Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Evie
Charlie’s with the sitter and I’m walking the four blocks to Declan’s house.
This is weird on so many levels. First, I had no idea he lived so close.
I mean, it makes sense, since I always see him walking to work and around town, but I’ve also never thought proximity was a requirement for him.
Since I’ve known him, he’s run several half-marathon races and he’s extremely fit, so how could I know he wasn’t walking a mile before he arrived to take my bag and melt my brain with his sweetness to my baby?
Alas, here I am, nervous energy leaping through me, less like a ballerina and more like a baby deer on newborn legs. Because the second thing that feels wild about this is that it feels like a date.
It’s not. I know it’s not. But it feels like one, and it’s the closest I’ve been to a date in years.
Years. In my relationship with Trevor, we didn’t go out.
The occasional party with his friends, but never to a restaurant or somewhere one-on-one.
And the last few months, I didn’t even miss that.
I was trying to figure my way out, so being alone with him, even in public, wasn’t on my list.
I’m oddly raw as I round the corner and see a small home with numbers matching his address.
Of course.
Of course he would live in this house—a little spot I’d wanted for myself, but in the end it wasn’t for sale or rent, even if I could’ve stomached Jack paying whatever this would’ve cost.
It looks like it’s been transported from a small English town and nestled into this quiet street in Juniper View.
Most of the houses around here are old and adorable, but this one has ivy climbing the stone front with a small iron gate a foot from the sidewalk and old stone walls around a tiny yard currently bursting with pollinator-friendly flowers.
Deep purple blooms starburst from the vines wrapped around the gate-turned-trellis, and I pause to double-check I’m in the right place.
I am. Of course I am.
Declan Ryan is rapidly becoming deeply problematic in a way I cannot abide.
First, I already liked him thanks to his stupid looks and the charming, thoughtful way he deals with patients and his unendingly persistent goodness, but now?
Now he’s trying to marry me into his perfect family for my own good and he lives in a fairytale cottage and loves bees.
I mean, come on.
Why did he have to love bees?
I use this disbelief to fuel my entrance into his little wonderland, refusing to take in how flipping adorable the place is, and I march straight to his door to press the doorbell like it has personally wronged me.
Or, I would, but then I see there is no doorbell.
This little cottagecore dream has a door knocker, and it’s all I can do not to take out my frustration on the weathered brass.
I’m determined to find a flaw in the man that goes beyond his quiet, which isn’t actually a flaw, or his sometimes slightly awkward way when he’s not talking to patients.
Or his bossiness.
Honestly, I kind of like all of those things, which is why I can’t find fault in them.
Maybe I’ll walk into this adorable house to find he’s a total slob. Unlikely, sure, but who knows what skeletons he has in his closet? And why am I assuming that what I’ve seen is what I get with this guy? Didn’t I learn that lesson with Trevor?
Though to be fair, I’ve seen him consistently, every day, for over a year now, so it’s not like he’d be able to hide his real nature if he were secretly a horrible human being.
Sam had been so nervous about Grant when they started dating, and I reassured her she wasn’t falling for a person like her ex.
There was an entire town to vouch for Grant.
The same can easily be said for Declan.
And, speak of the man, he opens the door and steps back, smiling like he’s genuinely pleased I’m here.
“Welcome. Please, come in.”
He’s smiling.
A very natural, relaxed expression on his face I don’t see all that often.
At work, he’s so composed. Slacks, a dress shirt with a plain collar in a shade of white, gray, or black, or at most, a subtle checkered pattern.
He styles his hair with a neat part, no evidence of gel or product, though if he uses it, it must be minimal.
Then for appointments, he’ll don his white coat.
All in all, mouthwatering.
But here? Now? Right in front of me and with no one else in sight?
His hair is a little messy, like maybe he ran a hand through it instead of the very orderly way it appears at work. He looks at ease and happy and so… warm. Not like heat, but like I want to curl up on the couch with him and let him wrap me in his arms.
Granted, I always wanted something to that effect, but now?
