by Gabriel Love
“Hamburger slippers?” Oh, god, I was just staring at him like a creep, wasn’t I? I was fantasizing about him going down on me and he knows I was zoning out! Did I make noise?
A quick glance down is reassuring. I didn’t actually take my clothes off.
“Welcome back.” There’s a look on his face that I can’t read, and I sense he’s shaken as he shifts his weight.
“Sorry, I was thinking about you… uh,” Damn it, don’t tell him you thinking about him going down on you! Idiot! “Class. I was thinking about the homework I have for break. Are you ready to go?”
Please let him be ready to go. I really don’t want to hang around here any longer. His nod is a relief and I stand up. Time to get out of my room, away from my bed and hopefully away from whatever the hell made me think it was a good idea to daydream about Declan.
Ugh. Planes. I love flying, to be honest. What I don’t like are all the people. People are weird. And rude. But the part that I’m most nervous about is spending fourteen hours next to the hulking ball of oh, my gosh sexiness that is Declan.
I sneak a glance at him. If he has any idea that I was fantasizing about him going down on me, he hasn’t said a word. Which leaves me fairly certain that I didn’t give myself away with moans or facial expressions. He seems like the kind of person who wouldn’t let it go.
He’d tease me, I’m sure. Now why does he have that look? Like he’s expecting to be punched in the abs? Oh, god, he’s looking at me! Look away! Look away! Crap. Yep, I’m staring. And he’s staring back. And it’s getting awkward. Say something!
“So, uh, are you scared of flying?” Weak. Seriously, that’s what my brain thought was a good thing to say right now? Here, let me stare at you like I’m plotting your death and I’ll top it off with Do you think you’re going to die today?
He shakes his head and I breathe an internal sigh of relief. Whew. I guess that could have gone worse. I could have puked on him or something.
The weight of the book in my lap is comforting. It seemed like a good idea to have something to occupy my mind during the flight. My carry on is loaded with books. Books. So many books. I’m starting with—
“Is that a smut novel?” Declan asks, and I glance up at him in shock. He’s arching a brow at me and there’s mischief in his eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, wondering how he knew. The cover doesn’t give it away. The title is innocuous. He grabs it and I have to stifle back a moan at the way his knuckles brush my thighs. I watch him flip it open to what seems like a random page. He reads it and glances over at me, shock and a new appreciation in his eyes.
“You can borrow it,” I say. It’s amusing that he’s reading through random pages, but is more so when he gives an agreeable nod and opens it to the beginning. I give my head a little shake and wait patiently to get another book out of my carry on.
“I was kidding, you know,” he says after a moment.
What was he kidding about? Am I forgetting something he said? “About what?”
He tears his gaze from the book with what seems like serious effort. Our eyes meet and he dips his head toward the book. “I didn’t know it was smut. I was trying to make you blush.”
Well played, sir. Except I’m not that easy to embarrass. “I’m not shamed of my taste in books. I’m an eclectic reader. But I want to say you’d enjoy Survivor more. It’s a—”
“Chuck Palahniuk novel.” He interrupts.
It’s my turn to be surprised. But he gives a little shrug. “He wrote Fight Club. I loved it. So I read more of his work and he blows me away.”
No way. He’s an avid reader, too?
“But,” he says, lifting the smutty novel, “I want to devour this. Then I’ll dig through your bag of tricks.”
I can’t help but grin. There’s something so appealing about this powerhouse of a man reading a book focused on sex with a dash of love and a whole lot of drama.
He doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks, and that’s a far cry from what I’m used to when dealing with men.
He buries himself back in the book and I stand to get my carry on as soon as I can. But Declan’s quick on his feet to help me out. We dig through my carry on together and he takes a couple more of my books; A Xanth novel, Restoree, and The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Such a weird mix. I settle for Circle of Pearls, one of my favorite historical romance novels. I discovered Rosalind Laker when I picked up a copy of To Dance with Kings, and was stunned by her rich and vivid imagery of a turbulent past.
