19. Winona
Winona
The morning was full of sunlight and hope.
~ Kate Chopin
My eyes open slowly and I snuggle more deeply into the softness of the comforter and the exquisite fluffiness of my pillow.
I breathe in and the smells of coffee and Declan fill my senses.
I turn my nose into the pillow and inhale.
This pillow smells like him. I sigh. A dreamlike image of Declan reaching over to cup my face before he kissed me lazily drifts through my mind.
I snap up, momentarily disoriented. This is not my bed.
Where am I?
One glance around and I have my answer.
I’m at Declan’s.
Last night. The rain. I stayed. And we kissed.
Those kisses.
My smile spreads and I close my eyes, the scene scrolling like a movie. The way he looked at me. How he said my name.
I pull the comforter further up over my lap, shrugging my shoulders upward and smiling a private smile. I’m wearing his jersey. I run my fingers over the number eighty-eight on the front.
Declan kissed me—more than once. I could stay here in bed, savoring the memories, but …
What time is it?
I lift my phone off the chunky cream nightstand.
Nine? It’s nine in the morning. I slept until nine. In Declan’s bed. Guest bed. His guest bed.
Message notifications pop onto my screen. I swipe up.
Cass: Are you still there? It stopped raining. I thought you’d come home.
And a few hours later …
Cass: I’m going to sleep. Your phone location tells me you’re still with the football player. Call me in the morning.
And then, this morning:
Cass: Earth to my twin. Are you alive? Did you forget to plug your phone in again? Call me when you get this.
There are also messages from clients.
Unknown Number: I saw your sign at the deli. I’d like to talk with you about walking my dogs.
Unknown Number: Purging the garage next weekend. Sure could use a helping hand.
Jennifer: The Fall Fun Run registrations are flowing in. Do you have an afternoon free to sort them into the database?
I quickly answer the dog walking one. She answers back, asking me to come by today to meet her dogs and “learn their idiosyncrasies.”
A clinking sound comes from the kitchen followed by the whir of the blender.
Is Declan awake? Getting himself one of those abhorrent green smoothies he drinks?
I stretch, pushing back the covers and climbing out of bed.
A moment later the loud rumbly hum of the vacuum cleaner fills the house.
Declan shouldn’t be vacuuming. He’s feeling better, but he needs to rest or he could have a setback.
I pocket my cell in the butter-soft, designer yoga pants I borrowed from Declan’s mom and rush out of the bedroom to stop Declan from overdoing it.
I run headlong into a middle-aged woman, skidding to a stop just before we collide.
“Oh! … Hi! … Sorry!” I exclaim.
The woman steps backward, smiling at me and turning off the vacuum.
“I’m Winona,” I explain, pointing back toward the guest room as if that sheds a light on anything. “I’m um … Declan’s … home health aide.”
The woman’s eyes rove down Declan’s jersey, lingering on the number eighty-eight, and then continuing down to the hemline and back up to my wide-eyed expression.
“Yeah. I’m not wearing your usual home health aide attire,” I admit without further explanation.
Home health aide. That's what I said—because that's what I am.
Except last night I definitely wasn't, and this morning … Well, this morning, I'm not quite sure what I am.
I pat my naturally wavy hair, which must be sticking out in a minimum of one thousand directions. Then I tuck a chunk behind my ear in an unsuccessful attempt to tame the unruliness.
“I uh … I was here yesterday … but then … the storm … Well, it was bad, wasn’t it? … So … I stayed in the guest room … just last night. I don’t make a habit of staying here. Obviously.”
My words come out in a hasty jumble. Nothing I said justifies my presence and the fact that I’m wearing Declan’s jersey. Instead, every word draws up images of me and Declan, cozying up on the floor of the front room while the fire bathed us in golden light and he kissed me.
My cheeks choose this moment to heat.
As soon as Declan’s kisses invade my thoughts, my fingers lift from my side as if they have a mind of their own.
They head straight toward my lips. I cut them off at the pass halfway mid-air and reverse course, dropping them to my side where I channel my restlessness into fiddling with the edge of Declan’s jersey.
The overall effect gives the impression that I’m prone to spastic involuntary movements. Just great.
“Nice to meet you, Winona,” the woman with the vacuum cleaner says, obviously overlooking my bizarre introduction.
Declan emerges from the kitchen, propelling on his crutches, his arm muscles bunching with every movement, hair mussed from sleep, a wide, lopsided smile on his face.
