Pulling on my figurative big girl panties, I galloped down the stairs to find my grandparents eating breakfast and reading the newspaper.
“Well, don’t you look nice today,” my grandma remarked, looking up from her paper and taking in my outfit.
I didn’t think I was dressed any differently than normal, but when my grandpa turned his head and whistled, I was forced to do a double-take. Standing in front of the only full length mirror in the apartment, I tried to see what they saw. I’d thrown on a soft, draped black crew neck t-shirt topped by a cream cable knit cardigan. Around my neck I’d wrapped a paisley patterned pashmina and my ears were the same vintage pearl studs I’d worn every day for the past three years. My dark skinny jeans, a staple of my wardrobe, were tucked into knee-high brown leather boots.
“I don’t see it,” I muttered, confused by all their fuss.
“You did something different with your hair,” my gramps pointed out when I returned, patting his own balding head.
“And your makeup,” my grandma added, circling a hand in front of her face.
I’d blown my hair dry and used a straightening iron to give it a few beachy waves, something I hadn’t done since I’d been here, and yes, I’d put on a little bit of makeup, but nothing fancy.
But then I understood. It’d been awhile since they’d seen me looking the way I normally did when I wasn’t here.
After only two days of working downstairs, I’d realized any eye shadow or mascara I wore made me look like a deranged raccoon by the end of the night, so I’d stopped wearing makeup altogether. After washing away the filth and stink of the pub each night, I’d taken to braiding my hair and letting it air dry into waves that I’d toss into a high bun or ponytail the following day.
To hear their compliments now, you’d think I’d gone all out—which I hadn’t. I just hoped Declan wouldn’t jump to the same conclusion.
“Good morning,” he greeted, knocking on the door jamb before popping his head through the opening.
“Come on in,” my grandpa answered, standing to welcome him.
Declan crossed the room and clasped my grandpa’s hand before kissing my grandma on the cheek.
“Do you want a cup of tea or some porridge?” she asked, happy at the prospect of him joining them for breakfast.
“No, thank you, Maureen. Not this morning. Next time though?”
Seeing how easily Declan slotted into their morning routine brought on a twinge of envy. It was an ugly response, but it made me feel like an interloper. But when Declan turned to me, I forgot all about those dark, sour thoughts.
“Good morning.” He notched his head to the side, his piercing eyes taking me in from head to toe. Then, a few heartbeats later, his lips hitched in a shy, tentative smile. “You ready to go?”
Suddenly all the nerves I’d experienced earlier came barreling back. Pushing them down with a strong shove, I said, “Good morning to you too. Just let me grab my purse and coat.”
When I made my way back to the kitchen, Declan was chatting with my family like it was no big deal.
Maybe because it’s not, I reminded myself. You’re the only one being an idiot about this.
Sometimes I didn’t know whether I hated that voice or if I thought she was the smartest, most rational part of me. What that said about me probably warranted more exploration, but at the moment the warring factions of my brain were the least of my concerns.
I had a non-date with the hottest man on the planet to get through first.
“Okay, let’s get this over with.”
Was there anything more unsettling than being on a first date? If there was, I couldn’t think what it was.
Get it together Newport. This. Is. Not. A. Date.
So far we’d discussed the uncharacteristically fine weather Ireland was having, shared geographical observations on the drive into Dublin, and exhausted all other basic pleasantries and were now both quiet as we stared into our coffee mugs. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one of those comfortable silences people tell you they find solace in. Nope. This was tense, discomfiting … the exact opposite of comfortable.
I cleared my throat, thinking to say something witty about said silence but when I went to speak, my mind was a blank, empty thing. Declan looked at me expectantly but I sat there like an imbecilic mute and shook my head.
“Relax,” he coaxed, reaching across the table as if to place his hand on top of mine, before stopping himself and pulling back.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, staring at his hand resting on the stained Formica.
Taking in another breath and counting to three, I glanced back up. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous. You’d think I’d never been alone with a man before.”
I let out a small, self-deprecating laugh.
I was a 26-year-old woman, not some naïve 16-year-old girl on her first date with the captain of the football team. Declan wasn’t the first man I’d spent time with, nor would he be the last. And—again—this wasn’t a date. I had absolutely nothing to be anxious about.
“Tell me more about how I make you nervous,” he responded, devilry in his words.
“Oh shut it. You probably make all women nervous.”
He shrugged his shoulder as if to say, “Yeah, but what are you gonna do?” and I wondered what it would be like to be so utterly confident in my sex appeal.
Objectively, I knew I was an attractive woman and I had a number of qualities that would make me a good catch. Someday, eventually. But basically, like most women, I was filled with a lot of self-doubt. I wished I could borrow a bit of his swagger for just a little while.
“What’s it like?” I asked. “Knowing that no matter what room you walk into, you’re the most wanted person there? Knowing, without a doubt, you have the power to bring women to their knees?”
Had I not been watching him so closely, I might have missed it when his jaw tightened. He didn’t like the question, but I didn’t know why. He’d been strangely forthcoming about women throwing themselves at him, so why was he holding back now?
