Chapter 19
DECLAN
I’m a world-class jerk.
I should’ve been able to let today slide off me.
I’ve done PR before. I know how to smile and wave when it matters.
But then I stepped into this decked out suite with the most beautiful woman in the world, and all it did was remind me that she was in no way mine.
I have no reason to touch her or be close to her.
As soon as we got here, I saw the way her mind was working to make sense of the day we had. I had to take a minute to adjust to reality too. Being with Avah today, pretending to be her husband, was surprisingly easy. Too easy.
And that’s the problem. Easy makes me think about things I have no business thinking about.
Now, I’m back on the couch for the night. My wife is alone in our bedroom. And the bar is standing in the corner of the suite, mocking me.
The drink I poured myself is still sitting there…untouched. I wanted to show her that I’m exactly the guy she thinks I am. Someone who’s driven by a drink, a fight, a woman.
The thing is, I don’t want her to think that.
Not really.
And that makes me even more of an idiot. Instead of proving her wrong, I tried my best to prove her right.
Maybe I just wanted to give her a reason to hate me enough so we could actually end this in two years without complication. Hate coupled with rejection is something I can handle. What I can’t handle is the thought of her looking at me like I might be better than I am.
But when she slammed the bedroom door shut…I hated that sound more than anything. Because it meant she cared enough to be hurt. It meant I pushed too far. And in that moment, I knew I was pouring the drink to tick her off.
Not because I needed it.
That thought alone was freeing on so many levels. Like skating onto fresh ice when the rink is empty.
I drag a hand down my face and kick the cushions into the perfect position. I should’ve grabbed my bag before I allowed Avah to shut herself in the room with all our things. This place has three bathrooms. I could’ve showered, cooled down and maybe unwind. Instead I’m stewing in my wedding suit.
On my wedding night.
Without my wife.
She went all out on me. I have no idea why she felt the need to drill down on things I don’t want to talk about. We had a great day. We chose an amazing place in Brooklyn, one that I know she loves because her eyes lit up the moment we stepped foot into it.
Yet, the second she opened that bedroom door…
it must’ve been the roses or the candles that set her off.
Because the moment she turned, she let me have it.
And I was more than happy to oblige…and I probably always will be.
I’m not scared of her anger or her emotions.
She can bring it, I’ll meet her swing for swing.
For the first time, I don’t want to stay there. Not with her.
Because today we proved that we could be something else. We can do more than just clash all the time. We can stand side by side, like it costs nothing. Choosing our home, spending time with our friends, letting the realtor call her my wife…it felt good. Natural.
Like maybe we didn’t always have to fight to keep this thing between us alive.
I probably won’t admit this to her out loud, but I want more of that. Not just the constant raging storm between us, but rather the calm after it. The moments where her laughing eyes find me, or her hand slips into mine. A quiet truce between the two of us, one that doesn’t feel so empty.
A small sound coming from behind the bedroom door draws my attention. Just as I’m about to write it off as my imagination, I hear it again. Getting up I slowly approach the bedroom door. I hesitate to knock and end up placing my ear against the wood.
I can’t hear much. Then…it’s unmistakable. She’s crying.
‘Father God…’ the words are faint but filled with hurt.
‘I’ve been lost…’ she trails off, her voice too quiet for me to hear.
Then, ‘Please guide Declan…and me. We need Your grace…’
She’s praying.
She’s praying for me. For her. For both of us.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, leaning back like her prayer might burn me.
I shouldn’t be listening to her personal prayers.
Besides, I don’t have to listen to every word to know that she is praying for God to help me.
She thinks I’m in need of divine intervention.
And why would she think anything else? I left her thinking I’m out here halfway through a bottle of bourbon.
I’ve never given her a reason to think differently.
I drift back to the couch and drop onto it, staring up at the ceiling. I feel unsteady, like trying to get up after taking a hard hit. My throat tightens, my chest burns.
I know my Aunt Kat prays for me. She’s always prayed for me and she’s never kept it a secret. I took it for granted, because that’s just who she is. She’s family. She looks out for me. Just like she’s been praying for my dad all these years.
But hearing Avah pray for me?
Why would she do that? Does she care enough to talk to God about me?
