18. Winona
Winona
I believe in kissing. Kissing a lot.
~ Audrey Hepburn
I stare across the space between us—if you can even call the distance a space. My hand itches to reach out and brush across Declan’s end-of-the-day stubble. His breath warms my face. He’s right there—so close—head on a pillow, turned on his side, staring at me.
Declan O’Connell.
Only, he’s not an NFL star right now. And I’m definitely not fangirling. He’s the man I’ve come to know over the weeks since his injury. To the world, he’s a superstar. To me, he’s so much more.
And then again, he’s just Declan, but this mussed and soft around the edges version. Tender in places that are usually harder and strong.
He blocks three-hundred-pound men for a living. But right now, his eyes have an almost boyish quality to them, his eyebrows drawn up just the slightest in the middle. I want to take my pointer finger and gently press that little divot between his brows, massaging it tenderly until he relaxes.
What question is he holding back?
The air crackles like the logs in the fire and I imagine he wants me the way I want him. It’s almost as if he’s staring at me with the same insatiable want bubbling up inside him.
The rain pelts against the windows in a soothing rhythm, cocooning us into our own private world—one where he’s just a guy who grew up in town and I’m the woman he asked to stay for dinner and a game.
I’m always touching Declan—to care for his injury.
There shouldn’t be a difference between me touching him and the way it felt when he touched me to swipe leftover food from my cheek.
And yet, that touch felt like so much more.
I laughed it off, comparing it to a romance novel.
I had to make light of it. But his eyes latched on to me and I wondered—like I wonder now. Could he want me?
My heart is racing.
Can he hear it?
I’m right here, I told him.
And I am.
He hasn’t answered me. Just fixed me with his gaze and held me here.
I should look away, but I can’t.
My heart feels like it contains a line of Thunderette cheerleaders, waving pom-poms and screaming Declan! Declan! Declan!
His voice is low and rough when he speaks. “I’m glad you’re here, Winona.”
The way he says my name—carefully, like it’s precious—no one has said my name like that before.
I try to tell myself it’s exhaustion, or the atmosphere, the storm, our connection as nurse and patient.
But then he says, “You always make me feel better.” And his hand brushes mine.
Was that an accident?
My voice catches in my throat when I ask him, “Are you feeling better? In general, I mean? Healing? No more pain spikes?”
Nervous babbling. Great. Way to kill the moment, Winona.
But that’s just it. I’m not having a moment with Declan. We’re friends. He asked me to wait out the storm for my safety—as a friend does. He’s being kind. That’s it.
I’m running through my list of reasons Declan O’Connell doesn’t have feelings for me when he does it again. His finger brushes over my hand and he says, “Yes. Much better.”
My brain scrambles.
Does he know he touched me?
Is it just because we’re lying so close to one another? He bumped me. That’s all.
But then, his pinky loops through mine.
I hold my breath.
He doesn’t unloop our fingers. Instead, there’s a light squeeze.
And I lift my eyes to his—flames dancing in the deep green-brown of his irises.
There’s no mistaking his intention.
His hand slips around mine, protective—almost possessive. And he says, “You always make me feel better, Winona.”
His eyes are on me, watchful, testing.
I smile at him, giving his hand a light squeeze to tell him I’m right here with him. I want to give him permission—to let him know this is what I want—everything I’ve been wanting for weeks.
He runs his thumb over my hand in the slowest stroke and I feel the ripples of his touch radiate through me.
He lifts his hand away from mine and I almost gasp at the loss. But then, he’s cupping my jaw.
His voice is low and reverent. “You’re not like anyone else I know.”
His gaze drifts over my face. The golden glow in the room defines the ridge of his nose, the sharp angle of his jawline, leaving half his face in shadows. His eyes practically shimmer in the firelight.
“You’re so … unexpected.” His thumb gently caresses my cheek, and my eyelids flutter shut.
I open my eyes to catch the sincerity of Declan’s gaze.
“I can’t stop thinking about you, Winona.”
I want to say something, but I’m wordless, soaking in every confession.
His words should surprise me. But the way he looks at me, with sincerity and longing in his gaze, cuts through the surface, making them land deep inside me.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. Running his thumb over the back of my hand. “Do you even know? Your hair …” He runs his hand down my crazy, messy end-of-the-day hair, and an almost pained look passes over his face, as if he aches to express his thoughts.
