Chapter Twelve
Declan doesn’t say anything as I click my seat belt, or as I rearrange my feet around the snack bag.
It’s the same as the day we walked to the Garden together, except now it’s a thousand times worse because we’re in a confined space.
And I don’t know about him, but I can’t stop thinking about how last time we spoke I told him I was topless.
I swear the air in the car is vibrating .
There’s no trace of the charming, calm Declan from Knit, Stitch and Yarn.
He’s focused, his eyes fixed on Jed getting into the car in front of us, his forearm flexed on the wheel.
The white T-shirt he’s wearing leaves the corded muscles way too exposed, and there is a very large part of me that would like to ask him to put a jumper on.
His black curls are damp, like he showered recently, and he smells stupidly fresh .
Which I know, because I am about thirty centimetres away from him.
I angle my body towards the window to get a bit more space. Declan glances over at me, but mercifully he doesn’t speak.
Jed pulls into the street, and Declan flicks on the indicator. The soft, steady tick feels impossibly loud as we peel out from the kerb, leaving Brooks’ behind. Six hours. We’re going to be in the car together for six hours today.
I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m not entirely sure that I can stand not talking for six hours either.
The familiar trees that line our pocket of the city flick past, then begin to thin as we near the entrance to the freeway. It feels a little like they’re screaming, You’re about to be on a really long road! For a really long time!
I know! I want to scream back at them, before I realise that I am a second away from – quite literally – talking to trees.
We’ve been sitting in silence for ten full minutes when our exit appears in front of us.
‘Have you driven this way before?’ I ask, because it’s the first thing that comes into my head. My voice is a little raspy, and I swallow.
Declan’s hand tightens on the wheel.
‘Yep,’ he says, before silence comes to reclaim its space.
I seriously can’t do this for six hours.
I lean forward and press buttons on the dashboard until the radio comes on, hoping maybe some music can drown out the deafening silence between us.
A man’s jolly voice fills the car, telling us about some great deal.
But I don’t get to find out what I could be saving big on, because Declan immediately switches it off.
I stare at him.
‘It was annoying,’ he says without even glancing at me.
Seriously?
My fingers itch to turn the radio back on again, to fiddle with the button until I find music, but I don’t. Even though I don’t hate the idea of annoying Declan, I’m a big believer that the driver has the right of radio-veto.
‘You didn’t have to drive with me,’ I say after a few more moments of silence.
‘You didn’t have to tell Bri that you were okay for us to drive together,’ he snaps.
‘You know I did.’
‘Why, because you’re scared of driving in the city?’ He changes lanes with a decisive flick of the indicator and I want to scream.
‘Is there anything I should know about the book?’ I ask instead, because I am determined to turn my frustration into professionalism.
‘It’s about trees,’ says Declan. He glances over his shoulder, then moves left into the lane that will take us onto the freeway.
‘You could give me a little more to go on,’ I say, watching his profile. His gaze is fixed on the road but there’s a small tic in his jaw, like his lips either want to smile or grimace.
‘You could read the book,’ he says.
‘The last few weeks have been a little busy,’ I tell him. ‘As I was asked last-minute to go on a book tour.’
I don’t tell him that they’ve also been peppered by the occasional outraged Declan Archer fan or by talking to my accountant and, in my very worst moments, by me looking at realestate.com for recent sales.
I don’t tell him that I’ve tried opening his book, but every time I do it makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
‘A tour for what book was it again?’ says Declan, and I can see him arch his eyebrow behind his arrogant glasses.
Fine. Silence it is.
If this was a movie, I’d drift into an easy, beautiful slumber. We might stop somewhere, and I’d wake gracefully. Possibly a handsome stranger would brush my hair aside and whisper, ‘Clarrie, it’s time to wake up.’
I’d blink, looking somehow both dazed and beautiful.
I do fall asleep, but it’s a crooked, uncomfortable sleep that hurts my neck and makes my hair stick out on one side. And I am woken – but it’s because I snort so loudly in my sleep that I jerk myself awake, banging my knee on the glovebox and almost punching Declan in the groin.
