5. Declan
DECLAN
I realize I should possibly be concerned about, or at least interested in, why Astrid is suddenly agreeable to me being here in Rebel.
But she’s wearing shorts.
So I can’t really focus on anything else as we walk across the park on the way back to her house, not speaking.
The shorts hit her at about mid-thigh, and they’re loose, burnt orange linen. She has them paired with a pretty cream-colored blouse and sandals with straps that wrap around her trim ankles.
It's not an overly sexy outfit. Loose linen shorts and a cream blouse shouldn't leave me half-distracted. Yet somehow seeing this much of my wife's bare skin up close feels more dangerous than every gala photo and gymnastics broadcast I've ever seen.
But again, I have never been up close to any of that.
It’s like she has been purposely dressing conservatively since living with me.
Even in the early morning hours in the penthouse, she would be completely dressed and put together before we saw one another. And both times I have been in Rebel to take in a hockey game, she has been in pantsuits that, while attractive, of course, give full coverage.
Not so today. And my palm is itching to reach out and rest against her lower back or take her hand and link our fingers. Since holding her in my arms at the café, my body feels like it’s humming and vibrating with energy.
“Team Declan!” a voice calls out.
I glance in that direction, grateful for the distraction.
I recognize the man. It’s Beckett Moore, one of the players on Astrid’s hockey team, the Revelers.
I lift a hand, acknowledging the vote in my favor. “Thanks.”
Astrid snorts. “Beckett is kissing up because he wants to play for the Grays.”
Beckett is interested in playing for my pro team? Huh. All of her players seem so happy here, that is actually a surprise. I look down at her. “I’ve had people kiss up in worse ways.”
“Everyone else on Team Declan is pretty much voting either because they feel like divorce is a sin or because you’re better looking than Miles.”
I lift a brow. “I’m better looking than Miles?”
She lifts a shoulder. “That’s what they think. So I’ve heard.”
Of course, she’s not going to give me her opinion. “Is Miles aware of this?”
I like Miles Stafford. I truly do. But this rivalry that has been thrust upon us could be either annoying or amusing.
Maybe a little of both. He’s a good sport, though, and I expect that he will take this in stride.
Especially if he has spent significant time in this town and understands that these people are a little kooky.
“He is,” she says. “But Miles is very comfortable with who he is. He doesn’t mind being the cute golden retriever.”
I frown. “Golden retriever?”
“It’s a way some people describe guys who are energetic, fun-loving, loyal, and want to make their woman happy no matter what. Like golden retrievers.”
I shouldn’t ask my next question. I don’t want to know how people would describe me. Or, rather, I already know.
“You’re the hot, broody grump,” Astrid tells me without my asking. “Actually, some people think that you might be a cinnamon roll, but they don’t know you well enough to know for sure.”
I get hung up on the ‘hot’ part for a second and want to know if she added that adjective or if that’s just ‘what she heard’. But I have to ask, “What the hell is a cinnamon roll?”
“Crispy on the outside.” She looks up at me with a little smirk. “Warm and gooey on the inside.”
I can’t help my snort. That’s funny.
She looks startled.
I realize we definitely haven’t spent time laughing together.
“He gets to be a lovable dog type, and I’m a food item?”
“A really delicious food type,” she says. Then her cheeks get pink, and she ducks her head. “At least some people think so.”
“Do you like cinnamon rolls?” I think I am flirting with my wife.
If I’m not, I realize that I should be.
She clears her throat before answering. “If they have caramel icing, not cream cheese. And no nuts.”
I laugh. Out loud. I haven’t done that in a long time. I don’t spend time with funny people. Iris, my assistant-slash-bodyguard-slash-probably-only-friend, makes me laugh on occasion, but she’s got a very dry, sarcastic sense of humor and I’ve spent more time rolling my eyes than laughing out loud.
I like laughing with Astrid.
And I like how she looks at me when I laugh.
“I think it’s safe to say, I’m not really nutty,” I tell her, smiling.
She studies me for a moment, and I have to reach out and suddenly grab her elbow as I see a divot in the grass that she’s about to step into.
She gasps softly as I pull her closer to me, steadying her.
“You need to watch where you’re walking,” I tell her. Though I really like her eyes on me.
She simply nods.
“Maybe you’re a German Shepherd,” she says. “If you want to be a dog.”
