He lets go of my dress to hold my hands, interlocking my fingers with his. We are far from alone. I am vaguely aware of other people occasionally wandering through the hallway but pay them as little attention as they pay us. We’re just two people getting close to each other in a bar. Nothing that hasn’t happened before.
Except I know different. Because I’m sure this has never happened before. This monumental, gut-busting happiness that I feel, how could this have happened before and for the world not to have changed so completely?
“Well,” Declan says. “I get off in an hour but technically I’m the boss so I can do what I want.”
Another laugh threatens to escape but I keep it inside, doing my best to look serious. “And what do you want to do?”
His head moves closer to mine and I love him so much I wonder how my skin isn’t glowing from the inside out.
“Declan?”
“Yes?”
“You didn’t answer my—”
He cuts off my words exactly as I hoped he would. He kisses me like he’s been waiting for me his whole life. He kisses me like he loves me and as somewhere in the bar a bell rings for last call, I kiss him right back.
Epilogue
Ten months later
“I said to the left!”
“I’m going to the left.”
“Oh.” I pause, blowing a strand of hair from my face. Soraya glares at me from the other end of the dresser, her face sweaty with effort. “My left.”
“I better not chip a nail,” she mutters as we shuffle back into the bedroom. “You’re paying for— Ow!” She almost loses her grip as her elbow hits the doorframe. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because you agreed!” The back of my legs hit the mattress. “Left. My left,” I correct as my arms start to shake. “Against the wall. Ready? One… two— Soraya!”
She lowers her end to the floor without waiting for my count, forcing me to quickly follow or risk dropping it.
“I need a drink,” she says, shaking out her fingers.
I stand back to look at the dresser, my hands on my hips. It’s one of the few things I’m keeping from my apartment. Deep drawers made of mango wood with heavy gold handles. But next to the white plastic bed frame?
“Don’t you think it would look better in the living room? More people would see it.”
“I will kill you,” she says softly but before she can try, I hear the front door open.
“Declan will help,” I say at Soraya’s murderous look and I give her a wide berth as I skip into the hallway. Declan’s in the kitchen, unloading an armful of grocery bags onto our inch of counter space.
“Unpacking’s going well,” he says, nodding to the floor of boxes behind me.
“Could you take a look at the dresser in the bedroom? I think it would look better in here, but Soraya might push me out the window.”
“Need a big strong man, huh?”
“We’ll work with what we have.”
“Oh, she made a joke. Jokesters get to put away the shopping.” He tosses a head of lettuce at me and disappears into the bedroom. Soraya immediately starts arguing with him.
I start putting the cold stuff away but get distracted by the roar of a motorbike passing outside and abandon post to go look out the bay window. The living room gets the most sun and I have dreams of lazy Sunday mornings curled up against the glass, watching the world go by.
I fell in love with the apartment the first time I saw it, which is helpful considering how fast real estate moves in this city. It’s a small one-bedroom in Brooklyn, a short walk from Fort Greene Park, and sure it’s smaller than my place with Claire and the bathroom needs some serious de-grouting, but you can barely hear the neighbors and there’s a stunning brick wall in the bedroom, and it’s mine. It’s ours. And that makes it perfect.
There’s a loud banging noise and I turn as Declan comes out of the bedroom, dusting his hands. “I think the dresser’s fine where it is.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wow, what a great job you did,” he calls from the kitchen.
“I’ll do it in a sec.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Fighting already?” Soraya drops into the one chair we have. My beloved flea market purchase. The other thing I brought from my apartment. “That’s a good sign.”
I grab the utility knife and turn to the nearest box, ripping open the tape. Declan and I are moving in together. Have moved in together? Literally just now moved in together?
We’d been taking things slow, which I appreciated. A lot of date nights, a few weekends away. It’s not like we ran out of things to do in the city. Before I knew it, we were seeing each other every day and when he asked me to move in with him, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.
“This was in the mail,” he says, handing me an envelope. “Irish stamp.”
“It’s from Annie!” I say, recognizing her handwriting. “Our first official card in our new home.”
“You can put it on the dresser,” Soraya says sarcastically, rolling her shoulders with a wince. “Am I done now?”