And the bigger question, the one that has a knife twisting in my gut: Is God listening to her?
Suddenly I feel…exposed. Like there’s a light shining on everything I’ve been trying to hide in the dark.
I hear a click and my gaze shifts to the bedroom door.
She’s standing there wearing tights and an oversized Rangers sweatshirt.
Her light hair, now loose over her shoulders, is curled and twisted from the braid she wore the entire day.
Her eyes are red-rimmed and I fight the urge to get up and pull her into my arms.
Her eyes flick between me and the bar counter, where the drink is still sitting untouched.
“Are you alright?” I ask, my voice low and hopefully filled with an apology because I don’t know how I’m going to get words out with this woman.
“You didn’t drink it?” she asks, slowly making her way toward me.
I shake my head. “I didn’t. I didn’t need to.”
Relief spills into her features. She moves closer with determination.
“I need to apologize,” she says.
Surprize moves through me as she sits on the couch next to me, shifting in such a way that her legs are resting firmly and warmly against my own. “I want you to know that I never meant to say those things to you.”
I know she means that night in the parking lot after our game against Florida. We’ve had a lot of…conversations in the year we’ve known each other but that one struck hard.
“You meant it,” I say simply. “I know because I felt the weight behind it.”
The weight of the truth.
“Still,” she says, her voice soft as she toys with the hem of her sweatshirt. “I’ve been upset about a lot of things for such a long time. It took me a while to realize that I wasn’t exactly aiming those words at you.”
I shift and sit up, making more room for her as we now sit facing each other.
“Then who were you aiming them at, Snow? I didn’t see anyone else in that parking lot but me.”
She looks up at me, her blue eyes filled with hurt. The need to pull her into my chest intensifies. I want to hold her and comfort her. I want to find the person who made her feel like this…and make them feel it too.
But instead of crossing a line she drew, I brush my fingers against the back of her hand, urging her to tell me more.
“Are you talking about the guy you left behind back home?” I ask.
She nods, looking down at her hand. She’s still wearing the ring I gave her today, gently twisting it on her finger. Hope blooms in my chest. It must say something that she’s still wearing her wedding ring even after we just had a fight. I thought she’d throw it out the window.
“He wasn’t just a guy. We were together for a long time. I was engaged to him,” she says softly. “I guess I would’ve been on my honeymoon with him now if I didn’t find him in his locker room with another woman.”
Cold fingers fold around my heart, squeezing tighter with each passing second.
She used to wear another man’s ring on her finger…
and he betrayed her. She trusted him and he hurt her.
No wonder she always insisted on picking a fight with me whenever I was with a woman who wasn’t my pick of the season.
I must’ve looked a lot like her cheating ex and I didn’t ever do anything to prove her wrong.
“I left as soon as I found out. Honestly, the job in the US was a gift from God. I took it without thinking, packed my things and got on the plane. But now, I can’t imagine going back to everything I left behind.” Her voice wobbles slightly and she wipes a tear from her cheeks.
“I made a no intimacy rule, Declan, because I can’t…” she trails off. “I’m not ready for anything like what I had before.”
My hands are balled at my sides, not only do I want to punch her ex in the face, but I want to wrap my arms around her.
She takes a deep breath, her gaze lifting to mine. Her blue eyes are filled with tears.
“I made choices with Axel, crossed lines that can’t be uncrossed. I’ve been running for the past year, and now it feels like it’s all catching up to me.” The tears spill over her cheeks.
Screw it.
I pull her into me. She fits perfectly beneath my chin, crying as I wind my fingers through her hair. This feels too good to be true. I don’t have a need to let go, to run in the opposite direction or to let her know that she should have no expectations here.
No, instead, I have a need to never let her go.
“I’m the one who has to apologize,” I say, into her hair. “I was a jerk and you deserve better.” I place a kiss against her hair, lingering there for a second.
It’s hard not to. I may have had a certain idea about who Avah Johansson is, but I was wrong on every possible level. She’s loyal and caring, kindhearted and genuine. She deserves to be someone’s wife. Someone who can give her the world.
And that’s you?
I shove the thought down, knowing our arrangement isn’t what she deserves. But it is what she needs right now, and I’ll give her what she needs. I can do that much.