Chapter 6 - Declan #2
She turns. The lamplight catches in her dark hair. It makes her eyes luminous. Her pulse rapidly flutters in her throat.
I want to place my lips on it and feel its rapid beating. I want to trail kisses from her forehead to her throat down to that body always hidden in an oversized cardigan.
“Why do you look at me like that?” Her voice is low and charged with desire.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re hungry.” She swallows hard. “Like I’m something you want.”
The honesty in her question deserves honesty in return. I close the distance between us slowly.
It gives her time to retreat. She doesn’t.
“Because I’m hungry, Doc.” My voice drops even lower in the dim space. “And you’re someone I’ve wanted ever since you stepped into the therapy room and called me disgusting while trying not to stare.”
“I wasn’t…”
“You were. And it was the most honest reaction I’ve gotten from anyone in years.”
My finger brushes hair tendrils from her face and tucks them behind her ears. She stiffens, her eyes fixed on mine. My eyes settle on those cheeks that are getting redder by the minute, then to those small pink lips.
Very kissable lips.
“I’m not attracted to you.” Her voice wavers, her body swaying slightly toward mine.
Her eyes are trained on my lips. One part of my lips curve into a smirk. When she looks up and realizes I’ve noticed, guilt fills her eyes.
“You’re not attracted to me?” My hand holds her waist, feeling the growing warmth of her skin through the cardigan. “Your words say one thing, Ivy. Your body says another.”
“This is…” She trails off, struggling. “This is wrong.”
My face bends toward hers, wanting to taste every part of those lips. Her body moves toward mine.
“My brother is going to kill me. I need to maintain professional boundaries,” she says even as her eyes refocus on my lips.
My mind looks for ways to reassure her. I’m accomplished, have million-dollar assets and liquid cash. Any reasonable man can see that I can take care of Ivy.
“Your brother’s just doing his job,” I say lightly, lifting a shoulder. “Protective big brother routine. Comes with the territory.”
She snorts, sharp and humorless. “He’ll never let this go. He said you’ve been a playboy since the day he met you.”
Since the day he met me? That stops me in my tracks.
“Who the hell is your brother?”
“You don’t know my brother? You’re quite close.”
“Close? Does he work here?”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “It’s Marcus.”
A warning bell rings in my head. “Marcus who?”
Her expression shifts from conflict to resignation. Her shoulders slump and she steps back, looking away.
“Marcus Chandler. He’s my brother.”
The words hit like a slapshot to the gut.
Marcus Chandler is her brother.
My best friend. The guy who has been my teammate for five years. The one who trusts me with his life on the ice but has explicitly told me to stay away from his sister while always keeping details about her vague.
The brilliant little sister who he said was ‘busy with school’ and ‘focused on her doctorate.’ The one he guards like she’s made of glass and I’m a sledgehammer.
Of course, Ivy is Marcus’s sister. Now that she’s mentioned it, I can see the resemblance. It’s subtle, but it’s there. They have the same dark hair, eyes, and nose. The shapes of their faces are similar.
But I never suspected because the surname is common. The annoying Marcus avoids the media and doesn’t even have a social media presence, or I’d know the faces of all his family members by now.
My hand drops from her waist. I take a step back, needing distance to process this catastrophic revelation.
“Chandler.” The name tastes bitter. “Why didn’t you say something before?”
She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. “Why don’t you know I’m Marcus’s sister? Isn’t he your best friend?”
I don’t answer her immediately. My brain is still processing several things at once.
Marcus's brooding the past few weeks finally makes sense. I thought he needed some space when he didn’t confide in me. But now I know the reason behind his attitude, I don’t think his mood will change anytime soon.
“I don’t… He told me to stay away from you.”
“He told you to stay away from me but didn’t show you who exactly to stay away from?” she asks in a sharp voice. She exhales. “Well, that doesn’t matter. I’m not defined by my brother, and I’m not his possession. I’m my own person.”
She’s not wrong.
Every instinct is screaming at me to walk away, to categorize this attraction as forbidden and bury it. Marcus is my friend. My teammate. The guy who has had my back through injuries and losing streaks.
But one disloyal part of my mind is agreeing with Ivy. She’s a grown woman who makes her own choices.
And I’m already so deep in this lie about King that walking away from the real her feels impossible.
“You are your own person, Ivy.” I drag a hand through my damp hair, frustration and want tangling in my chest. “And you can make your own choices. But let me be clear about what I want.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver now. If anything, it sharpens.
