Chapter 6 - Declan
DECLAN
Kissable Lips
“The Ashford charity gala is non-negotiable.” Gregory Stallworth’s voice carries across the white restaurant booth like a verdict.
He puts his raw steak in his mouth, then closes his eyes, savoring his first taste of the meat.
The restaurant smells of truffle oil and aged wine.
This is where desperate men in thousand-dollar suits make deals over forty-dollar steaks.
Crystal chandeliers cast shadows that don’t quite reach our corner booth, the one Gregory always requests because it offers privacy and the appearance of power.
He swallows and opens his eyes.
“You’ll attend with Evangeline, Ashford’s daughter. Smile for the cameras. Show the public you’re not the liability the tabloids are painting you as.”
I set down my fork, appetite gone. “I’m not interested in being your puppet.”
“You’re interested in keeping your career.” He doesn’t look up from his plate, steely gray eyes fixed on the bleeding meat. “Or have you forgotten the morality clauses in your contract? The ones that give me considerable leverage over your public image?”
“Attending a gala with a senator’s daughter isn’t going to change anything.”
“It changes the narrative.” He finally meets my gaze with a cold, calculating expression. “Right now, you’re the playboy who parties too hard and cares too little. Evangeline Ashford makes you look stable and responsible, worthy of the endorsement deals I’m negotiating.”
“I don’t need you to negotiate anything.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You were nineteen when I found you, Declan. Desperately trying to juggle your career with raising two teenagers. Who got you the sponsorships and investments? Who got you the life you live now? Remember that not all your teammates are as rich as you.”
A familiar guilt settles in my chest. He’s right. Gregory threw me a lifeline in my most difficult moment. Yes, the lifeline came with strings attached, strings I later found out were chains.
But that doesn’t change history.
“One appearance,” I concede. “That’s it.”
“One appearance that’s properly executed. After that, we’ll revisit the conversation.” He returns to his steak for a few minutes. “The gala is on Saturday. Wear the Tom Ford tux. Evangeline will meet you there at seven.”
I should tell him to go to hell and find another client to manipulate. But I nod and finish my meal in silence. Each bite sets concrete in my stomach.
By the time I leave the restaurant, the sun has set, the city lights blurring together.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ivy.
Ivy:
Random thought: Do you think people are born knowing who they are? Or do we spend our whole lives trying to figure it out?
The question hits differently after dinner with Gregory. After being reminded that I have to become what he wants me to be. Not who I actually am.
I reply.
King:
I think we’re possibilities. Life shapes us into actualities. But it’s not always the one we’d choose.
Ivy:
What’s wrong? Did anything go wrong?
Sighing, I get into my car.
King:
I had dinner with someone who enjoys forcing unnecessary obligations on me.
Ivy:
Sounds terrible. Want to talk about it?
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over it. I could tell her about Gregory, the gala. About feeling like a marionette whose strings are pulled by my contracts with him.
But that would mean admitting weakness to a woman I'm trying to impress while hiding behind a fake name.
King:
Not tonight. Tell me something good instead. What made you smile today?
Her response takes longer this time.
Ivy:
You did. Your messages make me feel like someone actually sees me.
The sweet words lodge between my ribs.
I read them several times, then place my device on the phone holder and drive to the training facility. If I go home now, I'll text Ivy things I can't take back. Things that will expose how far I’ve fallen into this lie.
The facility is nearly empty when I arrive. Just a few staff members finishing late shifts. I change in the locker room and head to the gym, needing the physical release of pushing my body until my mind finally shuts up.
The barbell bites my palms as I load another plate. Bench press, deadlifts. Anything that makes my muscles scream louder than my thoughts. Sweat soaks through my shirt, drips down my temples. The metallic clang of weight becomes a rhythm. Lift. Hold. Release.
I’m on my back pressing iron toward the ceiling when footsteps approach.
Light. Hesitant. Distinctly feminine.
I rack the bar and sit up, chest heaving.
Ivy stands in the gym doorway, looking frantic in fitted jeans and an oversized cardigan that slides off one shoulder. She's clutching her bag like it's the only thing keeping her grounded.
Her hair is down, not in its usual ponytail, and falling in dark waves around her face. It makes her look softer and more alluring.
Our eyes meet. My heart starts beating faster.
“Ivy, I didn't expect company.”
She stays in the doorway, poised for flight. Grabbing my water bottle, I take a long sip while watching her over the rim.
