Chapter 15 #2
All week I've been sitting there stewing over every distant look and flat answer he gave, and the whole time he's been carrying something heavy enough to make Declan Morrison—captain, wall of a man, emotionally constipated hockey star—actually write a note.
I set the paper down beside the spa voucher, pull out my phone, and type before I can second-guess it.
Josie: Got your note. Got the chocolates. Currently deciding whether to be mad at you or eat the entire tray before you get here.
I've barely had time to hit send and draw breath before there's a knock at the door.
"That was fast. Suspiciously fast."
I cross the room, pull the door open, and there he is, looking like he hasn't slept properly in days.
"Hi," Declan says, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"Hi." I step back to let him in, my heart pounding inside my chest. "You didn't even wait for me to reply."
"I've been standing outside your door for the last ten minutes, waiting."
He looks at me, and I lose about ten seconds to the way his eyes drag over my face, like even wrecked and exhausted he can't help staring at every inch of me.
My pulse kicks up and I suddenly feel like I'm burning up.
Apparently my body doesn't care that this man just told me his family is imploding. It just cares that Declan Morrison is close enough that I can smell his cologne again, close enough that I remember exactly what those blue eyes look like from underneath him.
I close the door behind him, and the click of the lock feels louder than it should.
"Declan." I fold my arms, not out of anger, but because I genuinely don't know what to do with my hands right now. "What's been going on? And I mean actually going on. Not the 'vibes are fine' version."
He drags a hand down his face, exhales long and slow, then sinks onto the edge of the bed like his legs have finally given out.
"My parents are getting divorced," he says.
And… BOOM.
The words land like a fucking bomb. Hard, fast and like he's been carrying them so long they've just exploded.
I sit down beside him, careful not to crowd him. "Okay."
"That's not even the—" He laughs, short and humorless. "That's not even the worst part. Zoey called us five days ago. Right before that meeting, actually."
So that's when it started.
The timeline clicks into place, and something in me softens even further as he begins explaining everything. He spends the next ten minutes telling me about his own father, about the endless betrayal that his mother refused to believe.
He tells me how he's been holding all of this together for years, and by the time he's done, I can barely breathe.
"…and I told her, but she—" He shakes his head, clenched fists squeezing tight in his lap. "She didn't believe me. Or she didn't want to. I've never known which one's worse."
"Declan—"
"I'd never said anything to anyone," he says, and his voice cracks. "Now Zoey knows about what he's been doing, and we don't know how to handle it. How to tell the other two."
I reach over and take his hand, lacing our fingers together. He looks down at our hands and grips me tighter.
"I'm sorry I've been shitty. I just kept thinking if I just held it together," he says, quieter now, "if I held everyone together, then it would all go away.
Beck could keep believing we had this perfect, chaotic, loud, happy family.
Mason could keep being steady. Zoey wouldn't have to carry it either, she's got enough on her plate.
I guess I just… I learned really young that if I said the thing out loud, it would break something.
So I stopped saying things out loud. About anything. Ever."
"Declan, you don't have to wear this by yourself. That's a lot of weight for a twelve-year-old to carry."
"Yeah, well." He finally looks at me, and I hate the expression he gives me. "Turns out it's a lot of weight for a twenty-nine-year-old too. Who knew."
A small, watery laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Groundbreaking research, Morrison."
"Trust me, I have a PhD in emotional repression. Should've led with that on my dating profile."
"You don't have a dating profile."
"Well if I did, that'd be the headline. Right under 'enjoys long skates on the beach and disappointing his father.'"
I laugh again, and it actually feels good.
Because that's the thing, isn't it? We're sitting here, two people raised to swallow their own storms so no one else got wet. And now I'm sitting here in his pain, aching for him the same way he did for me, and I feel something settle instead of break.
We're not fixed. But at least now we're understood by someone.
We're broken in matching places.
And somehow, that feels nice.
"For the record—I get it. The holding it together thing. I spent this whole week convinced you were pulling away from me. That I'd done something, or that this was you finally coming to your senses about the boss you're sleeping with."
