Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
JULIETTE
Never have I ever had more orgasms than I have in the past two weeks.
Two weeks.
That’s how long it took Aaron Bishop to completely recalibrate my understanding of my own body.
I float from my bedroom down the short hallway of my apartment, bare feet gliding across hardwood floors still warm from the morning sun. My muscles loose. Satisfied. My lips are still a little swollen from all the kissing last night.
Is this what smug feels like?
But far be it from me to be smug because I’m dating a six-foot-plus professional athlete who knows exactly what to do with his hands. And his mouth. And his tongue.
I am glowing.
I glide into the spare room I’ve labeled my “office” even though it’s mostly a desk, a printer I never use, and a plant I’m trying not to kill.
Sunlight spills across the hardwood floors, and I swear even the air smells better than it did yesterday. I get to work, sliding my laptop into its sleeve, tuck in my planner, charger, lip gloss.
I have a few hours of work I can technically knock out remotely before heading into the office, and camping out at the café down the street—the one with the brick walls and baristas who draw little hearts and stars on the cups in magic marker—is the perfect way to spend the time.
My phone buzzes as I’m sliding my headphones into my bag.
Heart does that embarrassing little hopeful skip because for half a second, I assume it’s Aaron.
Ugh. It’s my annoying brother.
Declan: Hey
I roll my eyes, instantly disappointed—even more so because he started his message with “Hey.”
Juliette: Hey
Declan: You around?
Juliette: Of course I’m around. Where else would I be?
Declan: I think we need to catch up
Juliette: Catch up on what??
I see him around the office plenty, and we had dinner with our parents two weeks ago. That’s more time than most siblings spend together.
Declan: Just stuff.
Just stuff?
Juliette: Should I be nervous?
Declan: I don’t know, that depends
Juliette: You can’t slide into my messages at eight in the morning and say “we need to catch up.” That’s either code for “I’m dying” or “one of us is in trouble.”
He ignores me.
Declan: Ha ha. I’m near your place. I can be there in 10 minutes
Juliette: I’m leaving my apartment. You’re going to have to meet me at Third Street Roasters
Declan: Fine. 10
Ten.
He doesn’t add a smiley face. Doesn’t add a “see you soon.”
Huh.
I stash my phone into my tote and head out, locking my apartment behind me.
Third Street Roasters sits exactly where you would imagine it would—on the corner, all glass windows and exposed brick interior walls, with a chalkboard sign out front that reads:
our espresso is strong enough to survive playoff season
Ha. How punny.
I smile as I shove through the door, pleased when my usual table is unoccupied. Order in the app. Set up my stuff, spreading out as if I’m here for the long haul.
No sooner does my iced latte arrive than Declan strolls through like he’s entering a room full of rabid fans instead of a coffee shop—broad shoulders, baseball cap pulled low so no one recognizes him, scanning the room automatically.
A couple of heads turn. Of course they do.
He spots me and makes his way over, expression neutral but tight around the edges.
“Morning,” I say lightly.
“Morning.”
He doesn’t order anything. Drops his big body into the chair across from me.
Okay then.
I close my laptop halfway. “So. Am I about to find out I was adopted?”
My brother has the decency to smile at my joke. Then he leans back in his chair and props one sneakered foot up on the empty seat across from him, like he was raised in a barn instead of our mother’s very orderly house.
I stare at his foot until he finally drops it back to the floor.
He continues leaning back against the chair. “What exactly is going on between you and Aaron Bishop?”
No warm-up. No small talk.
A wave of déjà vu washes over me so fast it almost makes me dizzy—Declan’s face peering over the wall of my office cubicle a few weeks ago, eyes sharp, voice clipped, when he caught Aaron lingering nearby. The accusations and cold tone.
I feel my back bristling. “Good morning to you, too.”
“I’m serious, Jules.”
“So am I. You came all the way here to fact-check my love life when this could have been an email?”
My brother rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his broad chest defensively, bracing for an argument. “How much do you know about him?”
“Enough.”
“Like what?”
Like… Aaron is quiet and reserved, but observant and giving when he wants to be. When no one is watching is when he’s at his best.
I lift my chin. “I know he’s your friend. I know he works hard. I know he’s not whatever villain you’re trying to paint him as.”
Declan’s jaw ticks. “I’m not painting him as anything.”
“You’re interrogating me again.”
“I’m asking questions.”
“It feels like a cross-examination.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, gaze narrowing. “You barely know him.”
“Why do you suddenly care? I don’t judge the women you date.”
