Chapter 14 - Declan
DECLAN
Gentleman
I'm standing outside Ivy's apartment at six in the morning, holding two cups of coffee. We’ve spent the last week talking to each other like long lost friends catching up as much as we can. But today is going to be different.
The rational part of my brain, the part that's kept me alive in the NHL for a decade, is screaming that this is a terrible idea. That taking Ivy two hours away from the city, alone, to a place where no one can interrupt us, is the kind of reckless move that ends careers.
But the rest of me, the part that's been awake since three a.m. planning every detail of today, doesn't give a damn about rational.
I knock.
Thirty seconds pass. Then a minute. I'm about to knock again when the door swings open.
Ivy stands there in an oversized sweatshirt that falls off one shoulder, sleep-mussed hair tumbling around her face, warm brown eyes still heavy with drowsiness. No makeup. No carefully constructed armor. Just soft and unguarded Ivy in the early morning light.
My chest tightens painfully.
"Declan?" Her voice is rough with sleep, confused. "What are you doing here?"
"Morning, beautiful." I hand her one of the coffees. "We're going somewhere."
She blinks at me, processing. "Going where?"
"It's a surprise."
"A surprise." She repeats the words like they're foreign. "At six in the morning."
"The best surprises happen early."
I lean against her door frame, watching her take a tentative sip of the coffee. I made it exactly how she told me likes it: oat milk, one sugar, a hint of vanilla. Her eyes widen slightly when she tastes it, and satisfaction curls through me.
"Get dressed. Wear something comfortable. We'll be outside."
"Declan, I have research to review."
“Today is Saturday, and the research isn’t running away.”
She frowns. “You should have asked first.”
“But I’m asking now. Give me one day, Ivy.”
She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. I have to physically restrain myself from leaning in to taste that spot.
"Just trust me," I add quietly. "I want to show you something."
Her eyes meet mine, searching. Whatever she finds must satisfy her because she steps back from the door.
"Give me twenty minutes."
"Take your time." I settle against the wall, sipping my coffee. "I'll be right here."
She disappears inside, leaving the door cracked. I hear water running, drawers opening and closing, the soft sounds of her moving through her space. It's oddly intimate, standing here listening to her morning routine.
My phone buzzes.
Riley:
It’s six a.m. and you’re not at home. You're doing something stupid, aren't you?
I type back.
Declan:
Define stupid.
Riley:
Anything involving Ivy that you haven't thought through.
Declan:
I've thought it through.
Riley:
For how long?
Declan:
Three hours.
Riley:
Declan! THREE HOURS is not thinking it through. That's impulse with anxiety.
I'm about to respond when another text comes through, this time from Rowan.
Rowan:
Riley just told me you're doing something reckless. Please tell me you're not about to spectacularly self-sabotage.
Declan:
I'm picking Ivy up for a day trip. It's not reckless.
Rowan:
A day trip. Alone. With Marcus's sister. While you're still texting her as King and Gregory is actively looking for reasons to destroy you. Yeah, that's the opposite of reckless. My mistake.
I shove my phone in my pocket without responding because they're both right, and I don't want to admit it.
The door opens fully. Ivy emerges in fitted jeans that hug her curves, a soft cream sweater that makes her skin glow, and ankle boots. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, revealing the elegant line of her neck. She's applied minimal makeup, just enough to highlight those incredible eyes.
She's devastating.
"Ready?" she asks, grabbing a small cross-body bag.
I push off the wall, offering my hand.
"Let's go."
She stares at my outstretched palm for a heartbeat before sliding her smaller hand into mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm, settling somewhere in the vicinity of my chest.
We walk to my car in comfortable silence. The city is just beginning to wake up: delivery trucks rumbling past, a few early joggers. I unlock the passenger door of my truck, holding it open.
"Such a gentleman," Ivy murmurs, but there's warmth in her teasing.
"Only for you."
The truth of that statement hits me as I round the car. I'm not this person, the one who plans surprise day trips and holds doors and stays up half the night making sure every detail is perfect. But with Ivy, I want to be.
I slide into the driver's seat, starting the engine. The dashboard clock reads 6:47 a.m.
"So," Ivy says as I pull onto the road, heading north. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?"
"Eventually."
"Declan."
I glance over, grinning at her exasperated expression.
"You really don't like surprises, do you?"
