15. Declan #2
I locate a needle—Jesus, I’m going to have to use a needle on her? That fucking goddamned porch—and antibiotic cream and a bandage.
I look up when I hear a soft snort.
Astrid is watching me with an amused, disbelieving look. “You’re worried about my cat?”
“That porch is a hazard, Astrid,” I tell her. I tear open an alcohol wipe, rub it over the needle, then toss it aside.
“But Wilson and Patty and Oscar aren’t at as much risk. They won’t have you distracting them the way you were distracting me.”
She’s teasing me. In the space of just a little more than twenty-four hours, we’ve graduated to teasing. And kissing. And teasing about the kissing. I like that.
But now she’s hurt.
I take her hand, blow out a breath, and apply the tip of the needle to the splinter.
“I don’t want anyone hurt. And for the record…
” I press on the needle. She holds her breath.
“I intend to do what I was doing out there to you a lot more often, so I want to be sure I don’t have to worry about you being in pain afterward. ”
I remove the splinter from her skin as I speak, then lift her hand to my lips. I kiss the spot, then suck gently, trying to override the pain sensation.
If the way her eyes darken and her cheeks get pink is any indication, it works.
I kiss her hand again, then bring it down. I wipe the now splinter-free spot with an antiseptic wipe, apply antibiotic cream, and then press a bandage into place, saying, “So no more porch visitors until we fix it.”
She frowns. “I don’t have a lot of porch visitors anyway. And those who do come, come even without an invitation. Wilson and Patty knew the porch was rickety before I did. I don’t know if you can really keep them away.”
I pin her with a look. “I can.”
She tips her head, absolutely not intimidated or impressed by my firm “I’m-in-charge-here” look. “That’s not the way to get Team Declan points.”
“I don’t care about Team Declan points, Astrid.”
Her eyes again flare with some emotion that seems a mix of heat and…affection?
“We can’t keep them away.”
“I will tell them—”
“I mean, I don’t want to keep them away.”
Dammit. I sigh. “Fine. Then we fix the porch immediately.”
“I don’t know if—”
I grasp her waist again and lift her, setting her on the floor. “I do,” I say simply.
She just presses her lips together.
And nods.
Holy fuck. Is she just…letting me take charge?
I crowd closer, her back against the counter. “Is this you being submissive?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” she says softly. “But I like your CEO mode. Especially when you’re in a suit.”
Oh. Fuck. I’m in a lot of trouble with this ‘let’s take things slow’ thing.
“So the bossy thing in Cara was part of why you said yes,” I say.
“Unfortunately,” she admits.
I laugh and brush the backs of my knuckles over her cheek. I can’t just not touch her. “Noted.”
She nods. “I was afraid you would.”
“I—”
She cuts me off. “I have to go take care of the ducks.” She starts to move past me, but I stop her with an arm around her waist.
“Uh, no,” I say firmly.
“Excuse me?”
I look down at her bandaged hand. “I’ll do it.”
She looks at the small bandage, then up at me. “You have to be kidding.”
“I’m definitely not.” I step back. “You can come out with me and tell me what to do.”
She narrows her eyes, thinking this over. Then, apparently, decides this will be hilarious.
And it is.
For her.
Because ducks are fucking messy as hell. I have to clean every single dish and dump and refill their pool, which I know was clean this morning, all of which requires me to slog through mud in my dress shoes. She doesn’t even suggest I change my shoes first.
“So I should probably buy some boots or something, huh?” I ask, standing in the middle of the duck pen, spraying out one of the larger water dishes, with mud two inches above my pants’ hemline.
She grins from where she’s sitting in the circle swing hanging in the nearby tree. “Can I pick them out?”
“Will they have animal faces on them?”
“One thousand percent.”
I move as if I’m going to spray her with the hose. She shrieks and throws her hands up, then giggles, and I get hard.
Just from teasing and playing with her in the yard with messy ducks and mud around us.
I’m very, very fucked here if this woman actually wants the annulment.
Because I’m in love with her.
“Why are you all so damned messy?” I ask the three ducks that have been following me around. They came rushing up to us when we stepped out into the yard and have been quacking and wagging their tails like little puppies ever since.
“They dip their heads in the water as they eat to soften and filter the food and help wash it down. They can’t eat without water,” Astrid tells me. “And their nostrils get clogged when they forage in the mud and dirt, so they use the water to clean them out.”
She tosses mealworms, peas, and lettuce leaves into the grass to the five other ducks still on the ground, which helps keep them out of the muddy area I’m trying to clean up.
I mutter a little less about the mess after hearing that. Even though they still rush over to their water bowls as they eat their bedtime treats, which is making the water I just replaced dirty.
I finish with the water, rake up some of the wet bedding, and then settle in for… cuddles.
Yes. I find myself sitting in the grass near Astrid’s swing, literally at her feet, with three ducks in my lap. I stroke their heads and backs tentatively. They don’t seem to mind that I don’t know what I’m doing.
Their bedtime routine apparently includes pets and cuddles, especially with these three, who are particularly affectionate.
Astrid and Wilson assume Prentiss, Hotch, and Garcia were hand-reared and imprinted on humans from birth.
Which makes it even more heart-wrenching that they were dumped in the park.
She holds Reid, who is shyer than the rest and often misses out on nighttime snacks unless she feeds him specifically. She hand-feeds him peas and mealworms from her palm.
We sit quietly, except for the ducks, and let them finish their treats. Then, to my awe, Hotch heads toward the duck house, and the others follow him.
I look from them to Astrid. She’s smiling as she leans to set the duck in her lap on the ground, then gets up.
“They’re going to bed?” I ask.
“Yep. They know the routine.”
I push myself up from the ground.
She crosses to the duck house and shuts the door behind the last bird.
“Then you let them out in the morning?”
“The door is automatic in the morning,” she says. “I can set it to be automatic at night too, but I like putting them to bed.” She takes a breath and looks around the yard. “It’s pretty back here. Peaceful. I like my time back here before bed.”
I get it. It’s as different from the downtown Portland area where our penthouses are as two places can get. The only thing the two places have in common is that they share the same night sky.
Even though that sky looks completely different here. The stars overhead are stunning tonight.
I follow Astrid to the back porch. She pauses there and turns back to me.
“Thanks for doing all of this,” Astrid says.
“Of course.” I smile. “I enjoyed it.”
She looks down at my shoes. “Were those pants expensive?”
I look at the hem of my pantlegs. “Yes,” I admit. “And I still enjoyed this.”
She shakes her head and laughs softly. “Of course. My spray bottle is completely ineffective with you.”
“What is this about a spray bottle?”
“People use spray bottles to keep cats from doing things like getting up on counters, climbing curtains, eating plants. It usually works. But Sutton said her aunt had a cat that liked the spray bottle.” She tips her head. “You’re that cat for me.”
I laugh. “I see.” I move in closer. “I’m not sorry.”
She nods. “I know.” Then she lifts up on tiptoe and presses a kiss to my lips. “Goodnight, Declan.”
“Goodnight, Astrid.”
I watch through the kitchen door as she pauses at the counter, where all the first-aid supplies are still spread out.
“No,” I say. “Leave it. I’ll get that.”
She shoots me a little smile and then does as I say. I feel a hard-to-explain level of pleasure when she, once again, lets me take care of her.
She proceeds to the kitchen table where her cat is sitting. She scoops him up, cradles him against her chest, and starts for the doorway leading to the rest of the house.
Oscar peeks at me over her shoulder. And I swear he gives me a smug smile as she carries him up to her bed and leaves me behind.
I’m proud that I resist the urge to give a cat the middle finger.