Chapter Eighteen
Chapter 18
DECLAN
FOUR DAYS REMAINING.
I can’t stop gazing at my mystery woman as she eats dinner across the table. The restaurant is a low rabble around us because all I can focus on is her. The candlelight flickers across her face, casting shadows that only highlight her beauty.
Of course, my eyes keep dipping to that low V on her dress. She picked it out earlier—reluctantly—when I told her I wanted to buy her a dress for our date. Even though she protested like always, she spent a few hours trying on different styles, as if she wanted to pick the right one.
She did. She’s a vision in deep blue silk, and I’m mesmerized by every movement she makes.
I don’t seem to be the only one who is distracted; her eyes keep scanning my suit. Seems I made a good outfit pick as well.
She chews a bite of her salmon, then sips her Merlot, her eyes surveying my plate. “You haven’t eaten much. Is the lobster bad?”
I focus on her generous cleavage again. She’s not wearing a bra and I’m picturing the way my hands are going to slip into that V later, parting the fabric to reveal her tits. I’m thinking I might fasten her hands behind her back again, giving myself complete, unrestricted access.
Smirking to myself about the fun we’ll have soon, I sip my wine. “No, the food here is delicious. Just saving room for dessert.”
Her bottom lip puckers as her brows lower in thought. “Which dessert? I’ve been eyeing the crème br?lée at the next table.”
I grin against the rim of my glass at her innocent reaction. It’s amusing because she’s anything but innocent in bed. “Oh, just something sweet that’ll drip down my chin and make a mess.”
She gives me an almost disgusted look, half of her top lip twitching as if pulled by a string. “What dessert is—” Her beautiful cheeks turn crimson as her eyes become delicate saucers when she realizes I’m not talking about food. Lowering her head, she whispers, “Declan,” like everyone around us is suddenly staring.
The way her teeth have captured her bottom lip, the way she shifts in her chair, shows that my words had the intended effect.
I’m enjoying her reaction too much and want to push a little, so I say, “I’m tempted to crawl under this table and have my dessert now.”
Her voice lifts. “Oh my god, I would die of embarrassment.”
“As long as I get you to come first.”
Her sudden laugh is loud and robust, so she covers her mouth, giggling to herself. I join in her laughter, letting it shake my shoulders before another sip of wine.
When she’s done giggling, she leans forward, her eyes dancing with a lightness this date has brought us both.
“What?” I ask, because she’s staring at me.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you laugh like that before. I like it.”
It may be my turn to blush because my cheeks are warm. But she’s right; I don’t remember when I’ve laughed so freely. Likely years.
It’s this woman across the table—being with her smoothes some of my jagged edges. I only crave more of her, all of her.
I need her to be mine.
Shifting focus to my food, I take a few bites, chewing slowly as thoughts circulate. I crave her in a way I never thought I’d crave a woman again. Tiffany left a deep chasm I’ve been lost in for so many years. And I swore off all relationships, not wanting to fail someone so horribly ever again.
Then my mystery woman comes along and I find myself with new thoughts about my future. A future that could include her. A future where my evenings aren’t consumed with work, casual hookups, or drinking and wandering the labyrinth of my empty home.
I set my fork down and wipe my mouth roughly with a cloth napkin. What the hell am I thinking? I can’t allow myself to have such a…meaningful future.
My life is designed the way it is for a reason—less heartache, less opportunity to fail someone, fail at keeping them safe…even from themselves.
Four days. She can’t be mine because I only get her for a few remaining days.
But I need something; if she can’t fully be mine, I at least need a few pieces.
“So,” I say, “tell me more about your grandfather. He sounded like a caring man.”
My words are a mistake because her body instantly seizes up, the lightness fading from her gaze. With shoulders that are high and almost touching her ears, she plays with her silver locket. “I…I know we shared some things last night, but I really prefer not to talk about my past.”
My walls raise in reaction to hers, though I still crave to have a few pieces of her to take with me when our trip ends. “You’re right. I apologize for bringing it up. How about this—what do you love about painting?”
Her eyes are unfocused as she twirls her locket.
I try to give her a little nudge by adding, “Besides, we need something to talk about. We’ve already exhausted the topic of which season of CSI was the best.”
Some of that lightness returns and her shoulders lower. “Well, painting for me is…almost like breathing, I guess. When I’m in front of a canvas, I feel like my real self again. It’s how I cope, how I process my emotions. The way my parents treated me…I just needed an outlet, so I started drawing when I was young. In high school, there was an art teacher who…” She releases a tight sigh while shaking her head. “How do you always get me into talking about my past?”
“Maybe you really want to tell someone. And I want to listen.”
My words seem to disturb her—her shoulders curve and tighten again, making her collarbone pronounced, and her forehead becomes a valley of ridges, like she’s bracing for a blow.
I search my mind for a new topic to put her at ease; we might talk about spin-offs for CSI since we share a common interest in that show.
