I worked until the early hours of the morning before dumping out the warm alcohol that taunted me and heading to my bedroom upstairs—right next to the one I used to share with my ex. There were plenty of other rooms in the house, but I favored the downstairs one since it was close to the office, kitchen, and gym. I rarely went anywhere else on the second floor unless there were guests over and that was rare considering the few that stopped by shared a bed with me only until they left in the morning like agreed upon.
Maybe it was knowing that Della was downstairs after what had happened that left me restless, maybe it was the stiffness in my boxer briefs that I refused to relieve no matter how painful it got, but I gave up sleeping more than four hours and found myself in the kitchen just as the sun rose.
I heard the light footsteps before seeing her from my peripheral, her body leaning against the archway leading into the kitchen. She was still wearing the same dress from last night even though I set clothes on the end of the bed for her to change into. Then again, who knew if she even saw them or wanted to wear something that wouldn’t even fit.
“How are you feeling?”
She straightened at my question, pushing herself away from the wall when I held out the cup of coffee I was originally going to down myself.
Her long fingers wrapped around the steaming mug. “Tired,” she croaked, clearing her throat and giving me a timid smile. “I, uh, talked to Lawrence and he told me—”
Cutting her off with a glare wasn’t what she expected, but her lips pressed together when I said, “I don’t want to hear about that piece of shit right now. He knew better than to leave you alone there.”
“He’s not a piece of…” Her voice was quiet, hurt by my words. She cared about him. I knew it. Didn’t like it, but I understood. Della got her loyalty from her father. “He isn’t my babysitter, Theo. It was a frat party and he deserved to have fun. I should have known better than to drink so much, and—”
“Is that what you think happened?”
She frowned.
“You were fucking drugged. Slurring your words, hardly able to stand or open your eyes. It wasn’t from drinking too much. I know for a fact you can hold your own. That you get from your mother and Sophie.” Her cheeks tinted pink, but I ignored the embarrassment. “I never liked you going to those. You’re a target to people. Especially now.”
“I am not!”
I eyed her, then turned my back to prepare a second cup of coffee. “Don’t act stupid, Adele. It doesn’t look good on you.”
“What the hell is your problem?” I knew I hit a nerve when she started swearing, and I hid the twitch of my lips as I grabbed creamer from the fridge.
“Careful, Della, or you’ll have to put a dollar in the swear jar.”
“I’m not five anymore,” she pointed out as if I hadn’t figured it out for myself. I rolled my eyes and walked over to the table, setting my coffee down before pulling a chair out.
“I’ve noticed.” The words probably shouldn’t have slipped, but they did.
She was quiet.
Clearing my throat, I took a sip of my coffee before gesturing toward one of the open spots around the large oak table. It was always too big for me and Mariska, especially because kids were never in the future for us. “Might as well sit down. You want me to make you something for breakfast?”
Her lips twitched slightly, and I could only imagine what the sudden amusement was for. I wasn’t a bad cook, but I was out of practice considering how much I ordered takeout or delivery to the office in the center of the city. Compared to her, who I knew enjoyed being in the kitchen and experimenting on new recipes, I looked like one of those amateurs in those shows she enjoyed watching on Food Network. There were a few she’d all but force me to watch with her that I didn’t mind so much, and one that made me feel like a Michelin chef based on the appropriately titled Worst Cooks in America.
Della finally walked over, dropping into the seat directly beside mine. “If I opened your refrigerator, I’d probably find it empty.”
My brow quirked. “Is that so?”
She gave me a challenging stare. “Am I wrong? You’re never here. People talk, Theo. You live at your office.”
“Not much for me here,” was all I graced her with, lifting my mug to my lips again.
Her shoulders lifted. “I just think it’s sad. Your home is beautiful, you know I’ve always thought so. But it’s barely ever used.” I had known that. When I bought it, Mariska was at some art show in a different state, so Della tagged along. She was a moody pre-teen, but somehow, I always got her to calm down. When the agent had walked into the kitchen, Della had all but drooled over what she saw. If memory served right, she’d even picked out her own room upstairs. The real estate agent, an older gentleman, had smiled at me when Della was exploring the second floor and said, “Your daughter reminds me so much of my own.”
If I didn’t bulk at his statement, it was a miracle. The more I thought about it, the more I realized he wasn’t wrong. I’d spent a lot of time with her, teaching her things, just like a father figure would. When the man had seen my expression, he just chuckled. I wasn’t sure why, but he did. I wasn’t about to explain I didn’t have kids and never thought about it either, because what did that say about me toting around a young girl that wasn’t mine?
I couldn’t help but lean toward Della, my eyes pinning hers until she squirmed. “Tell me, Della, how would you use my house?”
She visibly swallowed, her eyes going to my lips for a microsecond longer than normal. Whatever thoughts were crossing her mind were dangerous because her cheeks darkened right before she averted her eyes. “Your kitchen,” she whispered. I blinked, not all that surprised by her answer. “It’s too pretty not to be used,” she continued, looking over her shoulder at the marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances.
Out of everything her active imagination could probably conjure I couldn’t help but tease. “You’d…cook?”
“Sure. Why not?”
It was hard not to grin. “Two minutes ago, you were swearing at me for calling your friend an asshole.”
“You called him a piece of shit,” she corrected instantly.
“Same difference.”
Her eyebrow twitched, a telling sign that I was getting under her skin. The chuckle escaped me before I could stop it, breaking her irritation and making her stare instead. “I’ve gotten better at cooking over the years,” she diverted. “Breakfast is my favorite to cook, though, so I prefer learning how to make different things. Even though Sophie told me I could just hire somebody to do it. She forgets I don’t live like her anymore.”
I was surprised by a lot of things she said at times, but now it was namely that her Aunt Sophie would even suggest she use money to hire somebody for a skill that women were supposedly meant to master. I was glad Della didn’t let her aunt brainwash her into believing anything. Sophie had an abundance of money because of her husband, and before that was well-off because of her family. She didn’t know a time when you couldn’t shake a Benjamin at somebody to get them to do work where she could have done it herself. Shit, I’d bet the money in my wallet that she didn’t even know how to boil water. “Why breakfast?”