Chapter 14 - Declan #2
"Declan." Her voice is barely a whisper. "This is beautiful."
"I found it a few years ago, and I just had to buy it. The twins and I come here often." I park near the cabin, killing the engine. "Come on. There's something I want to show you."
We get out, and I lead her down a narrow path to the shore. A small wooden dock extends into the water. Tied to it is a rowboat, exactly where the owner said it would be.
"You rented a boat?"
"Yeah." I step onto the dock, holding out my hand. "Come on."
She hesitates only a second before taking my hand. I help her into the boat, steadying her as it rocks beneath her feet. Once she's settled on the bench seat, I untie the rope and push off, grabbing the oars.
"You know how to row?" she asks, watching me with fascination.
"My dad taught me when I was eight. Some things you don't forget."
I pull the oars through the water with steady strokes, moving us away from the shore. The morning is perfectly still. No wind. No other boats. Just us and the sound of water lapping against wood.
Ivy trails her fingers in the lake, eyes distant and thoughtful.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask after several minutes.
"Everything." She pulls her hand from the water, watching droplets fall from her fingertips. "Nothing. I don't know."
"That's specific."
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
"What would your life look like without pressure?"
For a second, I wonder why she asked the question.
"What?"
"If you parents were still here and you never had to take care of your siblings. If you had a trust fund and no care in the world… What would that look like?"
I let the oars rest, the boat drifting.
"I don't know if I remember how to live without pressure."
"Try."
I study her face, backlit by morning sun. Warmth fills my chest. This brilliant, beautiful, brave woman is asking me to imagine a version of myself I haven't been since I was nineteen years old.
"I'd probably still play hockey," I say slowly. "But for the love of it, not because my entire identity is wrapped up in being Declan Hawthorne, NHL star. I'd spend more time with Riley and Rowan."
"What else?"
"I'd learn to cook something other than protein shakes and sad chicken." The admission makes her laugh. "Maybe take piano lessons again. Travel somewhere that isn't a road game. Finland, maybe. My dad always wanted to go."
"That sounds nice."
"What about you?" I lean forward, capturing her gaze. "What would Dr. Ivy Chandler's life look like without all the pressure?"
She's quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing patterns on the boat's edge.
"I'd publish research that matters, not just what looks good on Marcus's team or makes my parents proud. I'd probably cut my hair short. I've always wanted to, but my mom says long hair is more feminine and professional." She touches her ponytail self-consciously.
We drift for another hour, talking. She tells me about the first time she looked through a microscope and fell in love with the invisible world.
I tell her about scoring my first NHL goal and immediately looking for my parents in the stands before remembering they were gone.
She shares her secret dream of writing a book one day.
I admit I still sleep with my dad's watch under my pillow on hard nights.
By the time we return to shore, something has shifted between us. The air feels thicker, charged with possibility and things I’m too afraid to name. I tie off the boat and help Ivy onto the dock. Her hand lingers in mine.
"Hungry?" I ask.
"Starving."
I grab the supplies from the car, and we walk along the shore until we find a flat area beneath a massive oak tree, overlooking the water. I spread out the blanket I packed, arranging the food between us.
Ivy's eyes widen as I unpack everything.
The apples and cheese from the farm stand, the fresh bread and honey, the turnovers.
But also the containers I prepared last night: her favorite pasta salad with sun-dried tomatoes and feta, the specific brand of crackers she mentioned loving once, chocolate-covered strawberries because she has a sweet tooth she thinks no one notices.
"Declan..." She looks up at me, eyes shining. "You remembered all of this?"
"You mentioned them." I open a container, suddenly self-conscious. "I pay attention."
"No one..." She stops, swallows hard. "No one has ever paid this much attention to what I like."
The admission guts me. How many people in her life have been so focused on Marcus, on their own expectations, that they've never bothered to truly see Ivy?
"Their loss," I say quietly. "My gain."
We eat slowly, savoring the food and each other's company.
She tells me about her favorite professor in grad school who pushed her to think bigger.
I share stories about Jake mentoring me as a rookie.
We debate whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
She says yes, and I threaten to leave her stranded by the lake.
She describes the research study she'd design if funding were unlimited.
I confess I sometimes dream about opening a hockey camp for kids who can't afford equipment.
The sun climbs higher, warming the air. Ivy shrugs out of her sweater, revealing a fitted tank top beneath. I try not to stare at the curve of her collarbone, the delicate line of her throat, the way her skin glows in the natural light.
"Can I ask you something?" she says eventually, lying back on the blanket with her hands pillowed behind her head.
"Anything."
"Do you ever regret taking on Riley and Rowan when you were so young?"
The question should sting, but from Ivy, it feels genuine.
"Never." I lie back beside her, our shoulders touching. "They saved me as much as I saved them. After my parents died, I was drowning. The twins gave me a reason to keep going, to be better."
"That's a lot of responsibility for a nineteen-year-old."
"It was, but I wouldn't change it." I turn my head to look at her profile. "They're the best parts of me."
"You're a good brother, Declan."
"I try. Doesn't always work out."
"You're also a good friend and a good teammate." She turns to face me. Suddenly we're inches apart, breathing the same air. "A good man."
"Ivy..."
"I mean it. I know what people say about you, but that's not who you are. Not really."
I reach up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger against her cheek.
"You make me want to be better. The version of myself I see reflected in your eyes."
"You already are that person. You just don't let anyone else see it."
The moment stretches between us, heavy with unspoken things. I could kiss her right now. Should kiss her. Every cell in my body is screaming to close this distance, to taste her lips in the sunlight.
But kissing her would turn this picnic into a sexual encounter we can’t stop. And I want more time with her like this when she’s open and honest. So I let my hand fall away, forcing myself to sit up.
"Come on. There's one more thing I want to show you."
She accepts my offered hand, and I pull her to her feet. We pack up the picnic supplies, carrying them back to the car. Then I lead her around the cabin to where a fire pit sits surrounded by Adirondack chairs.
"I thought we could end the day here by watching the sunset and talking some more," I say, gesturing to the chairs.
We settle into the chairs, and I start building a fire. The ritual is soothing. I gather kindling, arrange logs, coax flame. Ivy watches with fascination.
"You're good at that."
"Scout training." I blow gently on the emerging fire. "My dad was big on being prepared for anything."
"He sounds like he was a good man."
"He was the best." I sit back, watching flames catch and spread. "He would have liked you."
She reaches across the space between our chairs, fingers finding mine.
"I'm glad you brought me here."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She squeezes my hand. "Thank you for today. For all of it."
"Ivy, I…" I stop, the words catching in my throat.
Because what I want to say is too big, too soon, too real.
I want more than a month with you. I want mornings like this and nights like last week and everything in between.
I want to wake up next to you and fall asleep listening to you breathe.
I want to know every thought in that brilliant mind, every dream you've ever had, every fear you're too proud to admit.
I want you in ways I can't even name yet, in ways that terrify and exhilarate me simultaneously.
But instead of saying any of that, I just hold her hand tighter and watch the fire burn. We stare at the sky until the sun sets and day turns into night. Then we talk and talk and talk, sharing our hearts.
Hours later, the sun is setting, and we’re reluctantly packing up to leave.
We drive back in comfortable silence, hands linked, both of us lost in our own thoughts. The city lights come into view around eleven. I pull up outside her apartment, reluctant to let the day end.
“Thank you,” she says again as she unbuckles her seat belt. “Today was perfect.”
I kiss her forehead and watch her disappear into the building, waiting until her apartment light flicks on. Then I sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to understand how I went from planning a simple day trip to realizing that what I want with Ivy Chandler is dangerous.
Extremely dangerous—to me.