“Is that the story of the girl who falls in love with Christopher Wren?”
Declan’s question steals my attention and my gaze snaps to his face. “Yeah. It’s not historically accurate, though. I admit I’m surprised you know it, it’s not a widely known novel.”
He jerks his shoulders up. “I went through a phase. Christopher Wren was an architectural genius. Not just for his time.”
Wow. I have to admit, I’m shocked. When most people go through a phase they don’t go so far as to read a fictional novel about the person they’re idolizing. At least I don’t think they do. What I know about the ambiguous most people could fit in the palm of my hand.
“I love the painting hidden in the wall,” he says, and my heart skips. In Circle of Pearls there’s a scene where the loyalists - people who still consider the King their ruler even when he falls - hide a painting of the king behind a layer of plaster to keep him in their hearts and home even when their property is seized by a non-loyalist who would punish them severely if they were to admit they remained true to their king.
It’s easily one of my favorite parts because of the sheer guts, the near miss, and the tight knit group feeling. It gives me warm fuzzies inside.
“Me too,” I whisper. He gives me a heart-melting grin and closes my bag in the carry on compartment.
He moves into the middle seat and I plop into mine. Silence chases us into our books and I find my attention wandering to him. Every page he turns rings like a gunshot in my ears and I can’t help but toss sly glances his way every few minutes.
His hard bicep rests against my arm and our thighs touch ever so slightly. He’s lost in what he’s reading, but I’m lost in him. Lost in thoughts of kissing him, the fresh memory of daydreaming about him, and now wondering how we could possibly have read so many of the same books.
I’m an eclectic reader.
I play jump rope with genres and will start multiple books in different genres and read them in phases. I don’t know why. I’m weird.
But I’ve never met anyone who reads like I do. When he said he was going to devour that book…
I sigh out loud and instantly wish I could take the exhale back. He glances over at me. “Trouble getting into it? We could trade if you want.”
I shake my head. There’s not a chance I’ll be able to read sex right now without feeling weird. There are too many thoughts of him bubbling right under the surface. As it is, his thick voice is struggling to give me chills.
He gives me an odd look and settles back into his book. My attention returns to the words on the page, but my mind kicks into overdrive and I try to figure out what I’m going to do now.
I hardly know this guy, but I feel like we’ve got more in common than I’ve ever experienced with anyone else. He’s fascinating and I want to learn more about him.
But not right now. I pretend to focus on the book, but my thoughts run wild. What would he do if I kissed him? Would he push me away? Get weird? Ugh. I don’t have the courage to kiss him. But I want to. He’d laugh at me. Hell, I’d laugh at me.
“It’s easier to believe you’re reading if you turn pages every once in a while.”
My attention snaps to Declan, who’s giving me an amused glance out of the corners of his eyes. His lips are pressed into a mocking smile and I kind of want to smack his shoulder. Playfully, of course. But still.
“Yeah, I’m thinking about other stuff.” Like you. You Declan, you’re the problem!
<
br /> As if he could hear my internal screaming, his eyes narrow a bit before returning to normal. With a finger holding his page, he focuses his full attention on me and I try to catch my breath before it all escapes.
Damn pressurized cabin air. It’s elusive. Or maybe I’m having a panic attack. Or maybe I’m trying not to squirm under the full scrutiny of this gorgeous guy who’s actually kind of awesome as a person.
Moments tick by and I feel like I’m in serious danger of drowning in the turbulent icy waters of his eyes. He studies me with a fascination that I’m sure I’m mirroring. Then his gaze strays over my shoulder and I turn.
On the opposite row of seats a man is barfing up everything he’s eaten in the last year into a blue sickness bag and the cabin begins filling with the captain’s soothing voice. Something about troubling winds and staying calm.
My stomach slams into my throat and I open my book.
Fourteen hours.
I’ve got this.
