18. Skylar
SKYLAR
Allie clearly did not take into account my less-than-beginner cooking ability when she gave me this easy recipe.
First, I cut my finger grating an orange—why is that even a thing?
Who the hell wants to eat tiny bits of an orange peel?
The juice is the good part. Then, I accidentally switched the baking powder and baking soda measurements, which I didn’t think was a big deal, but I texted Allie and she proceeded to send me several messages in all caps that got progressively more aggressive.
So I had to start all over again. I’m tired, hungry, and I’m pretty sure I have pieces of eggshell in my hair, but I’m going to keep going because this is supposed to help my stress.
I’m mixing the eggs, sugar, milk, and honey in a bowl when I hear the front door slam, startling me to the point that I whip around and my sleeve catches on the container of olive oil, causing it to come crashing to the ground.
The viscous substance glugs out of the bottle into a giant puddle on Declan’s pristine kitchen floor.
“Fuck.”
I’m contemplating cleaning it up versus putting a towel over it and hoping he doesn’t notice when I hear my name.
“Skylar.”
Declan’s voice echoes throughout the house. He sounds pissed, but I ignore it because the last thing I need is to face him after what we did last night. Plus, I have bigger problems right now.
“Skylar, where are you?”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I place my phone on the counter and grab a dish towel from the drawer underneath the sink.
I’m about to sop up the oil when Declan appears at the entrance to the kitchen.
His chest heaves, his lips swollen and dotted with blood.
A purple bruise blooms under his left eye, and his dark blonde hair is a mess of waves, the edges slick with sweat and matted to his forehead.
Did he get into a fight?
Before I can speak, he lifts his hand and the metal ring he’s holding catches the overhead lighting, making the bent edges shine.
I guess he found it. I wasn’t planning on doing anything with it since he didn’t put it back on my finger, but I couldn’t help myself. Before I got in the shower this morning, I slipped it into his jacket pocket while he was sleeping.
“What do I have to do, Skylar? Super glue this to your fucking finger?”
I arch an eyebrow, pursing my lips. “You could.” I take a slow step toward him. “But I’d rather soak my hand in rubbing alcohol than wear that ring.”
Declan takes a step, matching my forward movement before his darkened eyes meet mine. He smells like whiskey and the kind of grassy rain that only comes down in the summertime.
“Do you know what that’s called?” I gesture to the ring in his hand, and his brows knit. “The wire around a champagne bottle? I didn’t know, either, so I looked it up. It’s called a cage, Declan.”
He freezes, shoving the ring into the pocket of his jeans before rubbing his hands over his face. When I see his eyes again, they’re filled with pain.
“Stop putting it on my finger. Stop asking me to wear. Just—stop.”
My words seem to stir something. His expression changes, and he starts to advance toward me again, but his eyes are set so fiercely on mine that he’s not looking down. He doesn’t notice.
“Declan, no, don’t—”
I put my hand out in a “stop” motion as if that’s going to help the situation, but it doesn’t. He goes down in one fluid motion, his legs kicking out in front of him as his ass hits the ground. He brings his hand, shiny with oil, up to his face, turning it both ways as if to examine it.
He looks up at me. I look down at him. And then the dam bursts. I can’t help it. The laugh starts slow, bubbling up and out of me until I’m wheezing.
“You think this is funny?” Declan growls, but it’s more playful than anything else. I nod, and he makes a half-hearted attempt to stand up before sliding back down. He crooks his finger. “Come here.”
I shake my head, tossing him the dishtowel instead.
“Skylar.”
“Fine.”
I know what he’s doing. I see it in his eyes the moment I move toward him, but I do it anyway. I take his outstretched hand, and he pulls me down, making sure I land on top of him, as olive oil splashes up the side of my shirt.
“You know better than to laugh at me,” he teases.
Maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion or the way he smells like he did the night he touched me for the first time, but I don’t let him go right away.
I stay where I am, my leg entwined with his, hands pressed flat against his chest, feeling every sharp intake of breath.
I know it should feel wrong. Even if he hadn’t broken my heart that day, we’re different people now.