“Because you don’t know any of the women I date.”
Touché.
I am well aware.
My brother shares almost nothing about his dating life—if he even has one. I’ve seen the photos online, though. The red-carpet appearances. The influencers. My family learns about his relationships the same way the rest of the world does—through filtered posts and gossip columns.
“Why are you ambushing me at a coffee shop like I’ve wandered into a dirty dark alley with a stranger—instead of going on a few dates with your friend?”
Declan’s jaw clenches. “Please stop referring to Aaron Bishop as my friend.”
I blink back the surprise at his sharp tone.
“Okay, jeez. Your teammate.” I worry my bottom lip, the wheels in my brain spinning, rationalizing all the reasons Declan sounds so bitter and drawing a blank. “Did he do something to you?”
My brother hesitates. Unfolds his arms. “No.”
“Did… you do something to him?”
He hesitates again, silence stretching between us. “Jules, don’t be ridiculous.”
That’s not a no.
My fingers find the straw in my latte and fiddle with it. “Then why are you being weird? You came all this way to harass me about Aaron, who is not your friend, who did nothing to you, and whom you did nothing to.” I clear my throat. “Please, make this make sense.”
I am not caffeinated enough for this conversation.
My mind flashes back to Aaron last night. The way his voice had gotten all gruff when we talked about Declan. The careful way he’d asked questions about our relationship. The long pause before he said, Would he do anything for you?
Pieces of something drift through my thoughts like puzzle fragments but it’s too early in the day for any of them to connect.
“Why can’t you stay away from him, huh?” My brother’s frustration colors his face. The blushing is something we both have in common. “There are a million dudes you can date. I can help you find someone new.”
Ha!
As if I would let him.
As if I weren’t capable of swiping on a dating app, which does not interest me. Not when I have the one thing I want in front of me and… Lord forgive me for seeking out hockey players.
I laugh, picking up my cup and drinking through the straw. “Do you realize the last guy I dated spoke over me? Was a sexist, didn’t think I had earned my job. Barely touched me.”
Declan frowns. “Then why were you with him?”
“Because I thought that’s what I was supposed to want!” I shoot back. “Polished. Predictable. Safe in the most boring possible way, and Aaron doesn’t do that,” I continue. “He doesn’t compete with me. He doesn’t make me feel small and insignificant.”
Declan’s jaw tightens.
“And before you have something to say about it,” I add, leaning forward, “no, he doesn’t intimidate me. He doesn’t pressure me. He doesn’t make me feel like I owe him anything.”
So there.
“I mean, it may be way too soon to tell, but I feel like a strong, independent woman when I’m with him.” Not to mention I feel seen, sexy, and desired.
How can my brother argue against that?
“Are you sure he likes you for you? And not because of whose sister you are?”
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.
For a second, I genuinely don’t understand what he’s implying.
But then it hits me.
My stomach drops.
“What are you saying?” I have to force the words from my throat. “That I’m not sexy or sophisticated enough to date a man like Aaron Bishop? That I’m n-not pretty enough?”
I hate that I’m stuttering.
Hate it.
Declan’s expression changes instantly. “No. No, Jules—that’s not what I’m sayi—”
“It sure sounds like it.”
Heat rushes to my face. I look down at my latte, because I refuse to let him see my eyes sting and the tears welling there.
“You think I don’t know what kind of man he is?” I say, laying it on thick. Hoping he feels guilty as hell and backs off. “That he could walk into any bar and leave with whoever he chooses? So, why choose nerdy little Juliette Kennedy, right?”
Declan opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Jesus Christ, Juliette, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then spit it out! Say what you mean.”
Before I freak out and leave!
“I’m saying,” he grinds out, all his cool composure gone, “sometimes men go after things they shouldn’t.”
Things—not people.
Things.
What an odd way to put it.
My chest feels tight now—I couldn’t be more mortified. The second my brother implied Aaron Bishop might not be into me for me, every insecurity I’ve had since childhood claws its ugly way up to the surface.
Declan’s quiet sister.
The one with no talent other than decent grades.
The sister who, in college, guys only wanted to meet so they could meet Declan.
My brother sees it written on my face and curses under his breath, and I watch as a mask of regret clouds his expression.
“Jules,” he says softly, removing his hat to run a hand through his hair. “You’re being ridiculous. You’re beautiful and funny and smart. This isn’t about that.”
He cannot even validate my feelings.
What a dick.
“Then what is it about?” My voice wavers despite my best effort, tears threatening to spill from my eyes.
Declan looks trapped.