I’ll be fine.
Suddenly a warm hand captures mine and I find my fingers lacing with Declan’s. I glance up into his eyes, but he’s staring out the window. Past him, I see thick grey clouds and the inky darkness of night descending quickly.
When the plane finally touches down and we taxi along the runway, I lift my head and find myself looking into the frigid eyes of Declan.
I give him a smile, release his powerful hand, and wipe my damp palm on my pants. My fingers ache slightly from being curled with his for so long, but it’s totally worth it.
All in all, the flight wasn’t bad. Honestly, I’m more worried about what’s coming next. Every time I think about seeing mom a knot of dread tightens a bit further in my belly.
Together Declan and I rise and wait for some of the crush of people to ease up. I stand at the edge of the aisle and cling to the seats for dear life as people jostle one another and me.
A randomly wild forearm shoves me back and I feel Declan’s arms scoop under my arms and brush along my ribs as I tumble backward. With the crooks of his elbows under my arms, he holds me a moment before lifting me back up on my feet as easily as if I weighed the same as a toddler.
I glance up over my shoulder to thank him and he merely closes his eyes and nods in a gesture that reminds me of a lion.
When the crush eases up I slip out into the aisle and grab my bag from the overhead compartment. Behind me, Declan shields me from the press of bodies like a slip anchoring a ship in a squall.
With the strap of my bag over my shoulder I amble toward the exit and step into the closed up box hall, trying not to lose my breath with the crowd still looming too close.
Do they have to make these hallways so tight and airless? Can’t they have a window or two? Maybe something that folds with the thing?
Not even a step behind, I feel Declan’s heat buffering me. There’s a safety in his closeness. And people are either careful not to bump him or he’s incredibly stable on his feet, because even with me leaning on him I don’t feel him shift other than when he begins to step forward.
The roar of voices leaves me feeling like no matter what I say I wouldn’t be heard and my throat begins to ache and draw closed.
Not here, not now, please.
My heart begins to slam erratically and the world brightens to a near-blinding shade of white and I feel the world begin to tilt.
Suddenly I’m scooped up into capable arms that take me under the knees and ribs. Cradled against Declan’s chest I give into the need to hide and bury my face in his chest as my arms slide around his shoulders.
I feel the forward motion but I’m lost in his scent, the comfort of being protected from the world as my heart threatens to beat out of my chest and every breath blazes like fiery ice in my lungs.
When Declan shifts me I whimper and cling, my body trembling with terror. Behind the darkness of my eyes I can’t be entirely positive I’m not being spun in a centrifuge and my stomach grumbles its protest of the sensation.
Something heavy hits the ground next to me and I’m vaguely aware of the sound of wheels on hard floors, but the significance is lost on me.
Only when I feel sunshine hit my hair do I finally breathe easier. Still, Declan cradles me close and I cling to him like a lifeline in open ocean. Suddenly, the world stops moving and I peek out of the darkness where I’d burrowed my face in his hard chest.
Under the open skies I see I’m between him and a truck and he lowers me carefully to my feet while setting my suitcase beside us. I blink rapidly as my eyes adjust.
There’s a worry in his features that seems to ease when he studies my face, but he doesn’t say anything and I’m grateful. We can discuss my panic attacks when we’re safely enclosed in the truck.
He opens the door and puts my case in the back of the oversized cab. His fingers find my hand and he helps me step up onto the bar as I climb in. I plop into the seat and buckle as he closes my door and strides around the front of the truck like he’s got all the time in the world.
When he gets in, I brace for the words I’m sure are coming. But all he says is, “I’ve got to swing by my place before we head to your mom’s.”
I nod. I don’t mind.
“Thank you,” I say, needing to acknowledge that he was so cool with my meltdown.
He turns the truck over and glances back to make sure he’s clear while answering. “My mom had PTSD. No worries, okay?”
