
