Page 16 of The Marriage Mistake

I watched him stalk off toward the house, feeling wrung out and raw. With a sigh, I hauled my bag inside and tromped up the steps. I heard low voices in one of the bedrooms on my way past, but I didn’t linger.

The upstairs room had an angled ceiling and three dormer windows. A double bed was pushed up against the far wall, and an old dresser stood beside the door. The angled portions of the room were mostly empty other than a couple of boxes of Christmas decorations tucked into the corner and a desk shoved to my left.

It was good enough for one night. I wasn’t expecting my stay to last much longer after everything that had happened. I dropped my bags and didn’t bother unpacking anything. Instead, I headed back downstairs and made my way to the kitchen. It was still a disaster zone, and cleaning had always been something that brought me peace. My condo in Chicago was a Type-A’s dream. Everything in its place, everything labeled, everything exactly as I wanted it.

Nothing like this home, with its stacks of old books and rumpled throw blankets on every sofa and chair. Even beyond the disaster in the kitchen, I could tell that the mugs and fruit bowl and coffee implements lived on the countertop, and the stack of bills had been stored on the far edge of the cabinets. The walls were covered in Darby’s childhood drawings, with a big corkboard taking up one of the kitchen walls. On it, there were to-do lists and polaroids of their life. There were faded birthday cards proclaiming Jack the “Best Dad Ever” and a few stray receipts.

It was messy and lived in. I could see the love Darby and Jack had for each other in every corner. It made my heart ache, and I wasn’t exactly sure why.

My childhood home had been sterile, and I’d had to tiptoe through every room but my own. And even my own room had to be kept tidy and free of all the clutter children usually accumulated. My father hadn’t liked reminders that I was a child and that I lived there too.

I grabbed the broom and got to work. Once everything was tidied, I looked in the refrigerator and pantry and found the ingredients to make a decent pasta sauce. Not wanting to go back upstairs and hide in my bedroom, I started cooking.

The smell drew them out just as the sauce had reduced to the perfect consistency. I fished out the bay leaves from the bubbling tomato goodness and checked the pasta, glancing over my shoulder to nod in greeting when I heard footsteps.

Darby had an assessing look in her eyes that looked startlingly familiar. She had her father’s sharp mind, that was for sure. She walked up beside me and peeked into the pot. “Smells good.”

“Should be ready in a minute or two.”

“Set the table, Darbs,” Jack said before approaching me. He nodded at the food. “You didn’t have to do that. Or that,” he said, nodding to the kitchen at large. “I was going to clean up as soon as I was done talking to Darby.”

“You had more important things to deal with,” I said, forking a spaghetti noodle out of the pot to test it for doneness.

He grunted, watching me, then flicked his gaze to his daughter. She had the cutlery out, so he grabbed some plates from the cupboard and set them beside me. He dipped out of my way as I moved to drain the pasta in the colander I’d set in the sink, then grabbed a serving spoon while I dealt with the noodles.

It was easy, I realized. Easy to be around the two of them. Easy to move in the kitchen without a word. Easy to sit down at the table and watch them take their first bites.

Darby was the first to speak. She reached for the parmesan and started sprinkling as she told me, “This is really good. You can stay.”

I couldn’t help the snort that escaped me. “Well. Thank you.”

Jack shot his daughter a fond, exasperated glance, then met my gaze. His expression was guarded but warm. “Thanks for cooking.”

I shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “I enjoy it. I don’t get to cook for other people very often, so it’s no trouble.”

“Is that why you signed up for the arranged marriage thing my great-grandma set up?” Darby asked before stuffing her face with noodles. She chewed a bit and added, “Because you have no friends?”

“Darby,” her father warned.

She swallowed and gave him big eyes. “What?”

“No, it’s a fair question,” I interrupted when Jack opened his mouth to say something else. “What… What did your dad tell you about our arrangement?”

Darby shot me a quick glance, then looked at her plate again. “That it isn’t real, but he’s doing it to keep Grandma happy.”

“Right.”

“And that you’re paying him lots of money to marry him because you’re desperate.”

“…right.”

“That’s not exactly what I told you, Darbs,” Jack cut in.

“Close enough!” the teen shot back. “Am I wrong?”

She looked at me, challenging. I blinked, then glanced at Jack, who was pinching the bridge of his nose. He dropped his palms to the table and stood. “Wine?” he asked me.

“Um. Sure.”