I nod, my eyes tearing up. Usually people point out that I’m weird and that I could control my panic if I took medications or meditated or something. Truth is, I used to be addicted to Xanax, and I feel like the drugs aren’t worth the side effects.
That’s my choice, and it’s my life, but everyone usually acts like they know best.
A newfound respect for the male next to me bubbles up, along with gratitude and a warmth I can’t identify.
We drive in silence as I try to mentally prepare myself to see mom again. When his hand slips along my thigh to my inner knee I jolt and he jerks it back.
“Sorry,” he growls, “I’m not used to people in my truck.”
Oh. I bet he’s only used to women he’s sleeping with being in here. So I toss his words back at him. “No worries. It felt nice.” I freeze at the absentmindedly spoken words, hating that I revealed more than I wanted to. He doesn’t respond and pulls onto a gravel road.
“You live out here?” I ask.
He gives me a quick glance. “I needed some peace, so I bought some land out here.” Trees and overgrowth crowd the road and I enjoy it all and the crisp scent of the Oregon air as he cracks the windows. Chilly air fills the cab and leaves me feeling wide awake and refreshed.
“I forgot how green it is,” I whisper. I see him nod out of the corner of my eyes. His cheek ripples like he’s clenching and unclenching his jaw and I wonder what’s going through his mind. Is he thinking about my panic attack?
He glances at me with those artic and navy eyes and I see a hint of worry. “My house is a bit different.”
Well, that couldn’t be more ambiguous. But he’s clearly stressing about it, which isn’t leaving a good feeling rolling around the pit of my stomach. So I choose an upbeat answer.
“I like different. I can’t wait to see it.”
Ahead I see a clearing and a building. The first thing that grabs my attention is the modern square tower that blazes toward the sky like a beacon for the heavens.
On either side glass and brilliant white walls dazzle like sunshine glinting off fresh snow. The building sprawls on either side of the tower and I see only green and brown inside the building.
A whistle of sheer appreciation sneaks between my lips and I feel Declan’s sharp glance boring into me. “It’s beautiful,” I say softly, soaking in every detail as we come to a halt before it.
Up close I see the tower is maybe three stories high, and the rest of the building looks to be about one and a half stories high, but it’s both imposing and beautiful and I find myself super excited t
o see inside.
I open the truck door and slide to the ground, wanting to bound toward the door like an exuberant puppy. My feet follow their own rules and I bounce toward the opening. I spy Declan behind me, a cautious smile on his face as he slips something in his pocket.
Before me the door opens on its own and I take my shoes off on the stoop before stepping inside. Above the ceiling is a hopscotch of white and glass that open the skies to view.
But the house! Vertical gardens cover walls that I discover, upon closer inspection, aren’t really walls, they’re just gardens partitioning a huge open space.
And it clicks. Declan was so interested in Christopher Wren because I bet he too is an Architect. I bet he designed all of this.
I cross a wall where plants give way to herbs of all types and a huge kitchen that’s perfect for any cooking enthusiast.
Plants line the walls, and I identify kale, ripe tomatoes hanging heavily from branches, carrot tops soaking up the light and the whole room smells fresh and clean.
“I need to tend plants, if you don’t mind. Have you told your mother we’re in?” Behind me, Declan’s voice is curious and concerned. I turn to see him on his knees, shifting soil in a long bed. Even on his knees, he’s dominating the room somehow.
“I haven’t told her. How can I help?” I ask, walking up to his side.
Under his skilled fingers, I see potatoes peeking out of the soil at us. He glances up at me and I realize that on his knees, he’s still almost as tall as I am. Damn giant.
“Do you know how to harvest potatoes?” His eyes are kind, and I shake my head. Gardening isn’t really my thing. “No worries. In the kitchen there are paper bags. Can you grab a bunch of them?”
I nod and hurry to the kitchen. “Where am I looking?” I ask.
“Go to the sink,” he answers, sounding preoccupied. “Two drawers to the right and down one.”