Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DECLAN
I drive slowly through Sycamore Falls, letting the glow of Christmas lights on all the houses fill the spaces I used to keep empty. Happy hour with Joshua went later than I expected. We talked more than we ever have. Laughed. Argued about football. He told me about his latest work project.
And I listened. Really listened. Like a father should.
Like I wanted my father to listen to me all those years ago, instead of constantly looking at me like I was a waste of space.
As if I should have been in that casket instead of my mother.
I push the thought aside, refusing to let my father get under my skin. Instead, I focus on my time with Joshua. On the relationship I’m building with him, despite my absence in his life until now.
I make the turn onto my street, and my gaze snags on Claire’s townhouse like it always does. Warm white lights drip along the eaves, and a glowing wreath hangs on her door. Even the little potted evergreen beside the steps is wrapped in gold ribbon.
A laugh slips out at the memory of her face when I told her I hadn’t put up a tree in years.
I was so close to telling her why. How Christmas trees always remind me of my mom. How the idea of having a tree in my house has always been unbearable.
A symbol of my guilt.
My blame.
But now, as I pull into the driveway of my temporary home and glance toward the window where a modest tree glows through the glass, it doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would. I expected a stab to the chest, an ache I’d carry all season.
Instead, warmth fills me.
This tree isn’t a reminder of my past or the blame I’ve shouldered for years.
It’s a reminder of Joshua. Of making new memories with him last weekend as we strung lights and hung ornaments.
And if I’m being honest, it’s a reminder of Claire, too. The way she put her apprehension aside and helped me pick out a tree when she saw how out of my element I was. The comfort I felt in a place that made me anxious seconds beforehand.
Killing the engine, I step into the chilly evening air, inhaling the aroma of pine that seems to permeate this town.
Then something slices through the quiet. A shrill, insistent beeping that detonates inside my skull. Smoke detector. Rapid. High. Relentless.
It shouldn’t make my whole body fold in on itself. It shouldn’t make my hands go cold and my vision narrow to a tiny, sharp pinprick.
It’s not just a sound to me. It’s a memory.
I can still smell the putrid smoke.
Can still feel the heat of the fire.
Can still hear the incessant beeping of the smoke detectors going off as our house was reduced to rubble.
And what makes the panic tighten around me like a noose is the realization that the beeping isn’t coming from my townhouse.
It’s coming from Claire’s.
A full-body jolt hits me, and I sprint across the driveway and toward her front door, my pulse slamming against my ribs. Thankfully, there are no signs of smoke from the windows, but that doesn’t mean anything. My childhood home was engulfed in flames in minutes.
I try the knob, but it’s locked.
“Claire?” I shout, pounding on the door. No answer.
But her car’s in the driveway.
I spin and run into my house, tearing through the kitchen and out onto the shared deck, rushing toward the sliding glass door. I pull on it, prepared to smash the glass if need be. Thankfully, it opens, and I rush inside.
No flames. No scorched walls. No blistering heat engulfing me.
Just Claire in the kitchen, totally oblivious to my presence. She’s wearing oversized pink headphones that make her look absurdly cute, dancing and singing “All I Want for Christmas is You”. She’s searing something in a pan, smoke curling toward the ceiling as the alarm shrieks overhead.
I grab a chair and climb on it, my fingers fumbling around until the beeping stops. When it does, the silence rushes back in, feeling unnervingly loud.
Only then does Claire turn.
“Declan!” she gasps, ripping off her headphones. “What are you—”
“Your smoke detector was going off.”
“Sorry.” She laughs sheepishly, turning off the burner and removing the cast iron skillet from the heat. “Our exhaust fan is broken so whenever I sear anything….” She gestures to the smoke. “This happens. I’ve learned to ignore it.”
“Ignore it?” I stare at her, incredulous.
“I was in the mood for an ahi salad tonight.” She gives me another sheepish smile, setting the tuna steak on a cutting board. “Sorry if it bothered you.”
“Bothered me?”
The words come out ragged, uneven.
Before I can wrap my head around what I’m doing, I close the space between us in three strides, my still shaking hands framing her face.
Her eyes widen and her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away. As if she can sense I need this. Need to feel her skin against mine. Feel her warmth. Feel the reminder that she’s here. That she’s alive.
“I thought…” I shake my head, struggling to get the words out.
I’m still in that house, smoke so thick I can’t breathe, my mother urging me to run.
“Thought what?” she asks softly, her eyes locked on mine. She reaches up and cups my cheek, her touch grounding me to the present instead of the past that still torments me every damn day.
Except with her.
With her, I can forget.
With her, I can breathe again.
“I was afraid I lost you, too,” I admit.
Her brows knit, and she parts her lips. I sense she wants to ask what I mean.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she rubs my cheek with her thumb, slow and reassuring, “I’m fine. I’m here.”
I blow out a breath and press my forehead to hers, breathing her in. Warm vanilla from her body wash. The faint scent of white wine on her lips. The steady rhythm of her breath against mine.
“You’re here,” I echo.
She nods slowly. “I’m here.”
I pull back slightly, just enough to drag my thumb over her bottom lip. She shivers, and it goes straight to my gut.
Her hands drift to my chest, and for a fleeting moment, I expect her to push against me. Put space between us.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she clutches my shirt.
The smart thing, the right thing, would be to step back. But I’m not feeling smart right now. I’m feeling the weeks of restraint fraying with every heartbeat.
So I lean closer, the seconds stretching as I inch my lips toward her. Testing how far I can go.
And she still doesn’t fight me, even when my lips are a whisper away from hers.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur, my voice low and rough, almost begging her to put on the brakes since I’m not capable of doing it myself.
“I…”
“Claire.” I meet her gaze, desperate for something. Permission. Damnation. At this point, I don’t care. “Tell me to stop. Otherwise, I’m going to do what I’ve been wanting to do since I left you in Boston.”
“What’s that?”
“I think you know.”
She inches her lips closer, the promise of her kiss within reach. “I wouldn’t want to presume. So why don’t you show me? Then I can decide if I want you to stop.”
Goddamn this woman. She doesn’t play fair. She never has. It’s one of the things that drives me crazy about her.
“Show me, Declan,” she encourages when I don’t immediately make a move, her grip on my shirt tightening even more. “Show me what you’ve wanted to do since Boston.”
I don’t hesitate. Don’t pause to think how wrong this is.
Instead, I do as she asks and crush my lips to hers.