Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Evie
The movie plays on Dec’s big flatscreen, what I originally thought was a landscape above the fireplace. It’s another detail in this house that feels like a pleasant, curious surprise.
And me?
Oh, nothing. I’m just sitting here approximately eighteen inches from a man I’m head over slippers for. I won’t let myself think in more specific terms because it won’t do me any good. But honestly, how am I supposed to stay neutral when he says the things he does?
Or does the things he does?
Because that’s the thing about Declan. He is the most “if he wanted to, he would” kind of man a girl could dream up. Right from the moment he started meeting me on the way to work to carry my bag, he proved that.
He wants to help with the baby? He steps right in. He wants to help with the custody issue? He marries me. And I think I’m learning and working on accepting that he really only does things he wants to.
It’s just that his heart is so darn big underneath that polished, steady guise of his, he seems like he wants to do it all.
That’s why there’s a thread of doubt stitching into my consciousness and suggesting maybe I should believe him at both his word and deed.
Maybe he wanted to marry me.
Maybe he wanted to be here with me tonight on this couch eating Naan King and talking about mundane parts of life like his gardening hobby and my deep and personal love for the nerdy science teacher on Stranger Things.
Maybe he wants to be snuggled next to me while Charlie sleeps upstairs.
These thoughts chase around and around my head once freed, little jackrabbits having their day until eventually, I wear out.
When I wake, I come to with drowsy pleasure to warmth at my cheek. Eyes blinking open, I see Dec hovering over me. It’s his hand at my cheek, and that low rumble is his voice just above a whisper speaking my name.
“Evie, love. Time for bed.”
His eyes are dark at this range, and his face is so serious and handsome. It’s the late hour or the bellyful of delicious dinner, or the quiet contentment of this moment with him that has me daring to reach up and touch him.
I run my fingers gently along his hairline, brushing back the bit that arches lightly over his forehead at this angle. I continue tracing along until I reach his cheekbone, where I indulge in sliding my palm gently over the short, crisp stubble at his cheek, his jawline.
“You’re so…”
Whatever boldness I’ve had until now flees when he stiffens, inching back just enough for me to realize he’s on guard.
No longer is he the relaxed, hazy Dec I woke to. The one calling me “love” and touching my face like he has a right to.
That perfunctory distance he keeps between us is back, the closeness banished into the night completely when he sits up.
I hate it. I want the closeness back. I want…
I have no filter for my actions, a very weak grip on my feelings, and it’s past time I put myself to bed. He stands and I do, too, folding the blanket he must’ve laid over me, and looking around for my phone. He hands it to me, but holds on to it, forcing an odd connection.
“Thank you.”
It’s that delicious, rough scratch his voice turns into when he’s tired.
I’d like to hear other things in that voice.
I’d like to hear my name. I’d like to hear exclamations and groans of ecstasy and maybe even something shocking. Something showing me he’s not holding back, not tightly controlled, every action premeditated.
And clearly, it is time for me to go to bed.
“You have nothing to thank me for.” How could he? He bought dinner, arranged it, had a selection of movie suggestions, and at some point, covered me with a blanket.
He gives me one of those looks instead of responding and finally releases my phone. This expression always sets my heart on fire, and tonight, I can’t take much more, so I turn and march toward the stairs.
“See you bright and early.”
I hope he can’t hear the twinge of heartache in my tone. I press my hand to my chest as I mount the stairs to my room. His room.
Because as much as I know Declan is someone who will only do what he wants, it makes moments like these almost unbearable.
Because if he wanted to kiss me, he would.
If he wanted to be with me, he would.
If he wanted more than simply to help us…
He would.
Wouldn’t he?
I’m not sure why I expected pandemonium at the campsite, but when we arrive to find the Ryan family all neatly organized and heading off in different directions, I’m both relieved and shocked.
The wildness should’ve helped distract me from this buzzy, achy feeling in my chest. It might’ve helped me keep my mind from appreciating Declan in athletic shorts and a T-shirt that remind me just how ridiculously fit he is.
Not that I can ever truly forget after the morning encounter of him shirtless post-run, but here he is flaunting it in my face all over again.
And the worst part about that is I genuinely don’t think this man is aware of what he does to me. We’ve got a real “She Don’t Know She’s Beautiful” situation here, but it’s a ridiculously hot, fit, self-sacrificing, brilliant, talented, thoughtful, respectful, sexy man.
“Yay! You’re here!”
Sam mercifully ends my mental spiral with a hug, but as soon as she sees my face, her eyes widen.
“Oh, okay.” She looks around for her fiancé. “Hey, Grant? Can you help your brother?”
Grant tips his head down and jogs over to Declan, who’s handing Charlie off to Mary. Charlie squeals out a “Gammy!” and my heart, for at least the tenth time today, squeezes.
Sam loops her arm in mine, and we tromp off along a path past a few campers, a tent, and a grove of trees until we reach a stretch of squatty plants I’m pretty sure are sagebrush.
“Okay. What’s going on?”
The compassion on her face snaps the admittedly flimsy barrier I’ve managed to erect and tears immediately spill over. I press my hands to my face and breathe through the overflow of emotion.
“Hey, whoa. It’s okay. Whatever’s happening, we’ll figure it out.”
She’s so kind and I hate the idea that she might be worried something’s truly wrong, so I suck it up and swipe at my eyes.
“Sorry, I just…” My traitorous eyes fill again. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.”
It’s a gasped, whispered, teary confession and both a relief and horror to have the words out of me and floating into the air.
But Sam is unfazed. Her dark ponytail bounces at the back of her head under her hat with absolutely zero shock. “Oh, honey. Of course you are.”
I swipe at my nose with a tissue she produces from her pocket, and an agonized chuckle tumbles out. “Of course?”
She smiles kindly, but also in a way that says, obviously.
“You already had a crush. Something tells me being up close and personal with him wasn’t ever going to be the cure.”
Understatement.
She heaves a big breath and hugs me. “And are we sure…?”
I’m grateful she doesn’t say it. My hands flop at my sides. “I don’t know. He keeps saying friends, but…”
It’s too embarrassing to list all the moments I’ve felt like maybe there was more. Maybe he was looking at me more like a woman and less like a friend or single mom he’s helping out, or even an employee he’s going the extra mile for.
Ugh.
Her expression shifts. “Oh.” A big grin spreads across her face. “Then it’s not a done deal.”
As much as she’s been through, I’m always delighted to see her so light. Maybe that’s why I don’t contradict her.
Or maybe I’m still hoping there’s a chance my efforts to maintain custody of my son won’t mean completely destroying my heart.