"Never." He shakes his head, firm. "Never with you, Josie. I was drowning, and I didn't know how to ask you to help me without dragging you under too. Not after what you told me about your mom too."
"Declan." I lift his hand and press my lips to his knuckles. "I've been drowning my whole life. You could've just asked."
"I know." His thumb traces over the back of my hand. "I'm asking now. Better late than never?"
"Marginally better." I lean my head against his shoulder. "You could've just texted, though. Instead of the whole—" I gesture at the chocolate, the champagne, the ridiculous spa voucher. "This is a lot, Declan."
"It was Diego's idea. He said, and I quote, 'A man who cannot use his words must use his credit card, mijo.'" Declan's chest bounces with a deep chuckle. "So. That's what I did.'"
"You're ridiculous."
"You like ridiculous."
"I like you," I say, and the honesty of it surprises us both. "Which is a much bigger problem."
But to my surprise, he just turns, cups my face with one giant hand and smiles down at me.
"I like you too. You know that, right? Terrifyingly too much."
I melt into him, my hand sliding up into his hair as he kisses me. He groans low against my mouth, pulling me closer until I'm nearly in his lap, our mouths locked together.
"God I've missed kissing you," he growls against my mouth.
He lays me back against the pillows, and the tray of chocolates tips, spilling dark little squares across the duvet as his weight settles over me.
Neither of us cares.
His mouth finds mine again, slower this time, deeper, and his hands slide beneath the hem of my shirt, warm palms moving over my breasts.
"Take this off," I breathe, tugging at his own shirt.
He obliges, pulling it over his head, and I finally get my hands on his chest again. He leans down and kisses me deeply, letting me trace every line and ridge of his torso as his tongue rolls over mine.
He undresses me slowly, pressing kisses to every bit of skin he uncovers. My collarbone, the curve of my breast, the soft plane of my stomach, every movement met with a deep murmuring of things I only half catch.
Beautiful. Mine. Sorry. So sorry.
"Declan." I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging his face back up to mine. "Stop apologizing. Come here."
He settles his hips between my thighs, and when he finally sinks into me, it's slow enough that we both gasp, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.
"There you are," he whispers, like I'm something he's been searching for all week.
"Here I am."
He moves unhurried, deep, deliberate, every roll of his hips making me moan. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, needing more of that beautiful length he gives me.
"Declan," I gasp, nails starting to scrape down the length of his back. "Harder."
He groans and gives me exactly that, hips snapping deeper, the headboard knocking softly against the wall with every thrust. A chocolate square gets crushed somewhere beneath us, and I couldn't care less.
"You feel this?" he pants against my throat, biting and nuzzling against me. "This is what I missed all week."
"Yes. Don't stop." My heels dig into his ass, pulling him impossibly closer. Deeper. "Don't you dare stop."
"Never." His voice breaks on the word. "You're the only thing that's made sense in weeks, Josie."
The pressure builds lower, spreading through every inch of me until I'm shaking beneath him.
"Declan—please—"
He hitches my leg higher, angle changing just enough to hit that spot that has my vision sparking white. "Let go for me."
I shatter first, crying out his name into the quiet hotel room, my pussy clenching around him so tight he curses against my ear.
"Fuck, Josie—gonna come—"
"Inside me again." I grip his face, force his eyes to mine. "Stay inside me, Declan."
He groans like the words physically wreck him, hips stuttering once, twice, before he buries himself deep. He comes with a deep groan against my mouth, filling me exactly the way I asked.
"Oh… Fuck," I moan, feeling him pulse as hot, silky warmth floods me.
We stay tangled like that, foreheads pressed together, both of us trembling, chocolate wrappers crushed somewhere beneath the sheets.
"Four weeks," I whisper eventually, tracing the line of his jaw.
"What?"
"Portland Thunder. Home game. I circled it in on my calendar." I press a kiss to his mouth. "I'm going to sell out that arena, Declan Morrison. Every single seat. I'm going to prove to everyone I can do it."
Especially my mother.
He tips my chin up, blue eyes soft, wrecked, completely mine. "I have absolutely no doubt about that, sweetheart."