"I like being prepared."
"What would you need to prepare for? I'm not taking you anywhere dangerous."
"I don't know what I need to prepare for because you won't tell me where we're going." She crosses her arms, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "This is circular logic."
"Welcome to a day in my brain."
She laughs, the sound filling the car and doing dangerous things to my heart rate. I merge onto the highway, leaving the city skyline shrinking in the rear-view mirror.
"Can I at least know how long we'll be driving?"
"About two hours."
Her eyes widen. "Two hours? Declan, that's…"
"Worth it." I reach over, squeezing her hand where it rests on her thigh. "I promise, Ivy. It's worth it."
She doesn't pull away. Instead, her fingers curl around mine and we drive like that with hands linked. The city falls away behind us, morning light spilling across the landscape.
The conversation flows easily. She tells me about her latest research findings, eyes lighting up as she describes neural pathways and impact vectors.
I don't understand half of it, but I love watching her talk about what she's passionate about.
The way her hands move when she's explaining something complex.
The slight furrow between her brows when she's thinking.
"You're staring," she says eventually, catching me watching her instead of the road.
"I'm multitasking."
"That's not what multitasking means."
"Sure it is. I'm driving and appreciating the view."
Pink floods her cheeks. "The trees are lovely this time of year."
"I wasn't talking about the trees."
She ducks her head, but I see her smile. Small victories.
An hour into the drive, I pull off at a small roadside farm stand. The kind of place that probably hasn't changed in fifty years with an elderly couple running it from their front porch.
"What are we doing?" Ivy asks as I park.
"Getting supplies."
I hop out before she can ask more questions, jogging around to open her door. She accepts my offered hand, sliding out of the passenger seat.
The farm stand smells like earth and apples, hay and honey. An older woman with kind eyes greets us from behind a table overflowing with fresh produce.
"Morning, dears. What can I get you?"
I scan the offerings, mentally checking off the list I made last night.
"Those apples, the honey, that fresh bread, the cheese..." I point to a small container. "And whatever those pastries are."
"Apple turnovers, fresh this morning."
"Perfect. We'll take four."
"Declan," Ivy hisses beside me. "That's too much food."
"It's a picnic. You can't have a picnic without proper supplies."
"A picnic?" Her eyes light up with pleasure? Nope, excitement. "We're having a picnic?"
"Among other things."
I pay the woman, accepting the paper bags she packs everything into.
"Thank you," I say.
"You two have a beautiful day," she replies.
Back in the car, Ivy is uncharacteristically quiet. I glance over to find her staring at the bags in the backseat.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." But her voice is thick. "I just... I can't remember the last time someone planned something like this for me."
The admission breaks something in my chest. I reach for her hand again.
"Get used to it."
We drive the final hour with the windows down slightly, cool morning air mixing with the warmth from the vents.
I show her the river where I used to fish with my dad, the turnoff to the rink where I played junior hockey, and the hill where Riley broke her arm trying to sled down it in August because she tried to convince herself that grass was "probably just as slippery as snow. "
Ivy laughs, asks thoughtful questions, and even shares her own memories. I learn that she was terrified of swimming until she was ten, that she once tried to build a robot that would do her homework, that Marcus taught her to skate even though she was terrible at it.
"You can't skate?" I'm genuinely shocked.
"I can skate. I'm just not good at it." She shrugs. "Marcus gave up trying to teach me after I sprained my ankle for the third time. He said I was a lost cause."
"You're not a lost cause."
"In hockey terms, I definitely am."
"I'll teach you."
She looks over, eyebrow raised. "You want to teach me to skate?"
"Why not? I'm a professional athlete. Teaching you can't be harder than dealing with rookies who think they know everything."
"I'm a biomechanics researcher who studies concussions. I'm pretty sure getting on the ice with me is asking for a head injury."
"I'll risk it."
We drive some more then finally turn off the main road onto a narrow lane bordered by towering pines. The pavement gives way to gravel then dirt. Ivy sits up straighter, craning her neck to see through the trees.
"Where are we?"
"Almost there."
The lane opens into a clearing, and Ivy gasps.
A small cabin sits nestled among the trees, rustic and perfectly maintained. There’s a lake stretching beyond it, morning mist still clinging to the surface, water reflecting the sky. Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks touched with early snow.