by B. Cranford
Her internal fight was interrupted by the ringing of the office phone, and given that she was on the clock—and no closer to settling the war within—she snapped herself out of it, and grabbed the call.
“Figures Accounting, this is Jade.”
“Jade, it’s me.” Sebastian. Most likely calling to check in. “How are things going there?”
Nailed it. “Good, I’ve reorganized everything my mom changed in the office, ordered office supplies . . .” A shudder wracked Jade’s body, the mention of office supplies reminding her of Declan. Of his hands on her body, the desperate way they went at each other. “And you know, other stuff.”
Sebastian’s laughter down the line was warm. “So glad you got that other stuff done.”
“It’s why you pay me the big bucks, boss.” She smiled, though Sebastian couldn’t see her. Her boss was a good man. She was well-paid and well-cared for, and they never looked sideways at her because of her hair, her piercings and tattoos, her shoes . . . anything.
She’d been overlooked because of those things by previous companies.
Which was extra frustrating to Jade, because part of the reason she made herself so colorful was to get noticed.
To be memorable.
Jade was well aware it was a crazy way of thinking—she didn’t need a psychologist to tell her she had abandonment issues and confidence problems. She knew. Oh, how she knew.
But knowledge didn’t make them go away. Unfortunately.
“You still there, Jade?” Sebastian’s question reminded her that she was still holding the handset and supposedly having a conversation with her boss. Shit.
“Sorry, I’m here.”
“Good, because Brighton is hanging off my arm wanting to talk to you.” There was a pause, some shuffling, and then a muted, “You’re impatient as hell, you know that?” from Sebastian, which made Jade smile.
“Jade, are you feeling better?”
“Much, thank God.” Thank God she was better, and thank God she wasn’t stuck in a small house—okay, a decent-sized house—with Declan anymore. “How goes the tour? Are the little ones swarming you at every stop?”
“Ha, yes and no. Some of them are so shy, it’s adorable. And others are just . . .” Brighton let out a sigh, but a happy one. Clearly, she was enjoying herself. “A lot of work.”
“Sounds like a certain jackass I know,” Jade snorted, immediately regretting her words. Not because he wasn’t a jackass, because he so totally was, but because that opened the door for Brighton to ask about him.
And she was not in the mood for questions. So, she tried to steer the conversation away from him. “I can’t wait for you to get back. I’m in need of margaritas with my girl.”
“Why don’t you just go get drinks with Declan then?”
Right, well, deflecting didn’t work.
“Um, because he’s an asshole?” Even as she spoke the words, though, Jade felt a little shudder of . . . what? She didn’t know. Gratitude certainly, arousal, yes—not that she would admit that to Brighton.
She could barely admit it to herself.
There were too many reasons not to like him to let herself be attracted to him.
Like his lack of communication, her brain supplied.
Come on, give the guy a fucking break, Jade, the other side retorted.
Jade frowned, concerned about the warring voices in her head and even more concerned about the fact that some part of her had already given into that stupid, handsome—
“Jay, you still there?” Brighton’s question broke into her thoughts. Relieved to not have to question her mental health, she put as much enthusiasm into her tone as possible.
“Here, I’m here. Sorry, I just . . .” She cast a look around her desk, trying to find something to give her an excuse for drifting away. “Opening mail, nearly stabbed myself with the letter opener.”
“Sure,” Brighton’s unconvinced response came, making Jade flush. Shit. “Anyway, as I was saying, Declan is not as asshole, and one day I’m going to make you tell me why you think that. Until then, do you think you could do me a favor?”
Jade was nodding before she even spoke. Brighton was her best—more or less her only—friend and she never hesitated to help however she could. “Of course, whatever you need.”
“You’re the best. Okay, so since Dec took such good care of you—”
Jade made a humming noise of agreement in her throat, her mind suddenly taking her back several months to the day in the supply closet when Declan had indeed taken very good care of her. Then her mind registered what Brighton was saying. “Whoa, whoa, you want me to do something for Declan?”
