Chapter Thirteen
Chapter 13
SIENNA
I BUNDLE DECLAN’S SATIN SHEETS around my body, rolling until I’m completely cocooned. His wonderful scent envelopes me—citrus, sandalwood, sweat. It’s soothing and intoxicating, and I can’t get enough. Burying my face in his pillow, I breathe it all in while the early morning light warms my shoulders.
Then I make fists and groan loudly into the pillow. What the fuck am I doing?
I’ve barricaded myself in his room for the past 24 hours; I can’t stay in here forever. Eventually, I need to leave and face the man in the living room.
Declan has been surprisingly patient about my hibernation. He hasn’t tried to kick me out, hasn’t said anything really. He’s been bringing me room service, checking in periodically with light taps on the door, asking, “Need anything?”
And if I’m feeling too frozen and guilty to answer, he simply taps gently again and repeats the question, only leaving once I give some muffled response. He hasn’t sounded angry or annoyed. Just lets me know he’s here.
It’s sweet, but every time I realize he’s hovering outside the door, making sure I’m okay, I only feel shittier.
To top it all off, I was a very nosey bitch yesterday.
I spent hours exploring every nook and cranny of his room, learning the little details that make up the man who has so thoroughly captivated me.
His closet is organized, filled with expensive suits and a few gym clothes. I ran my fingers along the fine fabrics, imagining how they would feel against my skin.
I wore one of his jackets to bed, loving the safety it wrapped me in.
Then I made a few jabs at his punching bag in the corner, which looked worn. I wondered, is it his personal bag he stows on his jet? I imagined when he might punch it—when he’s frustrated after a long day, looking for a quick workout on a Sunday morning, out of boredom.
His watch was resting on his nightstand, facing the window and catching the light. I slipped it onto my wrist, the gold band too large for me. But I loved the feeling of wearing something that belonged to him, something he carries with him everywhere.
In the bathroom, I examined his toiletries, the high-end products that contribute to his gorgeous appearance. I put a dab of his hair gel in my palm; misted his cologne along my neck, the scent mingling with my own in a way that felt intimate and erotic.
Now, this morning, I’ve been rolling around in his bed, avoiding the fact that I need to fucking leave. I know I owe him an explanation, or at least an attempt at one. I just don’t understand why it’s been so difficult to open the door.
Every time I’ve reached for the knob, thinking of facing the questions he must have, I’m gripped by a paralyzing panic. My heart races, my body shakes, and a cold sweat breaks out along my skin. So I retreat back to the bed, back to his scent, to safety, until the fear subsides.
Now the sun is rising on Day 3 in Hawaii. I’m determined to face him—his frustration, disappointment, confusion…all of it. I know we agreed to no attachments, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve snuck away in the middle of the night. I essentially ‘hit it and quit it’ so I deserve any wrath he wants to give.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and search my brain for a mantra that might help. I come up with: I am not my past. I am not my mistakes. I am worthy of love and happiness. But that’s too hard to swallow; I feel like a liar every time I say it. So I switch to: “Fear is the path to the Dark Side.”
It’s a quote from Yoda, but it somehow fits. Margaret is my dark side, and I don’t want to become her again.
Sienna is a boss bitch who accepts responsibility.
It’s time to be a boss.
I dress in a pair of clean purple leggings and a sweater—I’ve already worn the two T-shirts I brought. Slowly, tentatively, I walk to the door, my legs shaky but holding me up. My hand hovers over the handle and I feel my heart picking up speed.
Whatever. I’m going to do this, even if I step out into the living room with a full-blown panic attack.
An intense feeling of doom and dread washes over me—like I’m about to drop dead—but I turn the knob and fling the door open. Feeling flushed and shaky, I glance around the empty room, finally noticing Declan sitting on the patio. He hasn’t noticed me yet, though; I don’t think. His back is facing me as he gazes out at the ocean.
I need to calm my racing heart and my trembling body, so I take my time to just breathe slowly and deeply, staring at the back of his messy, dark hair. When my heart feels steady enough, the panic only a strong nervousness now, I walk through the living room.
Before I can even try to speak or step through the open doorway to the patio, Declan says in his deep voice, “Good morning.” He doesn’t turn around, but continues speaking. “I just ordered room service. Would you like to join me for breakfast?”
I can’t see his expression, but his tone doesn’t sound angry. It’s a little flat, but not disappointed or upset.
Maybe he’s unaffected by me sneaking away in the night? That thought actually doesn’t relieve me the way it should.
He doesn’t care if I leave?
God, stop being so needy.
“Okay,” I whisper, not even sure if he heard me.
I sit beside him at the square table so I can gaze out at the ocean, sunlight hitting my face. I glance over. Declan is wearing a white tank top, showing off his muscular arms, and a pair of boxer-briefs, showing off those muscular, hairy legs. Since I’ve been holding his clothes hostage, I think he’s been wearing that outfit this entire time.
He also looks tired—puffy, bloodshot eyes that need rest.
He finally glances back. Our eyes lock and his intense blue gaze sends a spark up my spine, like it often does. But still, no anger or irritation on his face. He actually gives me a soft smile.
He’s smiling.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile, the first time he’s looked anywhere close to happy. The sight steals my breath for a moment.
Then his gaze drops to my sweater, his eyes widening slightly. Next, his brows lower into a heavy concern, so I glance at myself, wondering if there’s some giant stain on my top. But no, just a plain maroon sweater.
He looks away but still seems very worried. “Are you…cold?”
“No.”
The fractured lines on his face deepen, like his skin is clay and someone is pushing their thumbs throughout it.
What’s wrong with my sweater? It’s like he hates it.
I try to give him more info in case that will help. “I, well…I stupidly packed a lot of sweaters by mistake. I’m used to San Francisco weather, so I didn’t think about Hawaii being so warm. I’ve already gone through the two T-shirts I brought. Might have to cut the sleeves off of this if it gets hotter today.”
His forehead softens, but not the tension around his eyes. “Why don’t you roll the sleeves up? For now.”
“Uh…sure. I guess I could.” I don’t think the sleeves will stay above my elbows, since the sweater is baggy, but I do my best to fold and scrunch the fabric until my forearms are exposed.
Declan studies the newly exposed areas of my skin, the tension in his expression finally fading.
So strange.
His attention returns to the ocean. “We’ll go shopping today, so you can get new clothes.” I open my mouth to protest, but he stops me with a firm stare. “You agreed not to argue about how I want to spend my money.”
Pressing my lips together, I pick at the hem of my sweater. He’s right—I did agree. That doesn’t mean I deserve him buying me things. Even if he’s rich and a fifty-dollar top is like pennies to him…I don’t deserve such treatment.
“Fine,” I say. “We’ll go shopping.” I stare at my feet, two words heavy on my tongue. Two words I’ve been needing to tell him. “I’m sorry.”
I hope he understands that I’m apologizing for hiding in his room, for everything.
He only gazes at the ocean, his eyes flitting to a bird that lands on the patio railing. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Someone knocks, so Declan gets up to answer. He returns with a cart of food, setting a silver serving plate in front of me. We eat our waffles and poached eggs in silence.
Not complete silence—there are waves crashing against the shore and birds chirping, our forks and knives scraping against ceramic plates.
And cycling through my head, all the reasons he’s wrong.