“But it’s so small. And it’s not even real.” Darius lowered himself onto the right corner of the couch.
“You don’t have a tree, do you?”
“Why bother?” Darius was uncomfortable under her amused regard.
Peyton settled onto the other end of her silver couch. “Why don’t you stop bashing my tree and tell me why you’re here?”
Her apartment smelled of cinnamon. Her matching sofa, love seat, and armchair were a pale silver with soft overstuffed cushions. The coffee table was made of glass in a sterling-silver frame. The cool, modern effect contrasted with Peyton’s warm, traditional personality. It was at odds with the woman who’d decorate her elegant home with a plastic, wannabe Christmas tree. Who was she trying to be?
“I told my mother she could be on the fund-raising committee.” Darius studied the little tree. Its fake branches were full of pretend apples and a few real candy canes, tinsel, and lights.
“I’m glad.”
“I’m not. With both of my parents on the committee, I’ve just made this project more difficult. I’m sorry.”
“Just make it clear to them that we don’t have time for personal conflicts on the committee.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
Peyton searched his features as though she could read his mind. “What’s really bothering you about your parents working on the fund-raiser?”
Darius wanted to ignore Peyton’s question, but her gaze insisted on a response. “They’ve never volunteered for anything. They don’t have any fund-raising experience.”
“That’s my role.”
“Their antagonism toward each other will disrupt our meetings.”
“We won’t let it.” She was boxing him in, dismissing his reasons as though they weren’t perfectly rational arguments.
“You don’t understand. Some people like to read. My parents’ hobby is arguing, especially with each other.” He tried to say it as a joke. It didn’t come out that way. Darius shot off of Peyton’s sofa and strode to her toy tree. “I’m not my parents.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be compared to them.” Darius glared at the decorations.
“No one’s doing that.”
“I’ve seen it. Every time my parents argue, people look at them and then me. They’re thinking the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Darius touched one of the fake red apples hanging from a plastic branch.
“You’re nothing like your parents, Darius.”
“Aren’t I?” Darius shoved his fists into the front pockets of his black Dockers.
“Everyone has a complex about their parents. We’re afraid we’re like them. We’re afraid we’re nothing like them. We have to realize we’re our own people.”
Darius sensed there was something more in her words. “You sound like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“You think you’re the only one with difficult parents?” Peyton shifted on the sofa to face him.
Darius took in Peyton’s abundance of brown curls, serious caramel eyes, full red lips and stubborn honey-and-chocolate chin. “Are you afraid you’re like your parents or that you’re not?”
“Neither of the above.” Peyton’s shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath. “I used to be afraid I wasn’t good enough.”
Darius frowned. “Good enough for what?”
“Not what.” Peyton shrugged. “I didn’t think I was good enough for them.”
“That’s crazy.” Darius returned to sit beside her on the sofa. He raised his right hand to cup her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm against his palm. Her scent, talcum powder and lily of the valley, reached out to him. It stirred memories of being locked in the archives with her, of her Catwoman costume—of her.