“He’s sick, Jay. Same thing you had, but with no one there to look out for him.”
“Oh. Shit.” Jade slumped a little. He’s sick. “Wait, just a second ago, you wanted me to get drinks with him.”
“Think of it as a conversation starter,” came Brighton’s slightly sheepish reply.
“That’s code for ‘think of it as a way to manipulate you, my best friend, into doing something for my other best friend, who, coincidentally, you don’t like,’ isn’t it?”
“Maybe a little bit, but come on. He’s sick.”
Jade didn’t want to soften at her friend’s logic, even though she knew she needed to. “I didn’t know.” She knew she sounded a little defensive, but couldn’t really help it. She didn’t want to help, because help meant seeing more of his nice guy side. But she also didn’t want to be the bitch who took his help and didn’t offer it back.
“No, I didn’t know either until Seb mentioned it right before he called you. Apparently, Dec texted him some kind of fever gibberish and when Seb called him back, he sounded bad, so . . .”
So now it’s time for you to play nursemaid.
He doesn’t need a nursemaid. That jackass probably has a thousand girls on hold, waiting to don their slutty nurse costumes and take his temperature.
First, you know better than to call girls slutty, Jade. And second, you owe him. Maybe he didn’t respond because he’s sick now. Think of that?
No, because I just found out he’s sick. Jesus, you’re annoying.
Actually, I’m you. The rational part of you. Hi, I don’t think we’ve met.
“Oh, shut the fuck up.”
“Excuse me?” Brighton sounded hurt, and Jade realized that her internal banter had become decidedly external, and her sweet friend was suddenly on the receiving end of her ire.
“Sorry, I was . . . Uh, um . . . Shit, okay, what do you need me to do?” Jade was flustered. Torn between wanting to help her friend while also paying back Declan for taking care of her, and wanting to dump a cold-brew cup of coffee on his perfect blond head.
Because why waste hot coffee on him?
“Ever since I met him, when he’s been sick, I’ve made him this soup. It was my mom’s recipe.” Jade could hear the smile return to her friend’s voice, as she planned to take care of jacka—Declan. “I could send you the recipe and you could maybe make him some, and take it over there?”
“You made him soup. And he liked it?” Jade felt a little bad for her skepticism, but it was well known that the kitchen was not where Brighton shined. She was a children’s literary star, not a celebrity chef.
Or even a non-celebrity chef.
Fuck, the woman could burn water.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s literally the only thing I can cook. And he’s told me before that it’s the one thing that makes him feel better when he’s sick. So . . .”
“So, you want me to make it and take it to him?”
“Yes, exactly. You’ll do it, right?”
Jade heaved a sigh. She was still conflicted. But she owed him, and she was curious as to why he hadn’t responded to her message. Plus, it was Brighton asking.
If it was anyone else, she’d have been a definite no. But . . . Brighton.
“Yeah, I’ll do it. Send me the recipe and I’ll make it after work.�
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Brighton let out a little happy noise, sending a wave of warmth through her. Jade had been a pretty solitary person her entire life. An introverted extrovert, her mama would say.
She liked attention in a group but didn’t do well in one-on-one situations. She wanted people to see her, but she didn’t want them to know her insides.
Because her insides weren’t always pretty.
Sometimes they were dark. Sometimes they were angry. Sometimes they were bitter. Sometimes they cried.
But sometimes—a lot of times, in fact, since she’d met and befriended Brighton—her insides lit up and preened.
Because she had a friend who understood her. Who cared.
And shit, who wanted her to take soup to the jackass she couldn’t stop thinking about.
Declan’s head felt fuzzy as he cracked his eyes open. His bedroom was dark, his bedsheets kicked this way and that, like he’d been fighting them off in his broken sleep. His body ached, his throat felt dry. His dick was rock hard.
What the fuck? Clearly, it hadn’t received the memo that he had the flu.