“As to that that … it’s sometimes … well, I guess you could say it’s both good and bad,” he answered, gripping his coffee mug tight.
“How so?”
“It’s just that I don’t have to try very hard, you know?”
“I don’t,” I smiled, ruefully. “But go on.”
His eyes sought mine before he continued. “When you spend so much of your life focused on one thing, spending all your waking hours training for it and pursuing it, it can be nice when other things come easy to you. There are nights I like knowing that if I want … company, let’s call it … it’s there for the taking. I can walk into a room and take my pick. I don’t have to work for it. That can be easy, but …” His voice tailed off and he gripped the back of his neck.
“But?” I asked quietly, both wanting to hear the rest of it and wishing we’d never gone down this track.
On the one hand, I was genuinely curious to know what it was like being Declan O’Shaughnessy, Famous Rugby Star. And the “but” he’d spoken had me eager to learn the hidden depths of him. My grandfather didn’t suffer fools gladly so there had to be more to Declan than meets the eye.
“But it can be lonely too.”
“How so?” I asked.
I couldn’t imagine someone like him ever being lonely, but his admission also struck a chord since I’d come to the same conclusion about my own life just that morning. But it was easy to understand how I’d become isolated after years wandering the globe solo. The notion that someone like Declan, with such strong roots and a foundation in the community, would feel the same was depressing.
“How can I say this in a way that’ll make sense?” he asked.
I could see he was working through how to share the realities of his life with someone who had never been in his shoes. Since I’d had to do the same many times myself, I remained quiet and let him process his thoughts.
Finally, he said, “I’m never alon
e so maybe ‘lonely’ isn’t the right word, but the thing is, none of them know me.”
I didn’t know who the ‘them’ in this scenario was and that troubled me. Was he talking about the people I assumed were his friends, or the women he spent his nights with?
“Sometimes I’m not even sure I know myself,” he added on a near whisper.
When he realized he’d spoken aloud, his eyes flashed with distress and he studied my face, assessing my reaction.
“I spend a lot of time alone,” I confessed, wanting to make him feel less awkward, “so I have a hard time forming attachments with others.”
I tore at the napkin in my hands. “And when you spend so much time in your own head, the noise the rest of the world makes can be overwhelming. And because my life is so transitory, I find connecting with people—even those who’ve had similar experiences—not always worth the effort.”
“Noise …” he echoed, testing it out. “Yeah, it’s all just noise sometimes.”
He shook his head slowly, as if he was absorbing this new fact and molding it to his own experiences.
“Most of the time,” he continued, “they only want a piece of the person they think I am, not who I actually am. Or the person I want to be.”
Was it weird to have gone from an uneasy silence to such a deep and revealing conversation in a matter of minutes? Probably. Especially since I never expected to be sharing my innermost thoughts with him. Maybe it was because I never thought he’d be the person I opened up to, that I could.
“I can understand that, but obviously to a much smaller degree,” I agreed. “I mean, I don’t have men clamoring after me—” he smirked, and I chuckled awkwardly at the look of disbelief on his face “—but because of my blog people can develop a pre-conceived notion of who I am. When I meet readers, or even other bloggers, they’ve already formed an opinion about who I am.”
I took another drink of my cooling coffee, self-conscious over what I’d revealed. In wanting to make Declan more comfortable about opening up to me, I’d given voice to something I’d struggled with for the last several months … almost to the point where I’d thought about closing down the blog completely.
We fell quiet for a spell, lost in our own thoughts.
“Do you want to get out here, maybe just go for a walk?”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I answered, drinking down the rest of my coffee and setting the mug on the table.
Despite my “no touching” rule, Declan rested his palm against the small of my back as he guided me out of the cafe. Out on the street, he moved to my right and I fell in step next to him.
“I read your blog, you know.”
“You might’ve mentioned that,” I answered, remembering how he’d persuaded me to spend today with him by bringing up my advertisers’ expectations.
“Yeah, I guess I did.” He snickered, then grew serious. “The thing is, I might be one of those people who formed an impression of who you are based on how and what you write.”
Knowing he’d followed my life seemed more relevant now than it had before. Now that he knew I struggled with that side of myself, I wondered who he thought I was, deep down inside.
“Do you mind me asking what your impression of me was?”
I pulled my gloves out of my purse and concentrated on putting them on so I didn’t have to look at him when he answered.
“Cian didn’t tell you?”
My head shot up. “Cian?”
He stopped walking and I slowed my steps and turned to face him. I watched him, trying to understand why he’d asked as he looked everywhere but at me.
“It’s just that Cian and I had a similar conversation. About you,” he added, in case I hadn’t comprehended his meaning.
Well isn’t that interesting? I thought.
“And what, precisely, did this conversation entail?”
Declan dropped his head forward and gripped the back of his neck. Was it strange that after knowing him for such a short amount of time, I could read his body language so well? Much like the shoulder shrug I’d given him shit about a couple of weeks ago, he only did this when he was uncomfortable or embarrassed. He’d done it quite a few times this morning.