I’ve always found him attractive, but this is an entirely new element.
“Thanks. Thanks for having me.”
Was that weird to say? Did it sound odd? Or sexual? Does he think I’m saying he’s going to have me like have as in—
“How’s Charlie tonight?”
His words stop my absolute spiral and I mentally slap myself.
Get it together!
“He loves Clementine, so he wasn’t sad to see me go. I guess maybe I should be bothered that he’s so comfortable waving goodbye to me.” I make a face because I am completely normal and not at all awkward tonight.
“Not at all. He knows you’ll always come back to him. You’re his safe place.” He wanders ahead into his kitchen.
“That’s kind.” I hope it’s true. Also, wow, what a lovely thing to say.
I follow, eyes bouncing around the pleasing green walls and white trim instead of focusing on the tidy hairline at his neck and the collar of his shirt. I’ve hardly had a chance to take him in, and I worry if I let myself appreciate him in this casual, personal setting, I’ll be doubly doomed.
He moves into the modest kitchen and gestures across a creamy-colored granite island where there’s a selection of cheeses, crackers, two kinds of grapes, some kind of nut in a tiny ornately painted bowl, along with… ugh.
Honeycomb.
This tips me back into my irrational irritation. “Hey, are you like, super into bees?”
He hands me a white appetizer plate. “Not particularly. Why?”
“I just noticed your yard looks like it’s a pollinator garden. And then you have honeycomb…” I nod my chin toward the beautiful comb still shiny with golden honey.
One side of his mouth slides up into a smile before he shakes his head.
“I have a friend who keeps bees. He keeps me in the honey. And another friend of mine from way back is big into sustainable landscaping and gave me some tips on what to plant. But honestly, this place used to be my grandmother’s, and she had most of what he suggested. ”
He slices off a piece of what looks like nice, sharp cheddar, then takes a cracker. “I don’t think you have any allergies, but let me know if you do. I should’ve asked.”
“I don’t. Do you?” It’s one of so many things I don’t know anything about.
“No.”
Well, there’s one thing. Now for about ten million more questions, and we’ll maybe be able to convince his family we’re in love. Ha.
A touch of panic shivers up my spine at the thought.
It’s not just convincing them we are, but then somehow tricking my brain into believing I’m not. But that’ll be totally easy as I discover more layers of this beautiful, thoughtful, intelligent man who is nice to bees and made a charcuterie board. Yeah.
“We’ve both got work tomorrow and I know you’ll be eager to get back to Charlie, so let’s get to it. I have two more minutes on the meat. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.” He looks at me like I’ll have anything to say to this.
He made dinner. There’s meat on the grill. He set out an appetizer platter prettier than the ones in cookbooks. He’s standing there in a light gray polo with more bicep showing than I’ve ever seen and I can’t help but feel it’s a little provocative. Like, is he asking for it?
It’s also the shade of shirt I do not wear because I would sweat through it and be rocking pit stains like a freaking lady if I did. Does the man not sweat?
Granted, he didn’t just spend a year nursing a baby and living in the wild hormonal throes of postpartum life.
I’m finally back to feeling like my body is mostly my own.
God bless the women who hang on past a year, or who end up having Irish twins.
Which, come to think of it, I recall Sam mentioning that two of the Ryan siblings are only eleven months apart.
God bless Mary Ryan, again. She’s a literal hero.
And speaking of, he’s right. Instead of a low-key no big deal courthouse appointment, we’re going to be standing in front of his family. So we need to get down to business.
“Where should we start?” I have no idea what he has in mind. “I mean, we know a lot about each other, but at the same time, I feel like I know absolutely nothing about you.”
An alarm on his phone sounds. “Give me one minute.”
He slips out a door leading to a patio I can glimpse through the window, the grill positioned at the far edge. It, like everything in here, looks inviting and well-loved but still appealing. No grunge or signs of immature bachelorhood, not that one could imagine Declan Ryan living in such a state.
