Drake liked consistency, though it didn't always make sense to me.
He ate breakfast at quarter to seven every morning, regardless if he wasn't working that day. During the week, he wanted to be at the office by eight where he was the head of marketing for the financial firm he'd previously worked at in Illinois. Lunch was on our own, but we always had dinner at six sharp. What he actually did at work was a complete mystery to me, and I was fine with keeping it that way. Leaving the office at the office seemed to make it easier for him to relax once he was home.
After our evening meal, we'd go down to our private room for an hour or so—maybe watch some TV upstairs—and then we'd go to bed by ten and get up again at six to start the cycle over. Even if we had no plans for the day. On the weekends, if he was around, we had longer sessions during the day, but the evenings were the same unless he had made plans for us. At least he was predictable.
He'd accumulated several weeks of vacation over the years since he'd started with the company. Back home—I would always consider Chicago and the surrounding area home—he'd scheduled at least a week of his time off around Malcolm's breaks from school so we could play together. It had worked out well. Especially when Becca had needed her brother's help. Drake had continued the habit after we had four in our group. But, now that we were miles away and on our own, that had ended.
Becca had been right. Jimmy was a problem, but this had started before him. And I hated that I didn't know what the trigger had been to begin this spiral that ended with me on other side of the country gasping for breath as my fingers clutched at wet grains of sand. A rush of icy water against my hands startled me from my daydream. I stood and started my return path again.
I was ten steps away when I stopped and remembered the necklace. Part of me wanted it to be buried...maybe it would be swept out to sea where it would eventually rust and become a slave to the ocean floor. But another part said I wasn't ready to give up my submissive side—which is what the choker represented. I just needed to break away from it so I could think. And I'd done a lot of that over the past day. Not enough, but I'd had a good start.
With a groan, I dug up the chain, swept my hand through the surf to wash off the sand, and stuffed the choker back in my pocket.
Becca was cooking breakfast when I walked in from the massive front porch.
"Can I help?" I leaned on the island and watched her chop up green onions and slice fresh mushrooms. There was a bowl of raw, red and white seafood meat on the counter next to the stove as well as a tub of sour cream, a bag of shredded cheese, and a yellow tin of Old Bay Seasoning. "Is that the famous Maryland blue crab?"
"Yep. It's one of Malcolm's favorite omelets." Becca added a little olive oil to a skillet and tossed in the onions and mushrooms. She chose a wooden spatula from a container on the counter but paused with it hovering over the sizzling pan. "Do you even like crab? You're not allergic are you?"
I gave her a half smile. It felt nice to be asked if I liked what we were eating. That I had some say. "I love crab and just about any seafood."
"Oh, good!" She stirred the onions and mushrooms for a moment. "You can set the table if you want. Juice is in the fridge. Or I've got the Keurig if you want coffee. Feel free to wander around."
I followed when she indicated in which cupboards and drawers I could find plates, glasses, and utensils. I set places at four of the six chairs around an oak table situated vertically between the kitchen and the living room area like a divider in the open floorplan. Then I made a cup of coffee and set off on a self-guided tour.
The house was strangely devoid of any nautical theme. All of the rooms had either neutral browns with pops of red or were painted and decorated in dark blue and gray tones. The wood was mostly black, not the typical white-washed treatment seen in most beach homes. It was very warm and cozy, yet the view out almost every window made sure you knew you were still by the ocean. It was the kind of beach house I would have liked to have had.
When Malcolm found me, I was reading the book titles on a built-in shelving unit framing a fireplace in what appeared to be a library or den.
"How are you holding up?"
I turned to see him standing in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
My lower lip trembled. For a split second, I almost ran to him and flung my arms around his neck like I had done yesterday. But I stopped myself and took a sip of my coffee. My hands were shaking, and I had to use both hands to hold the mug. Something flashed in his eyes, and I couldn't tell if it was disappointment or relief. He walked slowly toward me, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Daphne?"
"I've been worse." I turned back to the books and sighed. I could feel the heat of his body as he stopped behind me.
"Did it help to talk about it?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "I