Our gazes collide and I can’t look away. The look in his eyes is different than I’ve ever seen before—lingering, playful and directed at me. His eyes flit to his jersey and back up to mine and his smile grows even more privately possessive.
“You’re awake,” he says. “How did you sleep?”
One of his brows twitches just the slightest and his eyes crinkle with amusement. He’s remembering our kiss. I know he is.
“I slept well,” I say calmly despite the way pinpricks are dancing across my skin at the memory of his arms around me, and the way he’s looking at me right now.
I glance at the woman with the vacuum cleaner. Her eyes are pinging between Declan and me.
“I’m Darlene,” she says to me.
Declan’s eyes meet mine. Declan finishes the introductions. “Darlene cleans our house. I don’t know how you two haven’t crossed paths yet.”
I smile at the note of affection in Declan’s voice and the way his eyes soften when he looks at Darlene. When he flashes her a smile, she beams back at him.
“I was coming early on Saturdays last month,” Darlene explains.
Darlene turns her attention back to me. “I’ve been cleaning for the O’Connells since Declan was a little boy.” Her voice drips with fondness.
“Darlene’s practically family.” Declan smiles at her and then his eyes meet mine again. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
My insides feel unusually fluttery. Putting food in my stomach when the butterflies are playing badminton seems like it would be tempting fate.
“How about some orange juice? Coffee?” Declan offers.
His warm gaze practically screams, We kissed last night. And I’m pretty sure Darlene hears every unspoken word.
Am I one of many? Is she used to seeing women pop out of bedrooms in the morning, wearing his jersey and requesting breakfast service? Chantal brought an overnight bag.
Darlene seems so chill with me and my appearance, I have to wonder.
I haven’t kissed a man in ages. And I wouldn’t have kissed Declan if he didn’t mean something special to me. Last night he looked at me like I was everything.
“I could go for some coffee,” I say, trying to maintain my composure.
Declan smiles broadly and pivots to head toward the kitchen. “Coming right up.”
I follow behind him, turning once to glance back at Darlene. “Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Same, Winona.” She smiles a warm, motherly smile. Then in a quieter voice, she says, “It’s nice to see Declan smile.”
I couldn’t agree more.
In the kitchen, Declan’s got his crutches propped under his arms so he can pop a pod into the coffeemaker. He downs the rest of a green drink and maneuvers to place the glass in the sink next to the unwashed blender.
The loud hum of the vacuum cleaner resumes, reminding me we’re not alone.
Declan looks over at me and smiles again, propelling toward me once the coffee is flowing. I take a seat on one of the barstools at the island.
He reaches me in two strides with the help of his crutches.
In a low voice, one he’s purposely keeping at a volume that will not reach the hallway, he says, “Good morning.”
He leans in with an ease I would expect if we had been dating for years and kisses my cheek, rough morning stubble lightly scrapes my skin, sending chills skittering through me.
His kiss is sweet—chaste and quick, but still intimate enough to throw me off balance.
“Good morning,” I say as Declan pulls back.
I reach out and run my hand down his jawline. He leans into my palm and smiles down at me.
“You sure you don’t want breakfast?”
“I’m good. I have to meet some dogs this morning before I come back to drive you to the practice facility.”
“Meet some dogs?” he asks, maneuvering back to the coffeemaker and grabbing my steaming mug.
He reaches out and sets it on the island, and then he pushes it along toward me while using one crutch to support himself.
I almost tell him to be careful, but I’m not Winona, the home health aide, right now—even though I introduced myself that way to Darlene.
“Creamer? Sugar?”
“Both? But I can get them.”
“Sit there,” he says, turning and winking at me. “I like serving you.”
His words are like honey on a biscuit. I stare at him. He doesn’t look away.
Declan’s so breathtakingly gorgeous. Most days I forget he’s Declan O’Connell and what that means outside this house to the millions of fans, reporters and coaches.
He’s just Declan to me. But that alone is overwhelming enough.
His physical presence fills a room. That jet-black hair, his ever-changing hazel eyes.
I even love the way the tendons in his neck and forearms flex when he moves.
And here he is, saying he likes serving me.
“Like what you see?” he asks me, wagging his brows playfully. His smile tips and his eyes narrow and crease with playfulness.
“What?” I swallow a lump in my throat. My neck prickles with heat. I’m so busted.
“I like what I see,” he says, turning the tables unexpectedly. “You don’t even know how beautiful you are, Winona. How much I’ve wanted you …”
“Me?” It’s probably not the smoothest answer, but he’s catching me off guard—his words so direct and potent.