Chapter Twenty-six
‘I’m sorry, what?’ I say.
‘My mother wrote the dedication,’ Declan repeats, and the words are still no clearer than they were two seconds ago. He keeps walking, but when he realises that I’ve stopped he pauses a few steps away.
He rubs a hand through his hair and looks out across the bush.
‘I . . .’ he starts, then he tucks a hand in his pocket and pulls it out again, like he’s not quite sure what to do with his body.
It’s the same way he looks sometimes before he speaks in front of the crowds, and even though I have no idea what he’s talking about and I still feel stupid after last night it cracks something inside me.
I don’t want him to feel like that.
‘Should we walk again?’ I say.
His eyes cut to me and there’s an honest gratitude in them, but he still shakes his head.
‘No, it’s fine,’ he says. ‘This is fine.’ He takes a breath, looking at the trees. The road is silent, stretching out in either direction.
‘I don’t . . . like people,’ Declan begins finally, and his voice is a little dry, a little raw and a little self-deprecating. ‘I mean, I don’t dislike people,’ he adds. ‘I am doing a terrible job explaining this.’
I don’t move. I’m not sure I’m breathing.
‘Being on stage, the events, the interviews . . . I know it’s all part of the job. I’m lucky to be able to do it.’ He looks at the road. ‘And I hate it. Or rather, more accurately, I find it soul-destroyingly terrifying.’
His admission is unsurprising, given what Bri told me yesterday and what I’d already gathered myself. But it’s difficult to reconcile it with the Declan who is so settled once he gets started on stage.
‘How do you do it?’ I ask. ‘How do you make yourself stand up in front of people?’
‘It helps when I’m passionate about something,’ he says, meeting my eyes, and a thread of want pulses in my stomach. I push it down. ‘It also helps when someone distracts me beforehand,’ he adds softly. ‘I never said thank you,’ he said, ‘for the first two events.’
‘Is that a thank you?’ I say, trying for levity.
‘That’s a thank you,’ says Declan. He doesn’t laugh, his eyes unwavering on mine.
I clear my throat. ‘So your mother wrote the dedication.’
Declan sighs, finally breaking eye contact. ‘She reads romance,’ he says, like that explains everything.
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing,’ says Declan emphatically. ‘It’s just .
. . with my first book, I really didn’t do any publicity.
I hated the idea of putting it out there.
Although, again, I realise it’s part of the job.
But Mum loved the idea of going into her local bookshop and picking up a signed copy.
She was begging me to go in and sign books for weeks. ’
I stare at him in horror, bile in my throat. His mum wanted a signed copy of his book and I sent them all back and then basically told him his book was crap. I cover my face with my hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, my voice only mostly muffled by my hands.
But, just when I’m about to sink into the ground in mortification, he takes a step closer.
‘Don’t,’ he says, his voice fierce. ‘Seriously, Clarrie, I don’t know how to explain it, but there was something surprisingly liberating about you telling me to write a better book that day in the bookshop.
It . . .’ Through my fingers I see him look away briefly before he continues.
‘It took me outside my head. Freed me from my own expectations. Made me realise that I liked Flight Risk , no matter what anyone else thought. I started writing again after that.’
Declan pauses. He’s far enough away that I have space, but close enough that the hair on my forearms is prickling at his warmth.
‘Months later, when I’d submitted the manuscript, I made the mistake of telling Mum what had happened,’ says Declan, the deep rumble of his voice catching between us again.
‘And she became convinced that it was the start of an epic love story.’
Oh my gosh. A flush starts in my nose and spreads everywhere.
‘She came over to my house for dinner one night,’ says Declan.
‘I was in the middle of working on something, so my computer was open. She . . .’ He hesitates, and I crack open another two fingers to look at him.
He’s not looking at me, but the corner of his mouth kicks up, like he knows I’m watching.
‘She wrote an email to my editor on my computer when I went to the toilet.’
I rip my hands off my face to meet Declan’s eyes, because there is no way that he can be telling the truth about this. ‘Your mum hacked into your computer?’
Declan nods.
I narrow mine. ‘You’re lying.’
Declan lifts up his hands. ‘I promise you I am not,’ he says.
‘You’re telling me that your mother wrote a dedication and sent it to your editor, pretending to be you?’ I say, and it sounds so ridiculous coming out of my mouth that I’m half expecting him to laugh. He doesn’t.
‘I am telling you that my mother wrote that dedication and sent it to my editor, pretending to be me,’ repeats Declan. ‘And then I didn’t speak to her for two weeks.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell your editor that it was your mother?’
‘Because I was embarrassed,’ he says, and after a beat he rubs his hand through his hair. ‘But I also didn’t want to embarrass her,’ he admits.
‘You didn’t want to embarrass her. Your mother, who thought we were in a romance novel, who illegally posed as you.’
‘Is it illegal?’ says Declan.
‘Probably,’ I tell him. ‘My brother is a lawyer,’ I add.
‘What kind of law?’ asks Declan.
‘It’s not really relevant,’ I say.
Declan laughs, and the sound catches me in the gut.
