“Can’t wait,” he muttered.
I booted up my computer while he made coffee. He was watching it brew when the doorknob turned. Oh shit. Maybe I should’ve checked with Emilia before I brought him here. I didn’t think she would be mad about it, but who knew? I’d never brought anyone to work with me before.
“Do you know anyone I can hire to murder my husband for me?” Emilia asked, searching for something in her bag as she came in. “I don’t care how much it costs—the man is driving me insane.”
“Em?”
She didn’t hear me. “We’ve seen three hundred different houses—give or take a few—”
“Em?”
“And he comes up with a different reason to hate each one of them.” She stopped when she finally lifted her head and saw Declan. About six inches in front of her.
“You must be Emilia. I’m Declan.”
She glanced back at me, her eyes enormous. She let out a breath as the pieces started to fall together for her.
Then she sucked in another, grabbed his hand, and vomited words all over him. “You’re Declan! Oh, my God. You’re Declan? Sara’s…”
“Yep. I’m Sara’s.” He shook her hand, smiling. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”
“I’m so happy to meet you.” Without letting go of him, she pulled him into her office, probably because there were more places to sit in there.
I followed slowly, angry at myself for not preparing myself better for this situation.
“Sit down and tell me everything about yourself. Pretend Sara hasn’t told me anything.” She shot me a look complete with a raised eyebrow. “Because she’s mean and hasn’t told me anything.”
I suddenly knew how Declan must have felt when he’d introduced me to Trevor. He’d dealt with it a lot better than I was.
“I think I’m supposed to get everyone coffee, though,” he said as she dragged him.
“He’s pretending to be me.”
Emilia burst out laughing. “And he thinks that means he’s supposed to get me coffee?”
“Shut up,” I said. “I’ve gotten you coffee before.”
“You’re right. I didn’t mean anything by it.” The glint in her eye diminished the sincerity of the apology. “In fact, why don’t you do it again? Get one for Declan, too.”
I did, if only to escape for a minute. And because I really needed some.
“I take mine black,” Declan called out helpfully.
“Neither of you should get used to this,” I called back.
Thankfully, I could still hear everything they said. By the time I’d filled three cups and doctored mine and Emilia’s up the way we liked, they’d stopped loudly making fun of me and had moved on to Emilia’s brief description of the company and some of what virtual assistants typically do.
Declan stood up and came to help me with the mugs, whispering, “Thank you,” and winking.
For the next half hour, I didn’t say much at all. I was content to listen to them chat and watch how fast and how well they got along.
Emilia hadn’t met anyone I’d dated since high school, and since we’d gone to the same school, we knew all the same guys, and none of them had been worth getting serious with.
Oh shit. Was this serious? Thankfully, neither of them noticed my full-body shiver at the thought. But I couldn’t lie, not even to myself—things were amazing. Declan was incredible, in bed and out. If anyone had ever been too good to be true, it was him. And I couldn’t help but let his optimism overpower my skepticism and allow myself to bask in the easy, laidback way he lived his life.
I’d never known anyone like him, the way he took everything in stride and altered his view accordingly. No prejudice, no doubts, just peace. It was more addictive than any drug I’d ever tried, and a much more enjoyable ride.
A little while later, I told Declan that if he really wanted to be me, he had work to do.
“You know, Declan,” Emilia said, her smile still as bright as it had been the second she’d realized who he was, “you’ve been working so hard lately. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” She winked. “And take your lazy assistant with you.”
“Okay, boss, but only because you’re ordering me to.” He grabbed my hand and dragged me out, barely giving me time to thank her. “It was great to meet you, Emilia.” He didn’t stop until we were on the elevator. “I think my first day at the office went well, don’t you?”
“I’d say you have another fan.” I couldn’t help crossing my fingers that things would go over as smoothly dinner with my parents.
“Why didn’t you answer Emilia’s question about what you’re going to do after you graduate?”
Probably because she’d asked while I was busy overthinking things. “Once it seemed like you two were getting a little too buddy-buddy for my liking, I knew nothing good would come of it, so I stopped listening.”
“Makes sense. But if you’d heard her, what would your answer have been?”
My eyebrow shot up. “Um...I don’t know.”
“What about law school? You said that was your dream when you were younger.”
“Emphasis on when I was younger.”
“Okay, that makes sense. You’re too old now, for sure,” he said, smiling. “Too old for law school, and definitely too old for dreams.”
I opened my mouth to argue, defend my stance against his teasing, but couldn’t think of a rebuttal. How ironic. It had been so long since I’d planned anything further than a week in my future, I’d forgotten how. And dreaming? I’d forgotten how to do that, too.
At least until Declan had come along. Now, I couldn’t go a day without fantasizing about what might be. It was as annoying as shit.
“Did you say something?” I held my hand up to my ear. “I’m too old to hear you.”
