by Edie Harris
The silence between them this time wasn’t awkward, and Declan felt himself begin to relax. Yes, he wanted to be wherever Fiona was, but this was…nice. It was chaos and calm, the essence of family, found in a city reputed to be glittering and plastic and fake. The power of barbeque, perhaps, as Rick had said.
Something warm unfurled in his chest, as it had when Fiona had taken him to the house in Pasadena. “You didn’t blacklist me when I hurt her, like you threatened to.” It was all too easy to see now, from a distance, exactly how deeply he had hurt Fiona when he walked away from her that night in the studio lot. He’d lost his patience—not for the first time and certainly not for the last—but in its place, he had gained perspective.
The care and keeping of Fiona O’Brien required a healthy bit of perspective, it turned out.
Rick chuckled. “Only because I feel more than a little culpable here. My threat stands, for next time.”
The warmth in Declan’s chest spread. “Next time, huh?”
Sighing as though greatly pained, the other man shook his head. “I feel very old all of a sudden.” His smile carried a hint of wryness. “She closed on the house yesterday morning. That’s where she’ll be.”
“Thanks, Rick.” Palming his phone from his back pocket, Declan found the number for his car service. As it rang, he watched Wes saunter over to where Sadie stood at the back of the line near a slender woman with a messy cap of dark curls and extend a hand in greeting, murmuring something as he did. The woman gave him a brilliant, dimpled smile and, ignoring Wes’s hand, hugged him.
The stricken expression on the Texan’s face was almost laughable.
With a grin, Declan placed the pick-up request with the driver, hanging up as Janelle glided over to put an arm around her husband’s waist, tucking herself neatly into Rick’s side. “I hate to do this to you, Declan,” she said, voice full of the same snarky teasing that often infused Fiona’s, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to kick you off my property.”
Deciding to play along, he returned the phone to his pocket and took another swig from his water bottle, arching a brow. “Bit rude of you, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. Very rude.”
“And I haven’t even finished my drink.”
“It has a cap. Perfect for on-the-go.”
“I didn’t get to eat.”
“You can experience Rick’s grilling skills another night. We’ll have you over this weekend, how about?” She paused, before clarifying, “You and Fiona.”
Declan grew serious as he hefted the capped water bottle in his hand. “I’d like that very much.” His phone buzzed in his pocket, alerting him that his ride was five minutes away. “Great party, Janelle, Rick. I’ll be sure to let Fiona know what she’s missing.”
“You do that.”
SEVENTEEN
Fiona was having a picnic on the hardwood floor of her new living room. Except there was no blanket, no basket, and the only food in front of her was a packet of French fries and a Diet Coke, which anyone could tell you didn’t actually qualify as “food.”
If she had to live the rest of her life denying her body what it truly wanted, there were going to be fries. Lots and lots of fries.
But it wasn’t just her body in denial. No, her heart was experiencing a few pangs of its own today. Like a painful, aching bruise that throbbed in time with her pulse—meaning it pretty much never stopped hurting.
God, she missed Declan. It didn’t matter that she had been in his bed less than twelve hours ago. This was a permanent sort of missing, the kind that said, Get used to it, pal. This ain’t gonna be pretty.
Love sucked.
This picnic sucked. She should have gone to her parents’ house for the barbeque, but the certainty that Declan would be there had nixed that idea. No point in torturing herself with the sight of him, not after her decision last night…even if part of her already regretted that decision.
Scowling, she bit into another fry. Any claim she’d had on regret had been relinquished the second she left that hotel room. In twenty-seven years, she had collected her fair share of regrets: getting involved with her choreographer, dropping out of college, running away to Vegas, shutting her mom and dad out of her life. All choices she’d made of her own free will, just as she had made a choice with Declan—first to get involved with him, then to end that involvement when the world started to shake beneath her feet.
It made her a coward, didn’t it? She sighed and flexed her feet, toes—this week painted a deep matte plum—pointed toward the wall. The house—her house—seemed even more perfect now that she owned it. The white trim so clean against the soft, muted green of the walls, the wood floors gleaming warmly in contrast. The beams across the ceiling made the front room seem larger, airier, and she sighed happily.
Home. She was home.
For the first time since Vegas, she felt every last molecule of tension evaporate from her body. Closing her eyes, she cleared her mind and breathed deep, feeling the light breeze caress her face as it wafted in from the open windows and front door, which she’d left ajar to rid the house of its stuffiness from being closed up for long days.
Opening her eyes, she glanced down at her impromptu picnic. Next to the fries and soda between her spread legs lay her phone, screen black. Coward that she was, she’d been staring at that blank screen for the better part of an hour, debating whether to text her father and find out if Declan was, indeed, at the barbeque.
And if he is? Well… Well. Then she would leave her house—holy crap, her house, she thought again with a grin—hop in her car, and get her butt over to the barbeque.
Her jaw firmed, determined, as she picked up the phone. Her house would be here. She’d signed on the dotted line, and it was hers. Hers to make payments on, hers to maintain…and hers to lock up for the week if she wanted to catch a flight from LAX to Heathrow and see her boyfriend. Busting her ass all this time to make a hefty down payment hadn’t been for nothing—she’d planned it that way to make her mortgage payments each month manageable on what she would earn working only one job at a time.