“I want you,” I say plainly, because dressing it up would cheapen it. “You’re the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met.”
Her breath catches, just barely. I keep going before she can deflect it with logic or distance.
“You’re whip-smart. You light up when you talk about your work like it’s a living thing inside you. You challenge people without even trying.” My gaze drops to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “And you’re beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with being noticed.”
She swallows.
“I see how much you hold back,” I continue, quieter now. “How carefully you stay inside the lines. And all I can think about is what you’d be like if you didn’t.”
Her fingers curl at her sides, like she’s grounding herself.
“So yeah,” I say softly. “I wonder what else you could be passionate about. What happens when you let yourself want something just because it feels right.”
I take a step closer, not touching her, giving her space even as I invade it.
“Aren’t you at least a little curious?” I ask. “About what this could be between us—if you stopped thinking about what everyone else expects and listened to what you want instead?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Her hands curl into fists at her sides, knuckles whitening like she’s physically holding herself in place. When she finally speaks, the words tumble out too fast, too honest.
“I don’t want to want you,” she blurts. “It’s like a sickness inside of me. You’re not my type. You’re arrogant. You’re a playboy. You have way too many abs.” Her voice cracks, frustration bleeding through. “I don’t even like you—”
She cuts herself off, breath hitching.
I take a slow step toward her. The floorboards groan softly beneath my weight, the sound loud in the quiet room. I stop close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her, close enough that she has to tilt her head just slightly to keep eye contact.
“You’re a scientist, Ivy,” I say quietly. “You of all people should know you can’t just tell a physical force to stop existing. Gravity doesn’t quit because it’s inconvenient for the planet.”
Her laugh is breathless and sharp. “You’re comparing yourself to gravity now?”
“I’m saying resistance doesn’t make it disappear,” I reply. “It just makes the fall harder.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
The air between us tightens. Charged. Like the moment before something snaps.
She inhales—a shaky breath that trembles through her chest. For a heartbeat, I think she’s going to step back.
Instead, she steps forward.
I reach for her, my hand sliding into the soft, thick wool at her waist, pulling her closer.
The height difference is jarring; she has to tilt her head back, her neck curving in a delicate arc.
I bridge the gap, my other hand finding the nape of her neck, my thumb brushing the sensitive skin just behind her ear.
When our lips meet, it isn’t tentative. It’s a collision. A desperate, messy release of every suppressed want and every look deliberately avoided.
Ivy makes a small, muffled sound against my mouth, her hands flying to my chest. For a split second, I think she’s going to push me away—but then her fingers curl into my shirt, bunching the fabric in her fists.
She leans into me, her body molding to mine—soft wool against my hard, post-practice heat.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue grazing hers, and the world narrows to the taste of her—clean, faintly sweet, cutting through the stale air of the room.
She’s small, but she kisses with fierce, focused intensity, like she’s trying to memorize the feeling as it happens.
My heart hammers against my ribs, heavy and relentless, matching the frantic way she’s pulling me closer.
I slide my hand from her neck to her cheek, my calloused thumb catching at the corner of her mouth, and for one perfect, irrational moment, she’s completely lost in it. No Marcus. No team. Just the friction of her lips against mine and the soft sigh she breathes into my mouth.
I can pinpoint the exact moment it changes.
Her body goes rigid in my arms. The hands that were anchoring her to my chest flatten and shove—sharp, panicked, reflexive.
I break away, stumbling back half a step, my breath coming in ragged bursts. The room tilts, my head spinning. Ivy stares at me, dark hair mussed, lips swollen and red from the kiss. Her eyes are wide, darting to the door like she’s just realized she’s standing in a burning building.
“Ivy—” I start, my voice wrecked as I reach for her.
“No,” she breathes. The word trembles, then hardens. She looks down at her hands like they’ve betrayed her, then back at me—pure, unfiltered terror in her eyes. “No. I can’t. This isn’t… I’m not—I can’t be this person.”
“Wait. Just talk to me,” I say, the cocky edge gone. I’m just a guy standing in the middle of a mess I helped create.
She doesn’t look at me again. She grabs her bag from the chair, movements jerky and uncoordinated—the first time I’ve ever seen her be anything less than precise. She practically scrambles for the exit, sneakers squeaking against the floor.
“Ivy!”
The door slams shut, the sound echoing through the quiet room, leaving me alone with the taste of her still on my tongue—and the crushing weight of Marcus’s warning finally hitting home.