“He doesn’t consider the engagement off.” Irene’s tone and posture threw out a challenge.
“What is he going to do, knock me over the head and drag me to the altar?” Peyton was almost amused.
“Peyton!” Irene gaped at her. Small wonder. Her mother wasn’t used to such open subversion. “We’d hoped you’d reconsidered your impulsive decision. You’re never going to find another man who’s as good a catch as Bruce. He’s a rising star at your father’s brokerage.”
Darius’ smile flashed across her mind. Her mother had never been more wrong. Irene Biery Harris wouldn’t be impressed by Darius’s reporter’s salary. But he was a good person and a loyal friend. He made her heart pound and her body burn. That was more important to Peyton. “I don’t love Bruce, Mom. And he doesn’t love me.”
“You’ll grow to love each other.” Irene tossed a dismissive hand.
“I want to be in love before I marry.” Peyton sipped her lemon water. “And I want to be confident the man I marry loves me—”
“Love doesn’t always last, Peyton. Your mother and I are lucky,” her father interrupted. She heard his strained patience. “It’s more important to us that you’re well taken care of.”
“I can take care of myself.” Away from her parents’ influence, she’d never been more confident of her capabilities.
Carlson shook his head. “You haven’t given us any reason to believe that. Look at your most recent behavior. You assured us you’d return to New York in December and start planning your wedding to Bruce. Now we’ve learned you’ve moved to Trinity Falls and ended your engagement. You’re reckless and impulsive.”
“What were you hoping to accomplish?” Irene asked.
“You’ve both been telling me what to do, when to do it, and with whom.” Peyton looked from her mother to her father. “That was fine when I was four. I’m thirty. It’s past time I made my own decisions.”
Her father regarded her with stern dark eyes. “We’re trying to guide you so you don’t make mistakes like moving to some town no one’s ever heard of and breaking your engagement to a man who can take care of you in the manner to which we’ve made you accustomed.”
“Dad, I have a career.” Peyton carried her dishes to the dishwasher. “I’m accustomed to the manner in which I’ve been caring for myself.”
“You’re making a mistake, Peyton.” Irene turned to follow Peyton’s movements.
“Even if I am, it’s my life. It’ll be my mistake.” Peyton tossed the remnants of her soup into the garbage disposal. She rinsed her bowl, then loaded it into the dishwasher.
“I invited Bruce to join us for Thanksgiving dessert.” Carlson’s announcement made Peyton’s blood run cold.
She straightened from the dishwasher, closing the appliance’s door before facing her parents. “It’s your home. You can invite whomever you’d like.”
Peyton left the kitchen, ignoring her parents’ stunned expressions. Her back was straight, her shoulders squared. Inside, she was seething. They’d invited Bruce for Thanksgiving dessert. Obviously her parents weren’t done trying to run her life. But they were mistaken if they thought she’d continue to let them. Paraphrasing Janet Jackson, she was in control now. She owed a great debt to Trinity Falls—and to one sexy, sensitive, small-town reporter.
In the end, Darius kept his commitment to share an early Thanksgiving dinner with his father. Just because things hadn’t worked out with Ethel didn’t mean he and Simon couldn’t enjoy the holiday . . . he hoped.
Simon opened his apartment door in response to Darius’s knock. The older man’s eyes were wide and wild with stress and frustration. “I’ve burned the turkey. We’re having sandwiches.”
Darius nodded, taking in Simon’s sweats and bathrobe. “May I come in?”
“Oh. Sure, sure.” Simon pulled the door wide as he stepped back.
“Anything I can do to help?” Darius crossed the threshold and waited for his father.
“You can help me make the sandwiches.” The response was grumbled over Simon’s shoulder as Darius followed him through the apartment.
What a pigsty!
The living room looked like a spillover, walk-in closet. Discarded shoes marked a trail leading into the kitchen. The remnants of several days’ worth of fast-food meals covered the coffee table and half of the sofa. Simon had been living in the apartment for only four months. But it looked as though he’d been collecting trash for years.
How had his mother kept a spotless home when she’d lived with a man who elevated making messes to an art form?
And what was that smell?
“Dad, how can you live like this?” Darius gritted his teeth. Am I going to be sick?
“Don’t judge me, Darius. I’m doing the best I can.”