One job meant free weekends, and vacations, and, depending on the filming schedule, coming home at a reasonable time in the evenings. She had planned for this, it turned out, and, as everything thus far had gone according to the plan, who was to say she couldn’t adjust her plan to include Declan? Any choice involving him was a good choice. Nothing and no one could derail her, not unless she permitted it, and there was no chance in hell she’d permit anything of the sort.
She just hoped he still wanted her, and not only her but to be with her—that was the key. Being with someone, in her understanding, meant adjusting your plans…and then making new plans hand-in-hand with that someone. If she could convince him that she was flexible enough to fit him into this careful life of hers that she’d spent so long rebuilding, maybe she could convince him to fit her into his, too.
It was worth a shot.
Instead of texting Rick, she flicked her finger over the screen, taking her to Declan’s number, and pressed CALL, lifting the phone to her ear as it started to ring.
It started to ring really, really loudly. Almost as if the phone were right next to—
“Hey, darlin’.” His lilting voice echoed against the walls of the empty room as she looked up to find Declan standing there, framed in warm summer sunlight from her open front door. His expression serious, he thumbed off his own phone.
She did the same to hers.
One step and he was inside her house, the house she’d dragged him to that Sunday morning over a month ago, high on the excitement of having finally, thank-freaking-God, slept with him. The excitement brewing in her now was different, wary, but almost more intoxicating for the healthy dose of fear she could feel tripping through her veins. It took her a moment to find her voice, and when she did, she could only manage a hoarse, “Hi.”
“Your dad told me you were here.”
He looked so damn good. Scrum
ptious, really, like she could just eat him up with a spoon and then lick it clean. Those jeans of his, the ones that touched him in all the right places, sat low on his hips due to the tense hands he’d shoved into the front pockets. A plain gray tee, soft with repeated wear and washings, clung to his shoulders…much as she had last night, she remembered with a blush—first against the window, then, heartbreakingly, on his bed. Scuffed black motorcycle boots and a scruffy jaw lent him enough of a bad-boy air that it didn’t surprise her one bit that this was a man who could play the villain in a movie as easily as he could the hero in real life.
Coffee eyes, rich and warm and so deep she’d been swimming in them since day one, gazed down at her, darting a glance at her pathetic picnic. “There was better food at the barbeque.”
“I know. I should have gone.”
He moved a step nearer. “S’okay. We’ve been invited back. This weekend.”
“We?”
Another step. “You and me. Together.” Closing the distance, he dropped to the floor next to her, a spill of lanky limbs facing the opposite wall from her. His eyes never left her face. “You called me.”
She nodded, unable to look away. That face, his face, the face she’d had the privilege of touching every single day since she had met him—and, if she got this between them right, the face she would have the privilege of touching, kissing, waking up next to for a long time. Maybe even forever.
Forever sounded good. “I was going to come find you at the barbeque. Or wherever you were, if you hadn’t been there.”
“Why?” His thigh brushed hers, and heat—not sensual but just as potent—shot down her leg. Her toes flexed in response.
There was a lump in her throat, her mouth suddenly dry. Needing a second to collect herself, she snagged her soda and drained it, until nothing but air bubbles, ice cubes, and the slurping sounds made by her straw remained. When he bumped a knee against her hip, she set the to-go cup aside. “I don’t know how to have a successful relationship.” Her hands curled into fists atop her thighs. “Obviously.”
His smile was soft, gentle, and nothing like what she had seen from him since they’d broken up. “Well, yeah, obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been available when I came along.”
She frowned at him. “You know what I mean.”
His smile faded. “I know what you mean,” he echoed quietly. “I’m not gonna set your world on fire, Fi. I’m not gonna burn everything you’ve worked so hard for to the ground.”
It was too difficult to hold his gaze any longer, so she turned her attention to the half-eaten packet of fries sitting on a pile of paper napkins. They were probably cold by now. Nothing worse than cold French fries. “It wouldn’t be you doing the burning. It would be me. I would make the wrong choice, or lots of wrong choices, and then—” She hated the tears pushing at her sinuses, but she wouldn’t lose control, not after the pep talk she’d just leveled on herself. With a brisk sniff, she blinked back the urge to cry. “I don’t want any more scars, Declan.”
“You ought to trust yourself a bit more. There’s a difference between what happened with that dancer and what’s happening now.”
Her head shot up. “How do you know—”
He lifted his hands from where they rested, linked between his bent knees. “Your mom told me.” He grinned, briefly. “Nice lady, your mom. Filled to the brim with quippy retorts, and you know how much I like those.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she scowled. “You were saying something about a difference?”
“The difference,” he said, leaning toward her, expression intent, “is that, before, you were alone. Every choice you had to make, right or wrong, you made it alone.”
“So?”
Slowly, as if not to startle her, he traced a finger over her cheekbone, crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening when he noticed her shiver of awareness. “So. When you’re in a relationship with someone, a real relationship, you don’t end up makin’ decisions on your own.” His finger moved to her jaw. “You make them together. Now,” he murmured, bridging the gap between them, “do you think I’d let you make a bad decision?”