Her gaze drops to my throat as I swallow. It drops to my sweat-soaked shirt clinging to my chest before jerking back to my face.
I smile.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.” She stares at the ceiling, the equipment, anything but me. “I forgot my tablet in the research office. I need it for tomorrow's assessments, but the building is locked and I don't have after-hours access.”
The way she's looking everywhere except directly at me is adorable.
“And you thought you'd find it in the gym?”
A flush creeps up her neck. “No. I was looking for security or anyone who would help me get into the office.”
“Well, you found me. Lucky you. I have access.”
I stand, and she tracks the movement. Her eyes widen slightly when I move closer.
“I don't know about lucky.”
“No?” My voice drops to something quieter. Rougher. An intimate register I don’t even consciously choose. “I’m wounded, Doc. Here I am, offering to help, and you’re already doubting my intentions.”
Her eyebrows lift, unimpressed. “Says the man who readily displayed his naked body to a stranger.”
Fair. Completely fair.
“Do you want another display?” I drawl anyway, because of course I do. Because this is what I do. I push. I flirt. I poke at boundaries like they’re dares instead of lines.
Her eyes widen for half a second—just long enough for satisfaction to spark—before she schools her expression. She shakes her head, jaw tightening, gaze sharpening into something almost furious.
“Are you helping,” she snaps, “or not?”
There it is. The look. The one that says she’s already catalogued me and filed me neatly under problematic. Playboy. Asshole.
And the fucked-up thing?
I hate that she’s right.
I could stop. I know I could. Step back. Be polite. Normal. The decent guy my siblings swear I am. The one who handles responsibilities, who shows up, who doesn’t need cheap lines or a smirk to get through the day.
But with Ivy, it’s like a fucking switch flips.
She walked in all sharp edges and righteous outrage, pretending she’s made of steel when she’s clearly live wire underneath—and suddenly I’m playing the role again. The one she expects. The one that keeps things simple. If I’m the asshole, nobody asks for more.
Including her.
I laugh, light and careless, because that’s easier than explaining any of this. “Relax,” I say, already moving toward the door. “Come on. I’ll get you in.”
I hold it open for her, a small olive branch she probably won’t notice.
She hesitates. “I don’t want to interrupt your workout.”
“You already did.” I move closer, and she takes a half step back. “But I’m not complaining. Much better view than weights.”
“That’s inappropriate.”
"Is it? I'm simply stating facts.” My eyes take in her beauty from head to toe. “You provide a much better view than gym equipment."
She swallows nervously. "Mr. Hawthorne…"
"Declan, or you can call me Dec. We've been past Mr. Hawthorne since you saw me naked, remember?"
The blush spreads to her ears. "I'm trying to forget that."
"Are you? Because I’m not." I step closer again, invading her space just enough to make her breath hitch. "I think about it quite a lot. The way you tried so hard not to look but looked anyway."
"You're insufferable."
I gesture toward the hallway. "Your tablet's waiting, unless you'd rather stand here and insult me some more. I'm enjoying both options."
She makes a frustrated sound and turns abruptly, her shoulder brushing my arm. The brief contact sends heat through my still-pumping muscles.
I follow, keeping my stride lazy.
The facility feels different after hours. It’s less aggressive and more intimate. Emergency lighting casts everything in soft blue shadows. Our footsteps echo off the floors; hers quick and nervous, mine deliberately slow.
"Why are you here so late?" she asks without looking back.
"I needed to work off some frustration."
"Did you have a bad day?"
"A bad dinner and conversation. What about you? Why are you really here?"
I catch up to her, walking close enough that I can smell her shampoo. It makes me want to bury my face in her hair.
She’s quiet for a moment as we walk down the corridors toward the research wing.
“I couldn’t focus at home. I kept thinking about the assessments and whether I was doing everything right. When I wanted to check them, I found that I’d forgotten my tablet. So, I drove here to get it.”
“Perfectionist.”
“Is that meant to be an insult?”
“Observation. There’s a difference.”
We get to the research office, and I swipe my key card. The beep is loud in the quiet hallway. The door clicks open.
She moves past me into the darkness. I follow, switching on the small desk lamp instead of the harsh overhead light. It casts her in warm gold light, softening her features.
She finds her tablet and hugs it to her chest like armor.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to help, but you did.”
“I wanted to.” My voice is low and husky. “I always want to help you, Ivy.”