26
Sara
I ran for the stairs as soon as I heard the doorbell. Damn it, I’d planned on being ready and waiting for Declan out front so I could go over every last-minute warning I could think of:
Yes, Elaine is my biological mother, and yes, we’re both incredibly ashamed of that fact. No, Timothy is not my real dad, and no, neither of us would want it any other way. Yes, they’re both elitist assholes and, yes, I grew up thinking most people were beneath me. The only difference was that I was brutally cured of that affliction while in high school, while they’re old and still desperately clinging to their bullshit better-than status despite all evidence to the contrary.
Honestly, that I was a total snob hadn’t been an easy realization for me. It was humiliating to remember how cluelessly arrogant I’d been. But meeting Andi and Emilia—two of the most down-to-earth, amazing people in the world—had taught me how unimportant wealth is if all you use it for is to buy respect.
Sadly, while my friends had given me life lessons about selfishness, kindness, and integrity, they hadn’t managed to hammer in enough honesty to overcome my mother’s influence.
I could feel that changing, though. All because of how open Declan was. Hell, I’d almost come clean with him about what had happened to me after only meeting him three times. Emilia, Andi, and I had been friends for years, and they still didn’t know. I wanted to tell them, but I couldn’t stop wondering if it was too late. That I’d blown my chance by pushing them away for so long.
Over the last year, I’d discovered that there were two different types of friends. The first kind—like Andi and Emilia—believed in you and wanted you to be happy. Sounds horrible, right? Wait for it…
With this kind of friend, making a bad decision made them worry and decide they needed to fix you. Even if you couldn’t—or didn’t want to—be fixed. They wouldn’t give up, even if you begged them to, even if you knew you weren’t ready to accept their help or their love.
The other kind—like Carissa, for example—was much simpler. We went out to drown our feelings in alcohol, loud music, and one-night stands. You never had to worry if this type of friend would judge you. Mostly because she’d done
much worse and was planning to do it again just as soon as her hangover was gone. She cared about you but never tried to fix you because that meant you might try to fix her.
Unfortunately, by the time I made it downstairs, Declan was standing in the foyer handing Timothy a bottle of wine. His polite smile morphed into surprise when our eyes met and he mouthed, “Wow.”
My steps slowed as I made my way to him. Timothy being right there quelled my desire to jump into Declan’s arms and kiss him. Instead, he moved the bouquet of white roses he carried into his other arm and kissed me on the cheek.
“Elaine, come out here and meet Declan,” my stepdad called before turning to us. “She’s been in the kitchen for hours.”
“She’s cooking?” That was new. My mom never cooked. She ordered in, went out, or when she was on some health kick, ate those prepackaged, gourmet delivery meals out of biodegradable containers. But actual cooking? Like, food in the oven? Nope, not that I could remember.
“Hope you’re hungry. Elaine has a tendency to overdo things like this.” Timothy led us into the open-concept living room/dining room combo.
“Sounds perfect. Because I’m starved.” Declan leaned close to my ear and whispered, “You look good enough to eat.”
I cleared my throat to cover my laugh and then gestured to the flowers he still carried. “Are those for me?”
“Nope. Your mother gets these, and you get me.” He winked.
“I think I’d rather have the flowers,” I joked.
My mom came out of the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining area, folded her apron neatly, and laid it over the back of a chair.
After saying hello to Declan and thanking him for the flowers, she took them to the wet bar to put them into a vase. While she was there, she asked what everyone wanted to drink and refilled the glass I was sure she’d already refilled a few times this evening. Thankfully, my mom could be the perfect hostess in her sleep. Sometimes I wondered how she’d managed to master all the things in life that didn’t matter—did she take classes, or did it just come naturally?
The four of us sat down in the living room, and I waited for my first date-interrogation since prom night to begin. When Declan took my hand and squeezed, I silently apologized to him for everything he was about to be put through. Although, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t have gotten out of it. I’d given him about fifty of my best excuses to pick from, and he’d refused them all.
Timothy got the ball rolling with a really big shove. “Elaine told me you’re a musician in a band, Declan. Why don’t you tell us more about that?”
I’d never understand why anyone would ask something like that as a question. As if Declan could say, “Because I don’t feel like it.”
But I’d forgotten that Declan probably got asked about the band constantly, and he was used to being interviewed. So, I sat there being uncomfortable for him while he calmly explained how Self Defense got started and what they were doing now.
“And you make money doing that?”
He chuckled at Timothy’s question. “Not enough to retire on, but we do pretty well. Much better than I’d ever imagined we would make as an unsigned band. Plus, along with what we make from the shows, we also get a small percentage of the merchandise and from online clicks and interactions with our fans.”
“You have fans?” my mom asked, dumbfounded.
“Mom,” I whined, feeling defensive. “Of course, they have fans. Tons of them. You have, what?” I asked him. “Two hundred thousand subscribers to your YouTube channel?”
He shifted to face me completely. “Have you been stalking me, Sara?”
“Two hundred thousand?” my mom repeated. “That’s incredible, Declan. I had no idea.”
“Neither did I,” he said, laughing.
“Carissa has followed you guys for almost two years. She showed me all your social media pages and about fifteen Google pages of pictures of you.” I turned to my parents. “Part of his job is to give interviews and do photoshoots.” Halfway through my brag, I remembered that my plan had been to stop my mom from being interested in Declan. But here I was, encouraging the exact opposite, and I didn’t even slow down. I told them about the crowd at the show I’d gone to and how big their tour had been.