He catches my wrist before it connects with anything, his fingers light and warm against my skin. And then he drops it like it’s on fire.
‘Sorry,’ I manage to stutter, wiping sleep from my eyes and drool from the corner of my mouth with a hand that’s only tingling a tiny bit. ‘Must have fallen asleep.’
‘You definitely did,’ says Declan mildly, but there’s something about the tone of his voice that makes me look in his direction.
‘I normally sleep very gracefully,’ I blurt out, and, in my defence, I still haven’t quite woken up yet.
‘I’m sure you do,’ says Declan, his eyes fixed ahead.
‘Everyone snores a little bit sometimes,’ I say, my voice ever so slightly defensive.
‘I’ve read that,’ says Declan with a nod, and I almost stick my tongue out at him.
Rather than doing it and cementing that I am, in fact, a five-year-old, I push myself up and look out of the window.
We’re still on the highway, but it’s one-lane traffic now rather than the four it was heading out of the city. When I look out of the back window, I can see Jed’s van behind us; Declan must have overtaken him at some point.
Houses and powerlines have given way to trees, and it all looks familiar in a vague kind of way. I really should know more about what’s just beyond the city.
‘Where are we?’ I ask Declan, before I can remember that he doesn’t like me and might judge me for not knowing. With running the bookshop and Gran being in Glenhaven, I haven’t travelled much in the last few years.
Although, even when I was younger, we didn’t really drive anywhere further than an hour south of the city. After a childhood spent feeling stuck in the bookshop, Mum always wanted to go as far afield as we could. Holidays were either in Europe with them, or spent with Gran and Grandpa at Brooks’.
‘We just passed Welhope,’ says Declan. Then, as though he’s taking pity on me, he adds, ‘About two hours north-east of where we started.’
‘Do you want me to drive?’ I ask him, straightening in my seat.
Declan turns his head towards me. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow.
And, just like that, I feel frustration race to the surface again.
‘Would you like to see my licence?’ I ask him.
Declan sighs. ‘I only asked because you’ve just woken up.’ But because he’s Declan Archer and, apparently, he can’t help himself, he says, ‘From what looked and sounded like a very deep sleep.’
‘Hilarious.’
The thing is, I’m not actually even sure I want to drive. I don’t particularly like driving. But Declan’s been at the wheel for a long time, and I think my concentration is likely to be better than his, dislike of driving or no.
‘Bri said you need to practise your speech,’ I tell him, ‘and you’ve been driving for two hours.’
Declan hesitates, and it looks like I won’t need sharp implements after all because I think it might kill him to admit that he needs help.
‘Okay,’ he says finally, and I only just manage to stop myself adding, ‘Thank you, Clarrie,’ for him.
Gravel crunches beneath the tyres as he pulls off to the side of the road.
He unclicks his seat belt and opens the door.
A crisp breeze sweeps into the car as though to announce proudly the temperature and air quality outside, and pebbles the skin across my arm.
I can hear a car pull in behind us, and turn round to wave to Jed, who is looking very happy alone in his van.
I mean, anyone would be happy in a van full of books.
If you could maybe imagine that they were different books.
I slide across from my seat to the driver’s side while Declan walks round the car.
The seat is still warm from the heat of his body, and it smells like him.
I’m shifting around, trying to get comfortable, when he stops by the passenger window and stretches, sunglasses in hand.
His white T-shirt rides up above the line of his jeans.
I realise I’m staring when a jolt of heat that has nothing – but maybe a little – to do with the warm seat rushes through me, so I do what any rational person would do: I honk the crap out of the horn.
Declan jumps, banging his elbow on the roof of the car. Then he pulls the door open. The action is calm, and measured, but frustration is written across his face.
He swings into the car and glares at me, slamming his door shut. ‘What the hell was that?’
To be honest, I’m not even sure. All I know is that I didn’t need to spend any more time watching him stretch. That’s not what I say to him though.
‘Just checking out the equipment,’ I say.
And maybe it’s because of the arms or the abs, or because I still haven’t woken up properly, but it ends up sounding much saucier when I say it out loud.
Declan raises a confused eyebrow at me and heat flames up my cheeks.