I’m closed off, and he’s even more hardened.
I can’t explain why, when he looks at me, his warm brown eyes more cinnamon than whiskey now, his hand lightly skimming over the side of my hip, I decide to lean in, but I do.
My eyes haven’t even fully closed when I see him back away.
It’s subtle, like he would have taken my kiss if he had to, but his gut instinct was to recoil.
Reality slams into me, and I push away from him. Shaking my head, I stand up, turning around so he doesn’t see the first tear fall.
I hear him calling after me, but I don’t respond.
This is the second time in twenty-four hours he’s rejected me after I’ve shamelessly thrown myself at him.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I keep doing this to myself?
It’s like picking at a scab; even though I know I'm healing, and I know messing with it will cause a scar, I can’t help myself.
I was finally healing, but now everything is ruined because I couldn't stop myself from reopening old wounds.
Running up the stairs, I rush into the bathroom, discarding my clothes as I turn on the shower.
It only takes a few seconds to heat up because, of course, Declan has some sort of high-end water heater in this fancy house.
The second the spray hits my body, I let the tears run freely down my cheeks.
How did I get here? I was doing fine. I wouldn’t necessarily say happy, but fine.
I had friends, a home I made for myself, and a career I loved for the most part.
Then he crashes back into my life out of fucking nowhere.
Somehow he goads me into getting married, and then he expects me to drop everything to move in with him.
Only so he can reject me over and over? This has to be a sick joke. That’s the only explanation.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t hear the door open.
All of a sudden, he’s there, ripping open the shower door, his chest swelling with each breath, eyes wild.
He tips his head slightly, and I instinctively return the gesture before he pushes into the shower with all of his clothes on.
He backs me up against the tiled wall, cupping my face as he crashes his lips to mine.
This is nothing like our almost-kiss downstairs.
That would have been sweet and silly, maybe even tender.
No, this kiss is an all-consuming mess of emotions.
It’s anger and defeat.
Acceptance, grief.
His tongue dips below the seam of my lips and circles my own. I bite at the sensitive flesh below his lip ring and he curses, hiking me up against the wall until my legs fall open and wrap around his waist. This isn’t a kiss. It’s war, and we’re both fighting for our lives.
He grips my hair gently, angling my head back so he can push his tongue even deeper, but when he does, his wet jeans drag against my naked body, and I feel him thickening through the denim.
A little moan slips free and that’s when I realize he’s winning the battle.
He has me pinned against the wall, and the only thing I can do now is try to break away.
It takes every ounce of power in my body to tear myself away, pushing at his chest until he takes a step back.
I immediately look away. I don’t need to see how his gray shirt clings to his abs, outlining every single dip and curve of his muscles, or the way a stray lock of his hair, darker from the water, falls into his face.
“Skylar,” he whispers into the steam.
“I hate you!” I turn around when I yell it, which is a mistake because he’s even more beautiful than he was a minute ago.
“I know,” he says softly.
“What did you lie about? Last night, you said you lied. About what?”
He scrubs a hand down his face, the water still falling in rivulets on his flushed cheeks. “You really want to do this right now?”
“What’s wrong with now?” I hiss. “You seemed to think it was a good time to suddenly kiss me.”
“I told myself I wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Kiss you until you could trust me again.”
I let out an incredulous laugh. “Don’t hold your breath for that.”
“I didn’t. I tried really fucking hard, Skylar, but I couldn’t do it anymore.” He brushes the damp hair from his eyes. “Can we dry off and talk?”
“I don’t have anything to say to you.” I reach around him, grabbing my shampoo bottle and flicking the cap open.
“You said you want to know what I lied about.”
Pouring a generous amount on my hand, I start massaging the shampoo onto my scalp, focusing on the task as if there isn’t a beautiful, fully-clothed, dripping-wet man standing in front of me. “I changed my mind. I don’t care. Now can you please get out so I can finish my shower?”
He sighs, but steps out anyway, grabbing a towel from the hook. He takes the other one hanging there and leaves it on the counter within my reach.
As soon as I hear the click of the door closing, fresh tears line my lashes and the room starts to spin.
God, what have I done?