By the end, even Timothy looked impressed. In fact, the only person who wasn’t smiling was Declan.
“Sara’s just being nice,” he said, squeezing my hand. “It’s really not that big a deal. Even with online success, there’s a bigger chance of not making it onto the big music charts than there is of showing up on one. Besides—” He stopped. “Is something ringing?”
My mom’s eyes widened, and she jumped up. “It’s the timer!” She ran toward the kitchen.
“Can I help with anything?” Declan was up before I could stop him, so I followed him following her, and we all ended up in a kitchen nobody but our housekeeper, Beatrice, ever used. It was expansive, built for entertaining, so the island was a huge slab of granite where caterers could set out their stuff and still have enough room for plates or serving trays to rest until they were ready to go.
My mom came rushing out from the walk-in pantry and started opening and closing each cabinet or drawer one by one.
“What are you looking for, Mom?”
“An oven thingy. To take the chicken out.”
Oh great. Her first experiment in cooking, and she picked the meat most likely to kill us all—or at least give us food poisoning. Good thing this house had five bathrooms.
“Damn it,” she mumbled. “How am I supposed to get it out of the oven? With a fireplace poker?”
I glanced at Declan to see him biting his lower lip to keep from smiling. “There’s a…um…” He pointed at an open cubby under the counter next to the sink, right behind my mom. Matching towels were rolled up in a small basket.
She didn’t hear him, so he went around the island, squeezed behind her, and grabbed two of the towels.
“I can take it out for you.” He looked at the double oven. “Which one is it?”
“Bless your heart, Declan. Thank you. Chicken is in that one.” She pointed to the lower oven. “And the…um…vegetables are in the other.”
I got it as soon as she stumbled over the word—Beatrice had done all the prep work and stuck them in the oven before she went home for the day and just in time for my mom to take all the credit. Thank God.
“What kind of veggies did you make, Mom?”
She shot a glare at me before turning back to Declan and directing him to put the chicken down on the counter. “Don’t worry, hon. It’s one of your favorites.”
Well, that solidified things—my mom had no idea what vegetables I did and didn’t like. But Beatrice did, so at least it wasn’t eggplant—something that had neither the shape, flavor, or color of an egg and tasted like an oily sponge.
Declan and I each carried a dish into the dining room while Mom opened the bottle of wine Declan had brought and poured it into four glasses. Why four? Timothy only drank the hard stuff—never wine.
“Declan, would you mind grabbing the large serving utensils?” my mom asked. “I think I left them on the island. Or they might still be in the drawer next to the stove.”
“Of course.”
He’d already gone through the door when I counted the place settings.
“Who’s the fifth, Mom?” I asked, not holding back on the suspicious tone.
As if on cue, a voice called out from the foyer. “I hope you made enough food for a small army, ’cause I’m starving.”
Oh shit. “Please tell me you didn’t invite him, Mom.”
“This is his home, too, Sara. He has the same right to be here as you do.”
“And because tonight isn’t stressful enough, you thought you’d turn it into a family reunion?”
“Just think of your stepbrother as another mouth to fill any awkward silences,” she said, smiling. “Or to take the pressure off Declan if my interrogation goes on too long, sweeti
e.” Aaand if I’d ever doubted my mom had a sense of humor, that was proof I should never doubt myself again.
No amount of bad jokes could cover the awkwardness of sitting at a table with Declan, my parents, and the world’s most vile stepbrother. Speak of the devil…
“Hey, sis. Long time, no see.”
I could tell Cal had just done a few lines—probably off the dashboard of his car in the driveway. Somehow, my mom had never wondered why Cal's allergies were just as bad in the winter as they were when the flowers started blooming and why no allergy medication ever worked for him. If Timothy knew the truth, he’d never mentioned it or even given his son a doubtful look.
“Smells great, Mom.”
I hated when he called her Mom. He’d started doing it as soon as our parents got married, and it had annoyed me even then. My real father had left before I could speak, but I would never call anyone else Dad. From the very beginning, Cal knew how to manipulate her—call her Mom, side with her against his father on the little shit so she’d give him whatever he wanted. Or let him get away with whatever he wanted. Or believe him over her own daughter.
Cal shook his dad’s hand and kissed my mom’s cheek. Then, for some unknown reason, he started walking toward me.
Thankfully, he froze as soon as he saw Declan step through the kitchen doorway holding a serving fork in one hand and a huge knife in the other.
27
Declan
“Wow, sis. Really?” Cal turned his back to his parents, so only Sara and I could see his lips when he mouthed, “You’re supposed to leave garbage on the curb, not invite it in for dinner.”
The serving utensils clanged together as they hit the table. A second later, I was next to Sara, ready to step in front of her if the prick got too close. “Good to see you again.”
Cal was her stepbrother. That created a lot of unanswered questions I’d have to ask her about. But not right now. Sara’s look of disgust was the same as the one she’d had the first time I met him.
Immaterial Defense: Once and Forever #4 Page 19