He struggled to find a clear thought in his head. His big head. His little head had no clear thoughts—not today and, honestly, not any day. He’d been feeling shitty when he’d arrived home after leaving Jade, her words, her distaste and dislike, a plague on his thoughts.
He remembered her sending him a message. He remembered reading it and trying to figure out how to respond—torn between letting the status quo stand and trying to cut her off entirely. Because clearly, she wasn’t about to forgive him anytime soon.
Did I respond?
He couldn’t remember, his mind a fog from the fever and the medication he’d been taking. He didn’t know what day it was, whether it was morning or night and if he’d spoken to anyone—including his team at the office, who would have to cover for him while he was ailing—since he’d lain down, hoping sleep would give him the answer to his “Do I message her?” question.
A knocking at the door stopped Declan from falling back into sleep, and he reluctantly stood, pulling on some discarded sweatpants. He didn’t want to answer the door. But if it was one of his employees checking in on him, then he’d best get it over with. He gazed around the room, looking for his phone, wondering if they’d called ahead to let him know they were coming, but he didn’t see it.
It wasn’t on the bedside table where he typically rested it at night. It wasn’t in the pocket of his sweats, where he might have left it before tumbling headlong into bed and sleep.
He closed his eyes, still trying to figure out what day it was, who was knocking at the door and where the hell he left his phone. He swayed a little, then tentatively headed for the door and the knocking.
“Yeah, just a second,” he croaked out, his voice like sandpaper. Doubtful that the person at the door would hear him, he upped his pace, trying to decide if he wanted them to give up and leave so he could head back to oblivion, or stick it out until he made it, so that the trip from bed to front door wasn’t wasted.
“Jackass, I know you’re in there.”
Despite the pain he felt in his whole body, Declan couldn’t choke back the laugh that accompanied Jade’s announcement. Of course she wouldn’t give him a break. Finally at the door—who knew his spacious apartment included a one-and-a-half-mile walk barefoot in the snow, uphill?—he rested his hand on the knob momentarily.
He needed to be ready to face Jade, sick or not.
“Dude, just open the Goddamn door already.” Jade’s voice was loud, even through the barrier between them. “I know you’re sick.”
He turned the knob, opening the door to a beautiful sight. Pink hair. Hazel eyes. A slight smirk. And . . . was that soup?
“Oh, shit, Dec. You look awful. I never thought I’d say that about you, but there it is.” Jade’s smirk only grew as she spoke, but Declan’s mind was stuck on her calling him Dec.
She’d never done that. Not even before she hated him.
“Gee, thanks. Your bedside manner is second to none,” he shot back, the burn of speaking sending a rush of fire up his throat. “Come in.” He stood back, holding the door open, and gestured Jade into his apartment.
“I have to say, Jackass,” Jade started, her head swiveling as she took in the open-plan layout of his apartment. The living area spread out in front of them, floor-to-ceiling windows across the room bringing light in and making it seem even bigger than it was.
And it’s already pretty big, Declan thought wryly to himself.
Being sick didn’t mean his childish humor was out of order.
“Not to be rude, or anything,” he began, earning an indelicate snort from the woman in front of him, “but why are you here? And what are you holding?”
Jade looked down at the large Tupperware container in her hands, then up to meet his eyes. “Oh, soup.”
“What’s O-soup? Soup that brings pleasure?” Declan’s retort resulted into a second snort from Jade. “Fuck me, that’s not . . . that’s not Brighton’s soup, is it?” He tried hard to keep the fear from his face, except . . .
Except if it was, trying to eat it was going to be a special kind of torture.
“It’s her recipe—well, her mom’s recipe—but I made it. Not her. Not here, remember?” Jade tilted her head as she spoke, the look on her face telling Declan that she thought he’d done lost his mind.
Maybe he had. It certainly felt like it whenever he was around her.
“Right, yes. Okay, good.”
“Problem?”