“Yes. Unless you want to help me with—”
“I’m done.”
Declan pulls me close as I slice open the envelope. “You’re getting way too attached to that knife.”
I ignore him, scanning the card. “Maybe we can visit them this year. You can call it a business trip.”
“Sure.” He pulls away after a quick kiss, but I grab the front of his T-shirt, holding him to me.
“Okay,” Soraya says, holding up her hands. “No. I’m not staying around for this. Goodbye.”
“Thank you for helping me,” I call after her.
“Thank you for the forty percent vacation discount.”
“Twenty percent.” Declan frowns.
“The dresser upped my price.”
She closes the door and I realize for the first time that we are alone in the new apartment. I look up at Declan, ready to share the enormity of the occasion but he’s looking out the window, distracted as he runs his hands up and down my arm. He’s working for the tour company full-time now and while business is going well, he’s still working most nights trying to do the best he can. It’s not lost on me that he’s doing it all while making time for us, never late to dinner and always quick to answer my texts. Like he’s making an extra effort to be there for me. I brought it up with him over takeout one evening, worried he was overextending himself just to prove something, but he only laughed.
“I mean it,” I said at the time. “I trust you. You don’t have to drop everything to see me if you’re busy.”
He just shook his head, amused. “Does it ever occur to you that I want to see you?” And then he shoved a slice of garlic bread into my mouth before I could answer.
I smile at the memory, gazing up at him. “We’ve moved in together.”
“We have.”
“We should have planned this better. Got some wine.”
“Well,” he says, heading back to the kitchen. “If you put away the shopping like I told you to maybe you would have found…” He opens a cabinet door and retrieves a dark green bottle.
“Champagne?”
“The good stuff. A gift from O’Shea’s.”
“What are you doing?” I ask when he puts it in the fridge. “Open it.”
“I’m chilling it first, Sarah. I’m not a monster.”
I roll my eyes and wander into the bedroom to put the card on the dresser. The room is just as messy as the others, covered in boxes. My boxes. Declan was able to fit everything he owned into two suitcases. Everything except his houseplant which now sits proudly on the windowsill.
“The landlord said he’ll send someone over tomorrow about the sink,” Declan says, following me in.
“I’ll be here.” My new job lets me have flexible work-from-home arrangements. I guess it’s my not-so-new job now. But after working for so many years in one, it’s going to take a while before it stops feeling like
it. It was Soraya’s boyfriend who found it for me. David did some marketing at a small, sustainability focused architecture firm in Tribeca where I clicked immediately, and though I still find myself second-guessing my ideas sometimes, I’m getting better at ignoring it.
“Shall we christen this while we wait for the champagne?” Declan asks, dropping onto the mattress.
I crawl to the middle of the bed, collapsing in a heap on top of him. “What’s that? Ten minutes?”
“Please,” he says, sounding wounded. “Twenty.”
But he doesn’t move, probably sensing my tiredness and for the next few minutes we simply lie there, his chest rising and falling gently beneath my cheek. My eyes drift shut and I’m halfway to a well-earned nap when he speaks next.
“Are you still up for dinner tonight or will you not be able to walk from all those stairs?”
“You might have to carry me,” I admit. We’re supposed to meet Mark and Claire at a Thai place nearby. Mark moved back to the New York office in October, much to Claire’s delight. She was suspiciously fine when I told her I was moving out, but I soon saw why when she said she was moving into his place, a gorgeous two-bedroom apartment with a doorman to greet them and actual art on the walls instead of just pictures of it. But you only had to spend five minutes with her to see she cared nothing about any of it. It was Mark she wanted. Mark, she loved. Whether he lived in a penthouse or rented a bunk bed.
It just so happened that he lived in a penthouse.
I burrow deeper against Declan as his fingers trail across my back before gently lifting my left hand from his chest.
My eyes fly open. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?” he asks, innocent.
“You know what.”
I had thought after everything with Fiona he maybe wouldn’t want to get married again. Ever. But instead over the past few months, he’s dropped increasingly less subtle hints that a proposal is on his mind.
“One day we’re going to talk about it,” he says, lowering my hand back to his chest.
I don’t argue. Mostly because I know he’s right. Mostly because I already know what my answer will be. And I think he does too.