Before I can speak, she shakes her head like deciding something—or surrendering to something—and says, “My, uh, art teacher encouraged me to try different media. She was really supportive and brought in extra supplies just for me. After trying a lot of things—textiles, pastels, clay, acrylics—I discovered I loved how watercolor isn’t something you can tame.”
I watch as her spine slowly straightens, and her lips soften into a smile as she talks. Her eyes ignite, something fierce burning in their depths. It’s the same energy I observed when she was painting me. She comes alive when talking about art.
But she doesn’t continue, so I lean back in my chair, spread my legs out, and swirl my wine. “Tell me more than that. You’ve got me curious.”
She offers a tiny smirk. “Well, when you make a mistake with watercolor, it’s less forgiving. The colors are transparent, so everything underneath informs the top layer. Other types of paint can be covered up. You can take an acrylic painting, for example, cover the entire image with white, and no one will ever see what’s underneath. Watercolor always shows what’s underneath. I like its honesty.” She fiddles with her napkin. “But…I’m also not very good. It takes a lot of skill to use it correctly and the things I paint aren’t really ‘fine art.’ My teachers tell me I’m not reaching the intellectual levels true art achieves. They say my colors are muddied.”
A primal flare ignites in my chest; I can’t stand the thought of someone speaking ill of my mystery woman. “They’re idiots,” I say in a biting tone. “Your work could easily be in a museum or at auction. The depth of emotion, the insight…it’s extraordinary.”
A blush creeps up her neck, and she ducks her head. “So, um, why did you get into boxing?”
The corners of my lips tighten. Why does my mystery woman seem to hate praise? She deserves it.
But I go along with the topic change. Though…she picked a difficult subject. The truth is complex, rooted in a childhood of emotional neglect. I was an only child. My mother died when I was young, leaving me with a distant, workaholic father. I left before finishing senior year of high school, figuring I could get my GED later. I had been spending time at a boxing gym, enjoying the physical release, and a trainer there said I had potential. So I went along and let him train me. I didn’t have any life goals to speak of; I simply wanted to be away from my father and start a life of my own.
My father didn’t end up caring about my departure. We kept in touch for a few years. He came to my wedding later on, then he faded. He eventually passed away from cancer, and when I attended the funeral, I realized I really knew nothing about the man.
Sienna is waiting for my response, picking at her food. I know she doesn’t like delving into the past, and a part of me understands. The more we share, the harder it will be to let go when our time is up.
Even if, deep down, I know it’s already too late for me.
“I needed an escape,” I say finally, opting for a simpler version of the truth. “I loved the thrill of training, the satisfaction of winning. It made me feel powerful at a time when I didn’t have much control over my life. Dominating opponents was intoxicating.”
She nods. “And why did you stop—” she begins, then catches herself. “Uh, never mind. That’s probably telling me too much.”
She’s right. I stopped because of Tiffany’s mental health, and once we go deeper down that rabbit hole, my mystery woman will know the most important parts of me; primarily, how I’m a failure.
I know she’s already leaving when our time is up, but if there’s any chance she might stay, knowing my darkest secrets will make her run, regardless.
Not talking about our pasts…it’s for the best.
We lapse into silence. The only sounds are the clink of silverware against plates around us and the murmurs of nearby conversations. I watch her, noting the way her eyes dart around the table like she’s wrestling with something internally. It’s a push and pull I’ve become familiar with—one moment she’s open, the next closed off and distant.
I think back to yesterday, to the way we held each other. The comfort she offered was unlike anything I’ve experienced. Most people who meet me already know about Tiffany, thanks to all the fucking news articles. So the women I’m with treat me like a lost puppy looking for shelter.
That pity pisses me off.
But this woman across the table, she seems to understand, though she doesn’t yet know the full story. She hasn’t pitied me or treated me like a wounded bird needing to be mended. She’s simply been…here.
Like she understands that life’s cruelty is a given; all we can do is desperately cling to each other, hoping to survive.
But we each still have our walls. We’re both fighting against the current, trying to keep our heads above water even as we’re drawn deeper into whatever this is between us.
Realizing we both need a reprieve, I decide to steer us back to safer waters. “So, CSI: Cyber. Did you waste your time watching it?”
My unexpected comment earns me a laugh, and she’s looking more comfortable again.
We spend the rest of dinner on lighter topics, then she enjoys some of that crème br?lée. Afterward, we walk along the beach. The sound of the waves and the warmth of her beside me create a sense of peace I wish I could hold on to.
Back in our suite, I finally get to enjoy my dessert, tying her hands as I had envisioned. I make her leave the dress on as she comes all over my mouth. Then I fuck her—there’s something I enjoy about dirtying expensive garments with sex. And as I pound her against the wall, tearing a slit in her dress while doing so, I imagine what it would be like if she were truly mine, if I could wake up to her smile every morning, fall asleep to the sound of her earth-shattering snores every night.
It’s a future I crave, yet I’m terrified of pursuing. I might fail her again, like I failed Tiffany.
My mystery woman deserves better than that.