“We were … ehm …” He looked to the left of my face, over my shoulder, avoiding eye contact again.
With a self-deprecating laugh to ease some of the tension, I said, “If you don’t spit it out, I’m only going to imagine what you said and I warn you, I have a very active imagination.”
On a dime, his whole demeanor changed. “I do, too.”
A sly grin broke out across his handsome face.
“Oh my god!” I exclaimed. “You really can’t turn it off, can you?”
His laughter mingled with mine. “Sorry. It’s kind of second nature. I really can’t help it.” And then, hopefully, “Some people find it charming.”
“I’m sure they do,” I replied, shifting my feet to try and warm up. The sun was shining for once but it was bitterly cold and windy. “You’re incorrigible.”
“You might have said that a time or two,” he answered. “Let’s get moving to warm you up. We’re almost to our second stop.”
We walked half a block or so in companionable silence, weaving our way through the growing throngs of tourists pouring out onto the streets.
“You never answered my question,” I reminded him as we veered in opposite directions around a middle-aged couple in matching University of Indiana sweatshirts.
“I know,” he smirked when we came back together. “I was hoping you’d forgotten.”
“Well, I haven’t, so you better just tell me or I’m going to keep harassing you. I would tell you how determined I can be when I want something, but I know you’d just turn my statement into some sort of sexual double entendre.”
I pointed my finger and rested it against his shoulder. “Just so you know, I’m onto you.”
He groaned, then laughed which is how I realized I’d gone and done it again. Laughing myself, I shoved him off the curb.
“What?” he asked. “You’re making it too easy. It’s like you’re not even trying.”
He shook his head in mock chagrin and in response, I shot him a faux dirty look, followed by a shy smile. Truth be told, I secretly loved this sort of silly, flirty banter and had missed having someone to do it with.
Still, I was incredibly curious about this conversation he and Cian had had.
“No more stalling or trying to distract me with innuendo. Why were you and Cian talking about me?”
Studiously, Declan watched his feet for a few steps before answering. On a sigh he said, “You know he likes you, right?”
Ugh, not this again.
“I know he thinks he does.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “Right, well, that was one part of our conversation. He tried to tell me I needed to stay away from you and when I explained why that wasn’t going to happen, he accused me of knowing nothing about you.”
His voice dropped and he mumbled, almost as an afterthought, “He thinks he knows you better than I ever could.”
Wow.
When Cian had tried to warn me off Declan it never occurred to me he’d tell his best friend to stay away from me as well. I felt like a bright red fire hydrant that had been pissed all over by a rather large dog looking to mark his territory and I didn’t like it one bit.
As we passed through Merrion Square, despite the cold, he led me to a nearby bench where we sat, side by side, a handful of inches separating our bodies. Despite that small distance, I was as aware of him as if we were touching.
He swiveled to face me, his right arm resting on the back of the bench. “To answer your earlier question, I’ve been reading your blog for years, and your articles before you even had the blog, and like you said earlier, people start to feel like they know who you are, what you’re like.”
I tried to interrupt, to explain people only wanted to know about the fun, happy side of what I did, but he stoppe
d me with a finger to my lips. His light touch, completely innocent, had me sucking in a breath. His eyes flashed and dropped to where his finger rested against my mouth. For a brief moment I saw just how badly Declan wanted me and my stomach clenched in yearning, because … I wanted him too.
Finally, tearing his eyes from my mouth and pulling his finger away with a small caress, he spoke while I tried to recover my equilibrium.
“But unlike them, I have the advantage of being close with certain members of your family who talk about you incessantly. They talk about the real Sophie. And I know you think you keep her hidden, but I see that too, and I read between the lines. Who you are is as much about what you don’t say as what you do.”
Shocked at his insight, I tried to deny it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His eyes flicked between mine for a few moments, and I stared as he seemed to reach some sort of decision.
He swallowed and said, “Your only real friend is Katie and you love her like a sister. You can’t stand that prat Kevin who sometimes goes with you on your trips. You hated Cambodia but loved Columbia.”
He stopped for a couple of seconds while he pulled more insights from his memory, and then jumped back in to telling me things I knew about myself but had never said out loud before.
“Your idea of hell is being trapped at an all-inclusive resort filled with kids—by the way, I don’t think you like kids all that much—and your idea of heaven is any trip where you’re surrounded by history and good food. If I had to say, I’d pick Venice as your favorite place you’ve been in the last two years. Or that Eagle Harbour place; you looked happy there. You weren’t happy in Edinburgh.”
My eyes filled with tears and I blinked them back, but not before he saw.
His voice gentling, he continued. “You used to drink wine, but you don’t anymore.”
A quick, dark scowl marred his features, but then he pushed it away with a shake of his head.
“What else?” he asked, brightening. “Blue is your favorite color, but not royal blue or dark blue … a really deep blue.”
Trying Sophie: A Dublin Rugby Romance Page 17