“You are hot stuff, Keiths,” I moan playfully, dragging my fingers up the back of his neck in mock seduction. “I mean just—ugh!” I fake-swoon against the seatbelt.
“Alright, alright. Cut the theatrics.” He groans, swatting my hand away.
“I’m just saying, in another life?” I drop my voice low and throaty, “You’d be mine. I’d make an honest man out of you.”
“You’d ruin me,” he says with a dry laugh, blowing a bubble and letting it pop loud. “And you know it.”
We giggle as his hand drifts to the gearshift as we make the final turn, and I brace myself.
Because here it comes. The gates swing open on their own—of course they do—and the gravel crunches under the wheels of his truck like the earth is wincing. The driveway curves in that way that’s meant to be elegant, but all it does is stall the moment before impact.
And then it’s there. The du Pont house.
All white brick and black iron. Columns tall enough to scrape the sky. Wraparound porch with hanging ferns that are watered more consistently than some of our relatives. The kind of house people write songs about. The kind of house that’s supposed to be a legacy.
To everyone else, it’s perfect. To me? It’s home, and my personal prison.
Timothy pulls up to the front steps, the truck easing to a stop like it knows we’re about to step onto a stage. Before I can evenunclasp my seatbelt, he leans over with that lopsided grin of his and murmurs, “Tuck in that bottom lip and smile, baby. We got three hours of pretending we’re the poster children for Southern love.”
I smirk, rolling my eyes but falling right into step like we always do. “We only gotta do it forty-seven more times.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Forty-seven,” he repeats, shaking his head like it’s both a curse and a blessing. “Then we’re home free.”
I giggle, the familiar rhythm of our little pre-dinner mantra softening the tension in my chest—right up until the heavy front door creaks open and Henderson steps out, as poised as always in his pressed black jacket and polished shoes.
“Welcome home, little du Pont,” he says, sweeping into a formal bow as he opens my door.
“No, Henny,” I say quickly, sliding out of the truck and shaking my head with a soft laugh. “We’ve been over this.” I pull him into a hug before he can protest. “You don’t bow to family.”
His body stiffens like always, but after a heartbeat, his arms wrap around me with quiet affection. Henderson might wear the uniform, might call me Miss du Pont like it’s written into his bones, but outside of Mama, he’s the one who raised me—brushed the tangles out of my hair, taught me how to make sweet tea, slipped me candy when I cried over scraped knees and high expectations.
Timothy drums his knuckles against the roof of the truck. “What’s up, Henny!”
Henderson sighs, stepping back just enough to glance over my shoulder at Tim. “Mister Keiths, must you make so much noise?”
“Henny,” Tim drawls, already hopping down from the driver’s seat with that cocky swagger, “I’ve been noisy since the womb. You’ll have to take that one up with my mama.”
A weary shake of the head. “Mister and Missus du Pont are waiting for you both in the dining room. But I’ll be seeing you later.”
“You better,” I smile—one of the rare, real ones that doesn’t feel carved out of obligation—and he presses a soft kiss to my forehead before slipping back up the stairs.
We follow him into the dining room, and he opens the door announcing our presence. “Timothy Keiths and Brooke du Pont.”
I walk into the room first and almost moan at the scent. The dining room smells like rosemary and butter—Mama’s roast glistening at the center of the long mahogany table, flanked by crystal dishes piled high with mashed potatoes, golden biscuits, and roasted carrots and parsnips. The silverware gleams beneath the chandelier, and the white linen napkins are folded into delicate swans— because of course they are.
Timothy helps me into my chair right next to Daddy before taking the seat beside me, ever the perfect Southern gentleman. I can feel the eyes on me, even before grace is said. My father, Howard du Pont, looks like a salt and pepper aged gentleman in a full three piece suit, but when he looks at us he smiles past me at Timothy.
“Now that’s a roast,” Timothy grins, trying to lighten the mood. “Mrs. du Pont, you’ve outdone yourself again.”
Mama beams, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “Well thank you, sweetheart. It’s an old family recipe.”
Daddy hums in agreement, and after a quick grace, he carves into the roast with slow, deliberate movements. The silence stretches for a bit, save for the clink of silverware and the occasional polite comment on the weather. Eventually, Daddy glances toward Timothy, his voice calm and measured.
“So, how’s football treating you, son? Heard you’ve got scouts sniffing around UT’s spring game.”
Timothy straightens with that easy charm of his. “Yes, sir. Coach says I’ve got good chances if I keep my head down. Got a meeting with a recruiter next week.”
Daddy nods, clearly pleased. “Good. Discipline, focus—that’s how you win in this world.”
