Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
D eclan
I knock a second time and shift the bags of groceries to redistribute the weight. This is ridiculous. It’s weird my mom asked me to do this, and even more outlandish that I agreed. We are all adults. Daughtry can get her own groceries. Maybe she doesn’t even like chili any more. Maybe she doesn’t—
The door opens, and Daughtry stands behind it, sniffling, her hazel eyes rimmed with red.
“Are you okay?” I ask. My instinct is to hold her, which is foolish because I’m laden with grocery bags. “What happened?”
“This?” She gestures at her nose and wipes at the wetness underneath her eyes. “It’s nothing. No worries. I was just watching the first season of Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist . It really plays the heart strings. ”
“Oh.” I glance inside the cabin at the TV wall, but the TV isn’t even on. “I’ve never seen it.”
“You’re missing out.” She sniffles again and points at the grocery bags. “What are those?”
“My mom thought you would starve.” I shrug. “It’s her thing. She made you chili.”
“Yum!” She reaches for the bags, but I hold them back.
“Sorry. She will kill me if I don’t deliver them inside. She would say it’s the gentlemanly thing to do. On the off chance your arm breaks between here and the kitchen.” This is technically true, but I can’t leave her if she’s been crying.
“You always were a gentleman. I’d hate to disappoint your mom.” She holds the door wide open and I step through.
This is a massive mistake. She may have been here less than a few hours, but the entire cottage smells like her. Music still hangs in the air like smoke, and she’s set up her guitar on one end of the couch. It looks like that spot has always been waiting for her instrument, and now it’s complete.
I force my feet to move across the living room to the kitchen and I set the bags on the counter. Daughtry trails after me, barefoot. “How was the festival today?” she asks, easing back against the ledge of the square-shaped kitchen table.
“Good. Busy.”
“I didn’t know you still worked at the winery.”
“It’s the family business,” I say simply. “Alex works there, too. Even though he’s not supposed to serve anyone.” I make a mental note to speak sharply with him about that little indiscretion.
Daughtry chews on her bottom lip. “He said you’re a teacher now. You don’t teach summer school or anything?”
“Summer school ended last week, and it’s pretty barebones. Since the summer season is the busiest tourist-wise, I spend a lot of time helping out at the vineyard.” I need to stop talking. Go away, verbal diarrhea, go away. I remove a mesh bag of apples and place them in the fridge.
“I like cold apples,” she says softly. “Some people put them out on the counter, but I like them better when they’re cold and crisp.”
My gaze flicks to her, but she isn’t looking at me or the fridge. Her attention is on her cuticles.
“Me, too.” I put away the rest of the bag while she watches. Pasta in the cupboards, eggs in the fridge.
Her lips curl as I stow the milk. “Almond milk? Your mom remembered the kind of milk I like?”
I remember, too. “She’s smart that way. I bet you drink oat milk now.”
Her laugh is a bright tinkle, like it surprises her as much as me. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t everyone in California drink oat milk?”
Daughtry rolls her eyes. “That’s a weird stereotype. Honestly, I don’t drink much milk at all. Except with cereal, and even then I don’t eat it that often.” She shrugs and the loose mauve sweater she wears slips off one shoulder. Holy balls, she has excellent clavicles. They aren’t usually a feature I look for on a woman, but on Daughtry it’s like she’s flashed me her breasts.
With a box in my hand, I focus very, very carefully on which shelf this raspberry almond granola should go. “You used to love cereal,” I say. “The more sugar the better.”
“I can’t believe you remember that.” She sounds pleased, which makes the muscles between my shoulders unclench minutely. “I did, but when I was working my way up, sometimes it was the only thing I could afford. There were two weeks after I’d been fired from my barista job when all I ate was off-brand Lucky Charms. Dry. I can’t even look at it now.”
“I get that. I mean, not totally. I’ve never been that financially distressed, but grad school pays shit. Leftover shit. I swept the tasting room for loose change more often than I can remember. My mom’s cooking saved me.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, and the sweater dips another inch, almost exposing the top swell of her breast.
I close my eyes and remove a pot from the cupboard by the stove. “I’ll heat up the chili for you.”
“Thank you. You were always so thoughtful.”
Right, that’s me. The thoughtful brother, the safe brother, the down-to-earth boring brother who’s a poor stand-in for Ciaran. I’m the brother who can never quite pull the one woman he’s always wanted.
I turn on the electric stove and dump the container of chili into the pot. I need to get over myself. Daughtry’s here for the festival, that’s all. She doesn’t need me creeping on her. I never told her how I felt back then, and that’s for the best. I am a single dad. I have bigger things to worry about than getting my dick wet.
Though that’s definitely the wrong train of thought, as my long-neglected cock seems determined to stare at Daughtry’s lightly tanned skin and the curves visible beneath her top. She doesn’t have tan lines. Does that mean she sunbathes topless?
No. I’m noping right out of that thought process.
I stir the chili as it heats up, perfuming the air with rich spice. “So, why were you crying?”
That’s a good way to chase off all the wet dick thoughts.
Daughtry blanches but doesn’t move. “What do you mean?”
I point at the wall with my wooden spoon. “Your TV’s off. You weren’t watching the show. ”
“I could have turned it off when you knocked. Or watched it on my phone. ”
“Maybe.” Pressing her might be entertaining, but I doubt it will lead anywhere. “But I don’t think that’s what happened.”