Or maybe he feels like I do when I look at him—so much longing it almost hurts.
“Your eyes …” Declan’s thumb grazes the soft skin next to my eyes, trailing down the side of my face and landing on my neck just over my pulse point. “I think about your eyes all the time—so expressive—the way you look at me, the way they crinkle when you laugh.”
I’m barely breathing. My heart hammers in my chest.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and in a low voice he says, “Your lips.”
They hum in response to his words—the way he’s staring at them.
Declan swallows hard. His Adam's apple bobs and I watch the movement, mesmerized.
His hand is back on my face, cupping me as if he’s trying to keep me here.
“I … I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks,” he says.
Weeks? I swallow a lump in my throat and lift my head, placing it back on the pillow in a spot closer to him.
He moves in and repeats the word as if he’s in anguish. “Weeks.”
“You’re beautiful too,” I say. It should sound cheesy, but it’s true. He’s one of the most gorgeous people I’ve ever seen, especially up close. Every feature draws me in. But his beauty comes from a place much deeper than his outward appearance.
I’ve spent my own eternal stretch of weeks fighting the urge to cross this invisible line with Declan. He has no idea how I feel. And now, I’ve made it sound like his looks are the best and most attractive part of him.
If only I could show him how I see him.
I’m practically burning up with the urge to kiss him. I never allowed myself to dream of kissing him. Every time the thought of kissing Declan crossed my mind, I applied Herculean effort to keep those thoughts suppressed and denied.
I lay my hand on his chest right over his heart and say, “Especially here. You’re beautiful here.”
It takes half a second for me to realize I just reached out and laid my hand on Declan O’Connell’s chest. My palm is warm, zinging at every point of contact.
I pull my hand back gently, as if moving quickly would alert him to the fact that I just touched him in a very not-your-nurse way. I drop my hand between us, gluing it to my thigh.
Declan reaches down and gently lifts my hand away from my leg, wrapping our hands together. He gives a slight, almost imperceptible tug and I move toward him, my face so close I feel the warmth of his breath fanning over my cheeks.
I’m not his nurse right now. And he’s not my patient. He’s just Declan. All the lines sweetly blur as I stare into his intense brown eyes.
“I want to kiss you, Winona.” Declan’s voice is low and needy.
It takes a beat for his words to land.
I nod softly—not because I don’t want to kiss him. Not because I want to wait until another time. I don’t even know if I’m dreaming right now. If I am, I’m not taking my chances. There will be no sudden movements that might wake me—not until after Declan’s lips have met mine.
He runs his hand down my jawline.
“Say something,” he begs me.
“I want you to kiss me,” I say, my voice practically a whisper. “So much.”
And that’s all it takes. I forgot how stealthy and quick he can be, despite his injury. His leg isn’t a part of what’s going on between us. Before I can think another thought, Declan is up on an elbow, looming over me, staring down into my eyes, and his mouth is moving toward mine.
My tongue darts out on instinct, moistening my lips just the slightest. Declan tracks the movement and growls slightly. It’s not a full growl, more of a rumble. Whatever it is, I like it. I want to make him make that noise again and again.
His eyes slowly flick between mine and the sweetest smile grows as he approaches me.
I watch him and then my eyes instinctively drift shut.
I haven’t kissed a man in ages. I’m on the precipice of a freak-out over whether I remember how when Declan’s soft, full lips meet mine in a brush that lingers.
My hands lift, wrapping around his neck and twining through his hair.
My nails gently scrape along his scalp. He hums into our kiss.
His mouth is as skilled as his well-trained body.
He kisses me like he’s a man starving, but also like he wants to make this last.
His hand moves to my hair, running down it with one long, careful stroke. Then my arm. He’s trailing a finger down from my shoulder to my wrist and back up again. All this while propping himself on one arm and kissing me like he can’t get enough of me.
My heart flutters and warmth spreads through me.
Something so much deeper than our physical connection fills me.
I kiss him back for all he is—for the parts of him he only shares with me—for the laughter that’s ours in private moments—for the way he makes me feel wanted and special.
I kiss him—Declan—not the pro football player, not the son of a wealthy developer.
Just him, the man I’ve come to know and care for so deeply.
Declan pulls back, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingertip traces my hairline and then my jaw while he stares down into my eyes.
“Winona.” He breathes out my name.
“Declan,” I answer him with a playful, carefree laugh that bubbles up from inside me.