Stop it. He rejected you.
As though he can hear my thoughts, Declan sobers.
‘She’s a bit of a closet romance reader,’ he continues.
‘She buys all her romance novels on the internet. She would have felt awful if I’d told my editor the truth.
And . . .’ He closes his eyes and I can hear the sharp inhale of his breath.
When he speaks again his voice is barely above a whisper.
‘Maybe there was a very small part of me that wanted to know what a certain bookseller thought of the new book.’
My heart skips painfully in my chest.
‘I’m sorry that I didn’t stop the dedication,’ he says, opening his eyes to meet mine straight on. ‘And I’m sorry about last night.’
Mortification floods through me. ‘Declan—’
‘I wanted to kiss you,’ he says, barrelling on. ‘But my life is complicated right now. I’m complicated. And, despite how I might make it seem sometimes, I like you, Clarrie.’ He exhales slowly. ‘I really like you.’ My eyes feel hot, but I can’t look away.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ Declan whispers. ‘No matter how much I might selfishly want to kiss you.’
I take a step towards him, and I see him swallow.
‘What if we kept it simple?’ I say. I know it’s foolish, to offer myself like this again.
I need to work out what on earth I’m doing with almost everything in my life.
But, right now, I want this moment outside of time to last just a few beats longer.
To tell reality to get stuffed. I want to kiss him once, so I can stop thinking about what he might taste like.
‘What if we paused reality for just a moment?’
‘Paused reality?’ says Declan.
‘I promise I don’t want to date you,’ I say, and the ghost of a smile flickers across his lips. My mouth is dry. ‘But if we both wanted to kiss each other – just this one time – maybe we could do that. Like standing out in the rain.’
‘If we wanted to kiss each other,’ repeats Declan, his tone even, and for a moment I think he’s going to reject me again . But then his eyes drop to my lips. When they meet mine again, there’s a desire in them that snatches my breath away.
For a heartbeat we just stare at each other, like this invisible string between us is pulling tight.
Then it snaps.
I’m not sure who moves first, but one second we’re breathing the same air and the next his lips catch mine.
He groans, reaching up to touch my cheek and pulling me closer. Heat floods every part of my body and I grip his shirt with my fist.
He tastes like warmth and sunshine, and all I want to do is press closer. The moment stretches and lengthens, and I’m so consumed with the feel of his lips, soft against mine, that I barely even notice a sound creeping into the quiet.
Until the first car in twenty minutes roars past, tooting its horn in a way that would make Jed have a fit.
‘Woohoo!’ a man yells out the window. ‘ WOOOOOOHOOOOO !’
Declan and I spring apart, both panting slightly. My lips feel hot and my body is struggling to catch up with my brain. I feel mortified and amused and frustrated by the interruption.
I meet his eyes, and there’s a warm laughter in them, and maybe I’m imagining it, but it feels like there’s a fraction of disappointment too. Then he turns to look at the car. We’re both silent, watching it scream off into the distance.
Well, that’s that. I shift my snack bag on my shoulders.
‘It might’ve been nice if they’d stopped to see if we were okay,’ I say, trying to act natural. Like I didn’t just kiss Declan Archer on the side of the road. Like every part of me is not aching to do it again. Declan is quiet, his eyes still on the highway.
‘One kiss, right?’ he says finally, his voice hoarse.
‘Right.’ I push the word out of my throat, which feels unnecessarily tight, and turn to start walking. Declan falls into step beside me. My lips are still tingling, and he’s silent as we walk down the road, the air taut with the lack of sound.
I clear my throat, as though that will help. ‘How are you so okay with the beeping? Is that not the same as standing on stage?’
‘I’m pretty distracted,’ says Declan.
I turn to look at him, and there’s that heat in his eyes that makes me want to stop again, one-kiss plans and people with car horns be damned.
But we agreed – it was just a pause. I keep walking.
‘Distracted by the urgent task of changing a tyre, you mean,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says Declan dryly. ‘That must be what’s distracting me.’
We make it another ten steps before Declan stops suddenly.
‘Stuff it,’ he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me off the side of the road to a tall tree. Then, like he realises what he’s just done, he pauses, and drops my hand. He clears his throat, his eyes on the tree. ‘How would you feel about maybe two—’
But before he can finish, before he can think, I lean back against the tree and yank him closer.
When our lips meet again, there’s nothing tentative about it. Fireworks explode in my chest and my body is on fire. I wrap my hand up round his neck and press closer, and when our tongues meet it feels like it’s always been like this.
After what might be minutes, or hours, Declan pulls back. He leans one hand against the trunk of the tree, watching me.
‘I have to admit something,’ he says, recovering his breath. ‘It wasn’t the changing of the tyre that was distracting me.’
A laugh catches on my lips, and Declan’s lightning smile flashes across his face. His hand strokes along my cheek, sending warmth cascading through me.
And it feels so much like the moment in the rain that I don’t think about my next words, not until they’re out of my mouth and in the air around us.
‘What if the pause lasted until the end of the tour?’ I whisper.