“You’ve tried Bright’s cooking before, right?” Every word out of his mouth cost Declan, his throat protesting in a way that felt like a combination of fire and needles and maybe some kind of acid. “It’s not the most . . .”
He stopped talking, trying to think of a kind way of saying that Brighton was a terrible cook. Even he was better at cooking and his last attempt ended up with two separate fire alarms echoing through his apartment, and the discovery that forgetting food in the oven had consequences not dissimilar to forgetting to call or text the girl waiting at a restaurant for you to show up.
Disaster.
“It’s fucking awful. It’s okay, you can say it. I love the girl, but yeah . . .” Jade gifted him with a playful smile, her eyes softening even as she made fun of their friend. “But she’s convinced you love it and asked me to bring it.”
It was Declan’s turn to snort. “And you did?”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to, but Bright asked and I can’t seem to say no to her.”
Declan’s next words were spoken softly, but pointedly. “You have no problem saying no to me.”
“That’s because you forgot all about me. Bright’s never done that.” Jade cocked one eyebrow, daring him to refute her assessment.
He didn’t. He couldn’t. He had forgotten to call her and it was something that still bugged the shit out of him.
But dammit, why weren’t they past it yet?
There’d been that moment in Peter Figures’ office after Sebastian had made the stupidest fucking mistake of his life—and Declan didn’t think that lightly, given the brevity of some of Seb’s biggest mistakes—in failing to call Brighton and let her know he was okay. Jade had stood behind him as he reacted to Sebastian’s idiocy, knowing it so closely shadowed his own.
Sebastian had forgotten Brighton. Declan had forgotten Jade. And though Seb’s error was the larger of the two, Declan had still felt it down to his marrow. It was like a spotlight had been cast directly onto him, and he hadn’t handled it well.
Then, she’d lain a hand upon him.
A soft touch, a warmth that spread through his body, it had given him hope that he was forgiven. Why he needed that forgiveness so much he didn’t figure out until later. Much later. All he knew then was that it was important that she understand.
It was an accident. A slip of the mind. A mistake.
A regret.
And he’d thought that was his moment of re
demption. That her hand lain gently on his back, relaxing his whole body, had been her way of saying, “It’s okay, it happens.”
Except it hadn’t been. Within minutes, she’d been back to throwing barbs at him, and he had gone back to returning them. Because what else could he do but sling them back at her?
It was now a year later and she was still reminding him that he’d forgotten her. And he was at his wit’s end.
“Look, thanks for the soup and all, but I don’t need you here. You’re free to go and you can report back to Brighton that I’m not dead. Yet.” Though if Jade kept looking at him the way she was right at that very moment, he might be soon. “The kitchen’s through there. I’m going back to bed.”
Jade opened her mouth to retort, but Declan turned and headed back to his darkened bedroom. He wasn’t in the mood for her sassy mouth. Normally, yeah, he could admit it was a bit—okay, a lot—of a turn-on, but he was tired. He ached. He couldn’t see a path to forgiveness and he was suddenly questioning why he even wanted it.
She’s just a girl, man, his brain helpfully supplied. Like he’d forgotten. Though, actually, Jade was a woman. Curvy in all the right places, her body was one that he knew she put through hot yoga multiple times a week. Her calves were molded by the sky-high colorful heels she wore everywhere. Her ass was rounded and lush. And her tits?
Fucking pierced.
He’d missed that when they’d had their little interlude at her office. He’d never successfully managed to remove her bra that day—another regret to add to the pile he had when it came to her—so he hadn’t known.
Or, he thought, they’re a recent addition.
Groaning, he stumbled through into the cool darkness of his room, his bed calling his name. First, though, he decided he wanted a shower. Being in the main part of his apartment had shown him that it was mid-afternoon, though whether one or two or twenty days had passed, he wasn’t entirely sure.
Obviously, it wasn’t twenty, but he felt like the world owed him the right to a little hyperbole. After all, he’d spent the better part of a week caring for a woman who couldn’t give a shit about him, and then gotten sick himself.