The second before his lips covered hers, she muttered, “Well, there was that one time you thought we should make out in your trailer, and look how well—”
His kiss matched her house: perfect and clean and entirely, utterly hers. She cupped his scratchy jaw in her palms, letting the warmth from his skin bleed into hers, and felt her spine begin to melt. Her body simply leaned into his, curved under his, his arms pulling her into his lap.
The sound of French fries skittering across the floor as her foot knocked into them had him lifting his head, but not to glance at the mess. No, his eyes were all for her.
As were his words. “Fallin’ in love with you was so easy for me. Effortless, really, and I just…assumed it would be the same for you.” He pushed her glasses to the top of her head and stroked a hand through the hair she had left to dry loose around her shoulders after this morning’s shower. “So I got angry with you. I had no right to, but I did, and I’m sorry.”
Her own hands found his curls, and she buried her fingers in it, relishing the texture as much as she had that first morning in her makeup chair. His apology hung heavily in the air as her fingertips dug into his scalp. “I think we should do this.”
His lashes fluttered down in obvious pleasure as she applied gentle pressure to the base of his skull. “This?”
“Us. I think we should be an ‘us.’”
His body went still beneath hers, eyes flashing open again. The hand tangled in her hair moved to curve around her nape. “I want that. I’ve always wanted that.” This time his kiss wasn’t the least bit clean. It was messy and hot, with tongues and teeth and a muted groan from him when her hands traveled down his neck to dig into the lean strength of his shoulders, but still perfect and still hers.
As if there was ever any doubt.
Elation filled her as he urged her to straddle him. Denim-covered knees digging into the floor, she couldn’t suppress a full-body shiver when his hands slipped beneath the hem of her tank top. Clever fingers found her rib cage and tapped out some illogical rhythm before pressing into her skin.
“God,” he murmured into her throat as he trailed kisses from her ear to her clavicle. “I worried I’d never touch you again.”
“I know.” Fear sizzled through her limbs at the idea, and she clutched him to her, fisting the thin cotton of his shirt in needy hands. “The worst choice I ever made was walking away from you.” It was nothing but the truth. Down to her bones, it was the truth.
A rough sound emanated from his chest as he brought his lips back to hers for a kiss that bordered on desperate. The emotion in his kiss was like an open wound, raw and stinging, and it demanded soothing, tending. She opened for him even as her eyes squeezed closed, relaxing her fists in order to slide her palms along the strong column of his neck until she cupped his face once more. A soft moan escaped her as his fingertips kneaded the knotted muscles on either side of her spine.
Several fraught moments later, they broke apart, both breathing unevenly. “You had this tower around you when we met, Fi, and I meant to knock it down.” His forehead rested against hers, eyes sliding shut. “I think I might’ve climbed to the top, instead.”
She shook her head slightly, and their noses brushed in an intimacy as lovely as any kiss. “I don’t want to live in a tower. I want to live in this house, here, on the ground. With you.”
“Only if I can get a grill like your dad’s for the backyard.” He chuckled, dipping his lips to capture hers for one heartbeat, then another when she smiled against his mouth. “Nowhere I’d rather be than here, darlin’. Nowhere in the world.”
EPILOGUE
8 Months Later
Declan almost did it while in the bathroom at home.
Fiona was putting in her earrings, gaze locked on the mirror in front of her while he stood off to the side, absently inser
ting cuff links into the sleeves of his tuxedo shirt. She’d pinned her hair in an intricate series of twists, leaving her nape exposed but allowing a few errant curls to trail over one shoulder. In the mirror, he could see one of those curls find a home in the dip of her collarbone, and he wanted to put his lips there.
Earrings in place, she straightened, wearing nothing but the red lace scraps that served as her lingerie, and gave her reflection a critical eye. “I’m going with glasses tonight,” she informed him.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, love.”
When she turned to fix him with a brilliant smile, he had nearly done it. Where he found the willpower to hold off, he hadn’t a clue.
His resolve was tested again when the town car pulled into the driveway. He rose from the porch swing to let her know their ride was there when she materialized, pulling the door closed behind her and locking it before dropping the key into her clutch. He lost his breath.
She looked as though she’d been poured into the strapless navy gown. The bodice with its sweetheart neckline hugged her torso, the skirt draped luxuriously over her hips to skate the length of her legs. A subtle slit allowed him a glimpse of one sun-kissed calf, while the gown’s hem fluttered flirtatiously around a pair of strappy silver heels.
The gown was stunning in its simplicity, completely dependent on the body underneath to show it off to proper effect. His gaze travelled up to where those few curls still caressed her shoulder, then to the lovely face touched by only the faintest hint of cosmetics, and, finally, to the warm, familiar gray eyes behind a pair of narrow brushed-nickel frames.
He swallowed around the lump that had formed in his throat, studying her. “I don’t have words,” he told her, honestly.
She seemed to float across the porch, putting a hand to his cheek when she reached him. Her fingers stroked over the trimmed beard he’d grown back that winter. “You look pretty,” she said with a smile before kissing him briefly, firmly. “Now, let’s go win an Oscar.”