Daughtry exhales loudly. The roots of her hair are blond, though the rest is streaked liberally with pink, and cut into a long, wavy style with asymmetric bangs. “Fine. It was my mom.”
I wait, stirring the chili like that’s my sole purpose in life. Should I get back to Alex? Yes. Is he having more fun with Grams letting him eat his way through the snack cupboard? Also yes. Besides, I like cooking with Daughtry. It feels…nice, domestic in a non-suffocating way.
“I don’t know if you remember,” she says. “Most people here probably don’t remember my mom unless they frequented the Broken Lighthouse. She’s…she’s nothing like Zoey. Your mom, not the TV show character.”
I know this about Daughtry’s mother. So does my mom. It’s why my parents never laid down rules about letting Daughtry sleep over, despite knowing that she and Ciaran were having sex. They stocked his room with condoms, made sure there was her favorite shampoo in the bathroom, and turned a blind eye. The only one of us who didn’t realize that she stayed at our house because there was no one at hers was Ciaran.
“That really sucks.” Leaving my spoon in the chili, I go to the cupboard and pull down a bowl for her.
“Yes, it does. And it’s only gotten worse since she found out about the tour. Part of it is that I didn’t tell her, so she lords that over me. Then there’s the fact that any little success of mine, she wants to claim it. Is that fair, Declan? Shouldn’t I own my success? I’m the one who put in the work, the hours, the blood and tears.” Those tears now curl in the corner of her eyes.
There are many, many reasons why I shouldn’t contemplate what I’m contemplating. I haven’t talked to this woman in twelve years. We were, at best, tepid friends as I lusted after her from afar.
None of that matters. She is in distress.
Leaving the chili on the stove, I walk over to her and wrap my arms around her. It’s instinct, really. She shudders against my chest, like an anxious dog finally finding a spot to rest. Unconsciously, I pull her closer. She fits so well, her cheek at the right height to rest against my neck.
“Declan.” Looping her arms around me, she sighs against my skin. This is so much better than I could have imagined. Her soft body presses against mine, seeking comfort, something I can actually give her.
Oh. No.
Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. No amount of Fibonacci sequence or complex organic chemistry compounds can stop my erection.
Her lips curl against my collarbone. “Something you want to say, Declan?”
Only that if a person can actually die from embarrassment, I’m about to leave poor Alex fatherless. I clear my throat, and force myself to step away from her. “I’m so sorry. It’s been two years since my wife and I split up, and—you don’t need to know this. I’m sorry. We were talking about you.” This is why every woman prefers Ciaran. Ciaran doesn’t get inappropriate erections. Ciaran doesn’t then apologize for getting said inappropriate erection. He would have teased, flirted, joked, and then ended up in bed with her anyway.
Not me. There’s no chance I will end up in bed with Daughtry, particularly not if I continue spouting nonsense .
“It’s a nice distraction.” She leans back against the counter and stretches in a feline and incredibly appealing way. When did she shift from forlorn to flirting? It’s dizzying. I reel a little, feeling day drunk again. “I don’t know anything about your wife. What happened?”
My own blindness. I stick to my script. “Why do you want to know?”
She shrugs, her shirt slipping another inch down her skin. Fuck me, she’s gorgeous. My cock throbs, and I ignore it. “Distract me.”
If anything is a mood killer, it’s talking about one’s ex. “Josie and I met in grad school. She was getting her masters in journalism. That’s what she does. International photojournalism.”
“Wow. That sounds amazing.”
“It is. She’s been in the running for a Pulitzer and everything.” It’s far easier talking about Josie’s accomplishments than the many, many confusing things swirling inside of me. “She’s in Burundi right now, working on a documentary. She calls every three days to talk to Alex.”
“So, what happened?” There’s something in Daughtry’s gaze and question that hold me rapt. I can’t move if I wanted to.
I run my hand over my jaw, feeling the stubble begging to be shaved but I haven’t gotten to yet. She doesn’t need to know everything. No one knows everything that went down with me and Josie. I’ll tell her the same lie I’ve told my mom. “At the end, we both realized we were good friends, but not really in love any more. I thought she would be happier without me.”
Daughtry whistles, long and low. “Ouch. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Were you happier? ”
Am I? “I don’t know. I don’t want to be with someone who wants…something I can’t be.”
“Hmm.” Daughtry moves a step toward me and traces her hand up the midline of my torso, her hand searing me through the fabric of my polo shirt. “What is it that you can’t be?”
Her touch scrambles my mind like microwaves, but I know what she’s asking and I’m not about to volunteer.
Ciaran. I couldn’t be Ciaran.
“Bold,” I say at last. “Carefree.”
She glances up at me, licking her lips, and all rational thought takes a bullet train to Kyoto. “Have you never done anything spontaneous, Declan?”
Somehow she has crossed the room and is within touching distance. So close, yet never close enough. If I merely flex my palms, I can grab her hips, but I don’t know how to narrow that chasm. “I find spontaneous confusing,” I say.
Daughtry picks up my hands and wraps them around her waist. My cock seizes this opportunity like it’s a dying man with a thousand dollars at a strip club.
“Daughtry, what are you doing?” I ask, or I think I do. It’s difficult to think of anything as she presses herself against me, nuzzling into my neck.
“Confusing you,” she replies. Then she takes my face in her hands, and kisses me.