‘I’m not sure if you realised, but this is a six-hour drive,’ I tell him loftily, pretending my face isn’t on fire and taking way too much satisfaction out of the fact that he is having trouble arranging his feet around my snack bag.
Declan stills, his long legs pausing their rearrangement. He looks up to meet my eyes and his expression shifts to something similar to the day in the deli, when I’d lied about drinking coffee. And, all of a sudden, I want to go back to the nice, stiff silence from earlier.
‘I’m aware,’ he says, searching my face like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Before I can think of a stunning retort, there’s a knock at my window. Declan doesn’t even try to hide his amusement when I jerk at the sound, and he points behind me out of the window.
‘Jed’s here,’ he says helpfully.
‘Thanks.’
I turn round to see Jed motioning with his hand to wind the window down, as though we’re still in the nineties and windows have actual cranks. Although I suppose just miming pushing down a button is much less effective.
Turning my back on Declan, I twist the key in the ignition and press the button to wind the window down.
Jed peers through the gap.
‘I know your horn might get some use in the city, but we’re on our way to the country now, and it disrupts the wildlife,’ he says, his voice on the stern side of friendly. ‘I’d advise leaving off the toot-tooting unless it’s an emergency situation.’
‘Sorry, Jed,’ I tell him, trying to stop the fresh flush that I’m pretty sure is seconds from blooming across my face.
Jed nods. ‘No harm done. Let’s be off now, though.’ He winds up his imaginary window again then strides back to the van.
Declan coughs softly, like he might be trying to cover a laugh. I resolutely ignore him until he shifts his legs again, looking down. ‘What on earth is in this bag?’ he asks.
‘Snacks,’ I tell him, grateful for the distraction. ‘Did you not pack snacks?’
‘I don’t eat snacks,’ says Declan.
That’s about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.
‘On a six-hour car drive, everyone eats snacks.’
‘Not me,’ says Declan. He tries to push the bag to one side, but it determinedly bounces back again. ‘Seriously, you have enough for about twenty people here,’ he says. He tries to move it one more time before he gives up, sighing and shifting his legs to one side.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘If you want, I could ask Jed to pull over. Maybe you can ride with him.’
Declan doesn’t even dignify that with a response.
He leans forward to pull a sheaf of paper out of a slim bag I barely even noticed he was carrying.
He settles into his seat and begins sorting through them, occasionally muttering to himself.
My gaze flicks to him more than I’d like, and after a while he frowns.
‘I can feel you watching me,’ he says.
‘You’re being really loud,’ I say, before realising that I’m driving now. I press the radio button with a flourish, then fiddle until it starts playing something bright. Declan raises his eyebrows at me, but doesn’t say anything, just goes back to his sorting and muttering.
My love of pop music was always a bone of contention with Jamie (the ex who sold my toaster). He was of the opinion that music should be weighty and meaningful, and could never understand why I picked what to listen to based solely on what made me feel like singing or dancing.
But, even here, the happy notes begin to worm their way under my skin.
The countryside is bright and colourful, and as we pass trees and farms I start to think that maybe I should’ve been a long-distance truck driver.
I stop thinking about the bookshop and the tour and I even manage to almost forget about Declan Archer beside me and I just drive.
Out of the window, the bush gradually thickens, and the small townships we pass through – if they can even be called that – get smaller and smaller, until even the sight of more than two small buildings in a row is rare.
The happy music on the radio begins to clip in and out, lyrics chopped in half by bumps and bad reception. Declan clicks it off, plunging the car into silence again. This time I do stick my tongue out at him.
‘So mature,’ he says, going back to his notes.
I try not to listen to him, but without the music it’s difficult not to. Every now and then he sighs softly in what sounds like frustration and, not that I’m counting, but he rubs his head about five times.
After maybe half an hour of Declan’s sighs and an increasingly bumpy road, I can’t help glancing at him. His brow is furrowed as he looks at the paper, every line of his body tense.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’d be better if you focused on the road,’ says Declan without looking up.
I’m surprised by the sharp sting of hurt I feel at the words. But what did I expect? Declan Archer and I are just doing a job together. We’re not friends.
We lapse into silence again.