“Fine,” I say, scooting closer to him and straining to see. Heck, I’d settle for the date. This lake house bubble creates an illusion of time standing still, but I know weeks have passed.
He shakes his head, but slides his arm over so I can make out the headline he’s reading in the digital news app. While he’s distracted by his fried egg on rye, I read it.
Disappearances of Chicago Women Surge—Law Enforcement Doubles Down ‘There’s No Concern.’
My mind flips, and I jerk back, only to lean forward again. Who wrote this?
Piper Reeves.
The name is familiar—I remember seeing some of her other articles in theChicagoChronicle. She’s searching for answers, and I … I have them.
Edmond jerks the iPad back, and I resume shoveling the rest of my food into my mouth, realizing Stefan somehow snuck another piece onto my plate. Between my bloated stomach and the lulling rhythm of the rain, I could use a nap, and it’s not even 8:30 a.m.
“What time to do you leave?” Edmond asks Stefan. He drops his tablet onto the table, and I eyeball it before quickly glancing away.
“Soon. I need to factor in time for the weather.”
“I have to run errands for Congressman DuPont, so I guess security is Thea-sitting.” He chuckles at himself, but I groan. There goes my entertainment today. Stefan will be gone, and unless I want my hand slapped for messing in his kitchen, I’d better stay out of it. I follow Edmond around at times, trying to figure out exactly what a butler does. Seems as though it’s more than typical.
The housekeeper might come today. Could I help her?
I finish my breakfast and put in my requests with Stefan. Although he says he doesn’t care what I want to eat, he never fails to make it.
Two hours later they both leave, taking the tablet with them, and I’m left wandering around the lake house barefoot. The rain continues to fall in slanting sheets, tapping against the windows, as I drag my fingers along the wood paneling in the hallway to my room. When I enter, I head straight to my dresser, attempting to find something comfortable, but as I yank open drawer after drawer, I groan. Lace, silk, straps, zippers, and tags that itch—there’s nothing here that screams rainy day veg-on-the-couch. It’s an Edmond-curated pile I’ve never had before, let alone the nerve to wear.
It’s better than what I had at EV—better than the barely there lace, or the matching sets that rubbed when I was only a number, one of many. Guilt crawls behind my ribs, uninvited.
I dig deeper, hoping something will magically appear, but each drawer tells the same story.
I rock back on my heels, sighing. This romper is about as comfortable as I’m going to get in my wardrobe, but Slade’s …
He’d kill me. But I also know from firsthand experience he has some comfortable T-shirts, so he might have sweatpants, too? Darting up, I scramble out of my room and run to the stairs. I quickly scan for security, but they’re regulated outside the house. Running up, I make it to his suite. It’s wide open,so I hurry, bolting into his walk-in closet, and stop dead in my tracks. It’s absurd. Nearly as large as my en suite bathroom and organized with a precision that feels personal. I doubt the housekeeper did this. Maybe Edmond. Suits line one side—black, gray, charcoal—in the only color I’ve seen him wear. Button-downs hang crisp and untouched without a wrinkle or thread out of place.
“My goodness …” I whisper, suddenly self-conscious of any and all noise I make.
My fingers hover above his starched sleeves. The familiar scent of him clings to the fabric in here—a clean laundry smell with subtle hints of faded cologne and masculine musk. Greedy, I inhale as I brush the first sleeve, roaming from suit to suit. I get lost in the shell of Slade DuPont—so formal, so cold, but there has to be more. I’ve seen it in his bedroom decoration, in the comics just outside the closet. Built-in drawers line the back wall, and I open the top to find silk ties and cuff links methodically placed. I move to the next drawer, then the next, finally reaching the bottom to find it—the holy grail. Tucked in the back, a plain gray hoodie worn at the cuffs. I pull it out, unfolding it as my lips twitch into a half smile. This doesn’t belong here, which is probably why I love it.
Tristan used to lend me his hoodies or shirts, but I wasn’t drawn to them like I am these.
Something black and yellow folded in the drawer catches my eye. Batman shorts. No, boxers. A barking “bahaha” bursts out before I can stop it. I stare at them for a long while, smiling. This,thisis the real him buried beneath it all. Not the suits. Not the silent congressman, but the guy with secret Batman shorts and a worn hoodie.
And it’s exactly what I need.
I’m not sure what comes over me, but I peel off my romper right there in the middle of his closet and expose my laceundergarments to the entirety of his wardrobe before I slide on the Batman boxers, which to be fair fit me like pajama shorts, and shove my arms into the hoodie. It’s fleece lined and I wrap my arms around myself.
A door slams somewhere, and my eyes widen. I kick my clothes out of the way and fly out of the closet, pausing briefly to appreciate his room. Then I dart out of it, rushing down the stairs and into the living room to plop on the couch. It’s probably the housekeeper, considering Edmond and Stefan haven’t been gone that long. Or security looking for me, and if they found out I was playing dress-up in Slade’s room …
I reach for the remote on the coffee table beside a seashell that makes zero sense in a house on a lake, but whatever. Flipping on the TV, I scour the abundance of channels, ones I never had growing up since we couldn’t afford cable, and I hunt for something to watch. You’d think with so many I’d find something quickly, but I don’t until I hit the movie channels. And there—The Dark Knightjust started.
I smile, pulling the folded blanket over, and curl my legs beneath me as the screen flickers in the dark and the movie fills the empty void of the house. My mind drifts to Slade, and I wonder what he’s doing. So much so that I miss the opening scene.
I’m midway through the movie when a door opens from down the hall. I rise from my slouched vegetative state, push my curls out of the way, and crawl the length of the couch to see the hallway.
I startle back as Slade strides down the hall, hands in his slacks. Behind him, the door to his office swings shut, and that must’ve been the door I heard earlier in his room. He meets my gaze as he strides forward, head tilting to the side as he traces the pull-strings of the hoodie. His nostrils flare.
Crap. He’s noticed.
The rain is still beating against the house, but it’s quieter. Or maybe that’s me holding my breath. The living room lights are off, and when he enters, his eyes flick to the TV, then to me before he sidesteps to the lamp and clicks it on.