“You tired?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“How tired?”
I lift my head to find him smiling at me.
“You’re really keen on breaking in this mattress, aren’t you?”
“We could break in the shower if you prefer.”
“The shower’s not big enough for the both of us.”
“I’ll just watch you then,” he says and I laugh as he rolls, pinning me beneath him. A brief kiss and then he backs away, getting to his feet. At first, I think he’s getting the champagne but instead, he stands at the edge of the bed and grabs my legs pulling me toward the edge of the mattress.
“You’re very dusty,” he frowns, brushing the knee of my jeans. “Maybe we should break in the shower.”
“My grand plan all along.”
He switches his attention to the other leg, his face creased in concentration as he brushes the dirt off that one too. For a few seconds, I simply watch him and for the hundredth time since we started officially dating, I thank my lucky stars that I found him. That I chose him. And that he chose me.
“Yes.”
He pulls off one of my sneakers, distracted. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, one day we can talk about it.”
His eyes shoot to mine as he dumps the shoe behind him. “Talk?” he asks, painfully casual as he starts on the other one.
“Talk,” I confirm. “No surprises. And nothing public,” I add, panicking at the thought. “And—”
“We’ll talk.”
He lowers my legs to the floor and slides his hand under my T-shirt, fingers splaying across my stomach as they move up and up and up.
“I love you,” he says. “And I would love to talk one day. But for now…” And he brings his face to mine, capturing my smile with a kiss.
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A Letter from Catherine Walsh
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading One Night Only. I hope you enjoyed it. Or did you just want to skip to the end? If so, you’ve gone too far. Go back! If you did finish it and want to keep up to date with my latest releases, you can sign up for my newsletter at the following link. Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.
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I don’t think I ever wrote anything as quickly as I did Sarah and Declan’s story. They both appeared in my mind as fully formed, messy people and thankfully ones I wanted to spend a lot of time with. These characters became friends I could escape to every day. So too did their world. I loved imagining myself on the streets of New York or wandering through the Irish countryside (especially as the latter felt so close yet so far away at the time). Usually when I’m writing I’ll catch myself with a big frown on my face but this time I kept noticing myself smiling, a rare occurrence for someone who looks naturally very grouchy. I hope it brought a smile to your face too.
I'm now working away on my next book, but in the meantime, you can reach me via my Twitter or Instagram account below. I would love to hear from you.
All my best,
Catherine xx
Books by Catherine Walsh
One Night Only
Acknowledgments
This book was written in the middle of a pandemic, which, and this may shock some, was not ideal. Despite all the challenges, I was so fortunate to have many people who not only gave up their time but also offered invaluable advice and support even as their own lives turned upside down.
Thank you to Rachel Helsdown and Heather Keane for their patience and enthusiasm over the years reading various first drafts and many screenshotted emails. To Jeanne-Claire Morley, Bex Dash and Áine O’Connell who all read early chapters of One Night Only and provided constant and much-needed support these past few months. To Tilda McDonald and Elizabeth Brandon for answering all my questions about contracts and for encouraging several glasses of wine with every call.
Thank you to Muiriosa Ryan for her kindness and excitement. Do you want to start a few hours late? has never meant so much to me before. Jen Porter, thank you for responding to every frantic WhatsApp message (especially during the time I forgot you were literally in labor. Whoops). Lucy Baxter, thank you for understanding every silent week from me.
To my editor, Lucy Dauman, who took a chance on my stories and pulled me brilliantly in the right direction. Thank you for your insight, your enthusiasm and your guiding hand on this journey. To the entire team at Bookouture who I can’t wait to meet one day, thank you for all being scarily good at your jobs. I know this book couldn’t be in better hands.
Finally, to Mam and Dad, thank you for putting up with me long after you should have had to. Thank you for encouraging and supporting me even when you didn’t fully understand what I was talking about. Thank you for my first laptop when I was fifteen. Thank you for opening the fancy pink champagne when I came home with the news that someone liked my book.
Published by Bookouture in 2021
An imprint of Storyfire Ltd.
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Catherine Walsh, 2021
Catherine Walsh has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or tra
nsmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-80019-564-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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