“How so?”
“Protective. But kind of growly. And a little scary looking.”
I am all of those things. I’ve practiced looking scary. It saves me time not putting up with people’s shit, especially around conference tables in boardrooms.
“But really intelligent and loyal,” she adds softly.
I like all of those adjectives, especially that she is assigning them to me. “I think even German Shepherds can be playful sometimes, though,” I say. Without thinking.
But the way her pupils dilate slightly, I find myself not regretting it at all.
Her tongue comes out and wets her bottom lip. “I’ve never been around a German Shepherd, so I wouldn’t know.”
I want to show you.
I’m startled by the thought.
‘Playful’ is absolutely not a word anyone would associate with me.
Not even when I was a kid. I was serious even growing up.
Until I was eighteen and Astrid’s grandfather told me I could have a different future, I’d believed I would be in charge of leading my entire home country from the throne my family had sat upon for generations.
Serious was definitely one word for how I’d approached life.
It still is, though. I’m not the heir apparent in Cara, but my entire business empire has been built as a support system and safety net for my siblings and Alfred’s grandchildren. Including Astrid.
“You really do make a cute couple!” someone says as they walk past us on the path.
We both glance over at the man and woman in their mid-thirties.
The man says quietly, “Honey, come on,” as he casts us an apologetic look.
“What?” she asks. “It’s okay to say that. We want to encourage him to be here with her. Remember? We’re Team Declan.”
Their voices fade as they walk away, and Astrid looks up at me again.
“There’s going to be a lot of that.”
“I don’t mind. If they write about what a cute couple we are, it will get back to my grandfather and help our case against the annulment.”
She wets her lips. “Or…we could just hop on your plane tonight and go to Cara and get the annulment over with even sooner.”
I step closer and lift my hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
She sucks in a quick breath, and I take note.
That’s not fear. That’s not a flinch. She didn’t tense up. There’s a flush in her cheeks.
“Why would I do that?” I ask, taking the chance to drag the backs of my knuckles over her cheek before dropping my hand.
She presses her lips together and swallows. “Because us being married is crazy. And you know it.”
It is. But it’s not the first crazy thing I’ve done for my family.
“Crazy doesn’t have to mean bad.” I’ve learned that.
I’m a prince. That’s crazy. In the modern world, living and working in the US, going about my usual day-to-day life, I don’t even think about it most of the time. But it’s true.
“Our grandfathers were drunk when they came up with this arranged marriage idea,” she says. “Then they were too stubborn to admit it was nuts.”
“You walked down the aisle and told the king yes,” I remind her, my gut tight.
Of course, she’s right. The entire thing is bonkers. Who arranges marriages anymore?
Actually, a lot of people. It’s not uncommon inside the upper echelons of business and society. Combining power and wealth by uniting families has never gone completely out of style. In certain circles, people even talk openly about it. It’s understood and accepted.
“You were very…forceful about it at the time,” she says, her eyes narrowing.
I think back to that day.
I was, indeed. I had arrived in Cara for the first time in over a decade, afraid that she had already married my brother.
The truth was, her older sister and my brother were the ones who were supposed to fulfill our grandfathers' wish for an arranged marriage. Then they’d gone and fallen in real love with other people.
But rather than drop the whole idea, my grandfather had just moved on to the next single grandchildren—my brother Cian and Astrid.
I hadn’t realized just how strong my obsession for this woman was until there was a real risk of her marrying someone else. Someone I was related to, especially.
I’d gotten on my plane and flown straight to the place I’d vowed never to return to.
And I’d told her that there was no reason I’d accept for her not marrying me that day.
“I was not at my best that day,” I finally admit.
She frowns, and I think that was probably not the best way to describe my emotional state on our wedding day.
“You know us being married is dumb. Just let the annulment happen, Declan.”
I feel that tightening in my gut again. “I’m not going to do that.”
“Why not?” She blows out a frustrated breath. “Why are you being so stubborn about this? Why are you here now, after all this time, when there are only a few more days until it’s over?”
So many reasons. The primary reason is that I want to be married to her. I had no idea my grandfather might change his mind, and I could end up losing her.
But I tell her the second most important reason. “I want my family back.”
She starts to reply but then stops. She frowns. Then says, “What does that mean?”