The kitchen and living room are one space, with a long couch creating the living room boundary. It faces a large stone fireplace with a wood mantel, and above it, a stunning photograph of what I’m pretty sure are the Three Sisters mountains including Silver Ridge Peak.
The color palette is warm—greens, browns, natural woods, and soft whites. It’s all surprisingly stylish, though I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe a techier bachelor pad vibe? It feels like a place a family could live very comfortably.
There’s a little patch of grass out back, and I even see a swing set.
I bet Lily and Poppy love coming to see their Uncle Declan.
There’s a table outside with a pair of gardening gloves and some pruning shears sitting on one corner like maybe he set them down there right before coming inside.
On the table in here, there’s a beautiful squatty bouquet of flowers I just bet he cut himself.
My heart squeezes right as he slips back inside.
“We’ll let this rest for a few minutes. Would you mind getting the salad out of the fridge?”
“Sure, of course.”
I’m relieved he’s given me a job other than snooping around his space. I haven’t gone so far as opening cabinets or the hallway closet, but if he’d given me enough time, I might’ve.
Inside the double-door fridge, I find a beautiful bowl covered with plastic wrap, and next to it a mason jar with what must be a homemade dressing. Because of course there is.
“I’m sorry I’m running late. I’d hoped to have this all done before you got there.”
He’s arranging something on a platter with his typical intensity, and I can’t fathom what he thinks is less than perfect.
“This is amazing, Declan. Aside from dinner at your parents’ house, the only time I have someone else cook for me is when I order takeout or the rare occasion I go to Jack’s and his chef makes food. I really appreciate you going to all this trouble.”
His head pops up. “It’s never trouble for you.”
Oh.
“That’s sweet. But I think when you’re marrying me, it’s okay to admit you’re going the extra mile.”
I wrap my arms around myself because I don’t know what else to do with them. I don’t know how to be around him and not just cry with gratitude while also feeling humiliated that he’s marrying me out of what has to be his do-gooder proclivities.
Very old news flash: I’m a mess.
Instead of taking a seat at the six-person table, he approaches and holds out his hand. When I dare, I look up to find his piercing blue eyes waiting patiently for me.
My arm moves without my brain consciously giving the order, which would be normal except it feels like I’m having to instruct my body on just about every basic action including breathing since he opened the door.
Our palms slide together and he grasps my hand. I am given no quarter from that gaze of his, at once gentle and intense.
“I understand why you feel this way, but I want to make clear I don’t view this as a sacrifice. I also understand you don’t believe me.”
I swallow because the man has me pegged.
Not that I’ve been all that discreet about my concerns, but I’m also not used to anyone speaking so directly.
My ex was a master gaslighter, and the only direct things he said were words that shaved off pieces of me, slicing into the person I was to make me into something closer to what he wanted.
I want to believe Declan. Logically, I’m pretty sure I know I can.
But you can’t simply undo the self-doubt abuse creates. Sam and I talked a lot about that, and I’ve worked on it with a therapist, too. Still, it’s not a light switch. It’s a gradual, sometimes grueling process I’m still very much in progress with.
“We’ll make our marriage vows soon enough. Tonight, I want to vow to you that I will always tell you the truth. I will not spare my own feelings, or yours.”
Now there’s a familiar thought—a man not sparing my feelings. “That sounds a little scary, honestly,” I admit.
He nods. “I agree. And to be clear, I don’t mean I’ll be harsh. I mean that there may be hard conversations ahead, and I am vowing I will be truthful, even if it costs me. I hope you’ll feel free to do the same, but I acknowledge you are dealing with a lot.”
“It’s only fair for me to do the same.”
He dips his chin, then guides my hand until it’s pressing through his shirt right over his heart.
My entire brain lights on fire from the gesture, the touch, the contact, the feeling of his very firm pectoral, but I don’t look away from those eyes.
“I promise you, I’m on your side. I’m yours for as long as this lasts, and you’ll have my honesty, my friendship, and… whatever else you need.”
And I?
Am a goner.