DAISY

It's one in the afternoon when I finish boiling the potatoes. I wrap up the chicken casserole preparation and place the pan in the oven to cook. I use this time to do my laundry before the timer goes off.

My hamper is full; I have no clean clothes for the week, so laundry becomes necessary.

I change out of my dress and into a dark pink sleeveless shirt and gray shorts before gathering everything needed into a storage basket and heading to the laundry room. Yesterday, on my way home, I stopped at a neighboring supermarket to pick up some detergents and stain removers.

Sunday is my only free day of the week, so I need to use it for laundry and additional studies. With my new six-hour workdays during the week and Saturday morning shifts alongside Kate and Jeffery—an impressive young man in his early twenties with a fully bald head and surprisingly soft voice—my schedule is packed.

This morning, it's just Cuppy and me at home. We went for a walk and returned before nine to have breakfast. Kay has left, and Riley left a note saying she's out shopping for indoor accessories.

When I came home from work yesterday, the house felt empty. The TV area was blank, the lamps were gone, and the dining table had only one stool. The end tables were missing entirely. Most of the frames were gone. It was clear why Kay disappeared until late evening. When he returned, he said nothing and went straight to his room with Riley.

I focus on the laundry, which is a success as usual with all the facilities. I'm almost done.

With my headphones on and my mind immersed in the music, I turn to swap the wet items into the dryer, only to be startled by a figure standing by the doorframe.

I jump back in surprise and almost lose my balance, but he quickly grabs me by the waist and pulls me into his strong embrace.

That delightful masculine scent overwhelms me, alerting every part of me to his presence.

Kaiser.

He's tall and strikingly attractive, with emerald eyes behind long lashes that could make anyone sin with just a glance.

I look up at him, and he looks nothing like he did last night. The frown has been replaced by a smile, and his once blazing eyes are now soft and glowing. I have to look away before I can glance down at those magnetic lips that could pull me in no matter the situation.

His free hand removes my headphones and slides them down my neck.

"I'm drooling. Out there it smells like a home-cooked meal, and here..." He lowers his face to my ear and whispers seductively, "It smells like you."

His deep voice does absurd things to my posture. It makes my tongue sweep over my dry lips, and I'm sure he notices in the silence as he observes my profile.

It takes everything I have to keep my hands to myself. The urge to hold him is too strong.

"What are you cooking?" he asks.

My heartbeat is out of control. I have no power over my suddenly thawing body. I can't form coherent words. He's so close, and it still isn't enough.

Deep down, I want to respond, but all I see is a betrayer, so this is for the best. I focus on the wall behind him and try to slow my breathing.

Why is his presence affecting me this much? Can't I just shut him out of my head?

"Are we back to not talking?" he teases when I don't answer. "Fine, I'll call Hopper to get your stuff to the laundry service. You know we don't do the laundry ourselves."

"Then why do you have the facilities available?" I blurt out, mentally scolding myself.

"Good, I got you." He boasts with excitement.

"Go away, KC." I push against his chest with my small hands, but he doesn't budge. He still holds me firmly in his single arm.

"What happened to Kay? I told you I like it when you call me that." He smirks.

"Please release me; I have work to do." I ignore his question and continue to struggle for freedom.

"You don't. Your laundry will be taken care of."

It annoys me how much he and Riley don't understand. I don't want anyone doing my chores; I can handle my responsibilities.

"I don't need that. I prefer doing my laundry," I insist, feeling frustrated. I take a deep breath and chew on my inner cheeks for strength.

"You're so stubborn, aren't you?" he rebukes with a smug tone, but I don't protest or show any signs of being affected. Instead, I ask what's been on my mind for hours.

"Why did you break the furniture?"

"Look me in the eyes, and I'll tell you." He dares me softly.

I have to take a deep breath and croak out, "Why?"

"Your arrival has changed me," he says bluntly.

"How?" I retort, bewildered and confused by his obvious response.

He swallows and hesitates before simply saying, "I don't know. I can't tell."

It feels awkward. We're too close, breathing the same air. He won't let go, and I can't shrug off his hold.

I don't know how to respond to his comeback, so I bring up the conversation I had with Riley. I think he should know. "Riley says she found the mail in the kitchen of your childhood home."

"The one next to yours?" he asks, and I nod without looking at his enchanting eyes that pour warmth onto my feverish skin. "But how? Riley and I only met three years ago in New York."

"She says her then alive aunt took her to a charity ball at the address I sent the mail."

"So she's known me since then?" he replies quickly, more as a statement than a question. I can sense the commotion and accusation in his words.

"No, she had no idea who I wrote to. She said she returned the following year and found out your family had moved out. Is that true?" I inquire, feeling the zeal in my voice.

"Yes," he answers.

"Why? That house was home to you."

I remember when he used to say he would take over the first garage when he turned eighteen. What happened to that?

"It became vacant when we left," he answers, filling me with anguish. If I had any choice to stay eight years ago, I would have, but I had nowhere and no one left in New Jersey. I lower my suddenly watery eyes as he continues with fervor. "We moved to a penthouse in New York, and spent years there until our home was finished in Sacramento."

"Sacramento? California?" I ask, surprised. I knew Mr. and Mrs. Chandler were from here, but I never thought they'd want to live here. Then again, Mr. Chandler is the elected governor of the state.

"Uh-huh."

"Oh."

"The mail, do you think there's any chance it's still here?" he asks nervously afterward.

For some reason, it excites me that he cares.

"I don't know, but I have all the letters she wrote to me in my suitcase."

Yes, I have every letter. I didn't leave a single one behind. I find comfort in Riley's words and relief in knowing I have someone. It also reminds me of how remarkably selfish I've become.

"Okay," he says thoughtfully before asking, "How is your job going?"

"Why do you care?" I reply quickly.

I've come to realize Kay doesn't want my success, so why the sudden concern?

"I don't care," he shrugs dismissively.

"Okay."

"But I feel the urge to know."

I don't know why I smile, but I do. With my head down, he can't see it. "It's just like every waitress job—delivering service to customers," I explain.

"Is that so?" he asks, his voice thick with command and self-esteem.

"Yes." I stifle a smile and nod, keeping my eyes level with his chest.

It feels too good in his arms. I wish it wouldn't end. I yearn for his closeness, even though he treats me badly.

Then he uses his words to disrupt the moment of serenity. "Can we talk about Friday?"

With a quivering breath, I manage to ask, "What about Friday?"

"You know what I mean."