He flipped on the lights, illuminating the vast interior.
“You don’t live here?” Darcy asked, eyebrows shooting up as she took in the space, full of raw stone, warm wood, and complicated midcentury furniture. Why wouldn’t he live here if he was allowed to? It was gorgeous. She was nearly bouncing on her toes with excitement that she got to live here for the next three months.
“Not since I was in college. Now only when Sloane is here. I have a condo in Midtown, but it’s just a studio, and...” He didn’t finish that thought, but his cheeks turned a little pink.
Darcy felt her mouth curl up in a wide smirk. “You didn’t want to get me there and announce, ‘Oh no, only one bed, what to do?’ ”
Teagan pressed his lips together, not quite returning the expression. “I didn’t think I could pull that off, no.”
He might have done better than he thought, but there was no sense in inflating his ego just yet. Darcy looked around the open floor plan. There was a kitchen at one end, a bar at the other, and a big living area in between. A hallway between the kitchen and living room led off to the back of the house.
Rachel had decorated the wellness retreat’s big residence complex, and it had all been nice and matching and all that, but this house was flawlessly arranged, every fixture and item of furniture fitting the space as though designed with this room in mind. For all Darcy knew, it had been.
And there was art on every wall—real art, where you could see the artist’s brushstrokes and their signature in the bottom corner.
Darcy dropped her bags and started pacing the exterior, searching in vain for some photographs of Teagan or other members of his family. The only photographs were black andwhite, weird angular shots of people writing on their hands or smoking unfiltered cigarettes through bad haircuts. Probably not captured during Van Zijl family vacations.
Teagan went straight to the fridge to fetch bottled water out of a drawer apparently maintained for that purpose, so Darcy continued her snooping. She marked the location of the wet bar, spotted two cabinets full of wine on built-in racks, and critically noted a stack of mirrored drink coasters on a glass coffee table that must have been staged specifically for doing lines. She added them to her to-do list.
Her gaze was eventually drawn to a huge portrait hanging next to the bar. It was so exaggerated as to be almost cartoonish, but it depicted a young woman with her dress falling off her breasts, bright pink nipples lovingly detailed.
“Um,” Darcy said, stifling a laugh, because she hadn’t really anticipated Teagan having tits-out art in his living room, even if she’d braced for all the drinking and drug paraphernalia.
“Oh, yeah, that’s a John Currin,” Teagan said, following her expression and wrinkling his nose. “Mom was a big collector. I think it’s kind of ugly, but I haven’t taken anything down. It technically belongs to the foundation.”
Darcy walked up to take a closer look at the painting. It had the expensive layered quality of museum art, but the subject matter overwhelmed the technique. “Is this a painting of your mom?”
“What?” Teagan asked, mouth falling open in shock. The idea had obviously never occurred to him. “No, John Currin is famous. He does lots of these.”
“Your mom never met him? Because the lady kinda looks like Sloane...” Darcy trailed off.
“I—she probably did. But she never said—Jesus.”
Teagan’s face went through several shades of horror. Darcy guessed that she would also have been horrified if she found out she’d been eating breakfast under the watchful gaze of her mother’s tits for over a decade.
She looked at the painting longer. Definitely looked like Sloane.
“God. Now I’m never going to be able to unsee it,” Teagan said, staring at the artwork in dismay, hands on his hips.
Darcy laughed at how stuck he seemed. There was a simple fix. “Let’s just take her down, then.”
When he didn’t object, Darcy lifted the painting off its nail and turned it so that it faced the wall. “See? Easy enough. Show some modesty, Ma.”
Teagan blinked in agreement. “Maybe I’ll let Nora sell just this one,” he muttered, putting one hand over his mouth.
Darcy nodded to encourage him. Maybe he could put some vacation photos up instead. Make it a little homier. This place could be perfect with just a few updates.
“So, where should I put my stuff?” she asked, hooking a thumb at the hallway, trying to project the nonchalance of someone accustomed to standing in houses like this. Probably never again. This was probably her only opportunity to live the lifestyle of the rich and famous. She wondered whether there was such a thing as vegan marabou heels. If so, she wanted to order some and walk around in them, liven up Teagan’s life a little. Let her own tits hang out.
Teagan grabbed her sea bag and set it over his shoulder despite her abortive grab for the strap. “Sloane’s room is pretty nice; she redecorated a couple of years ago. Queen bed. The guest room smells a little bit like cedar because that’s where my mother kept her furs—they’re gone, don’t worry. And the primary’s been cleared out too, but...”
He obviously didn’t want to vocalize any objections to Darcy taking his mother’s bedroom, but the mere thought sounded like a buzzkill.
“What about your room?” she asked lightly, waggling her eyebrows to dislodge his unhappy thoughts.
She had an idea of what Teagan was like in bed, and it was already playing through her mind in high production values. She imagined their hands clasped together, the muscles of Teagan’s shoulders rippling as he moved, curtains rustling. None of the windows in this house had curtains, but somehow, curtains were rustling.
Teagan ducked his chin and smiled between closed lips. “Twin beds,” he said. “And all my water polo trophies.”
