Chapter 4
My sweet Declan.
I pressed my fingers into my palms, grounding myself in the present. The car smelled faintly of rich leather, clean linen, and him. The man who made me a mother sat only a few feet away, completely unaware of the quiet reckoning unfolding beside him.
Stealing a glance in his direction, I noticed he was relaxed and calm. One arm rested against the door, gaze fixed on the passing street. Soft music played low through the speakers.
He had no idea how deeply he’d altered the course of my life. How that one night rippled outward, reshaping everything that came after. My throat tightened when Andrew shifted and glanced my way. My heart stuttered as his head cocked to the side.
Andrew couldn’t possibly know that our son’s laugh mirrored his. That if he were to look at his eyes, he’d see his own staring back. That our son had a stubborn streak, and that when Declan tilted his head exactly like Andrew was right then, he was a carbon copy of his father.
I shifted my gaze to look outside once more, uncomfortable with the guilt that rose inside me. But the truth was—that night—my encounter with Andrew jarred something in me. It was like the clarity of making my decision for once set me free in unexpected ways.
Quietly, I’d snuck out of his room after taking special care to erase any evidence of our encounter. Hell, I’d even stolen the washcloth I’d used on him to erase any traces of blood.
Foolishly, I planned to orchestrate bumping into him the next day at the resort. In my silly little head, it was like every romance book I’d ever read. Part of my plan included staking out the lifts near his room.
Our own little meet-cute on holiday.
I had no idea what I’d say to him beyond something stupid about the weather.
Maybe I’d bring up the storm from last night.
Our eyes would meet, he’d feel a pull, and we’d spend the day together.
The fantasy always ended with us falling madly in love.
He’d take me away from the hell I was living, and death didn’t seem like the answer anymore.
No matter how bad things get, something good is out there waiting. Just hold on.
I reclaimed that mantra and felt renewed. That all crashed down when the phone in my room rang the next morning. I almost didn’t answer it—I was on my way to his floor. But I was worried something may have been wrong with my grandmother.
My father was in the lobby demanding to see me. He instantly shut down all dreams of love, of escape, of building a life. He was livid that I was alone.
The remnants of the aftermath, being dragged home to Italy, the literal grounding and lectures were the worst. The only saving grace I had was that Cameron was interning with a law office and wasn’t there for the first three weeks back.
But then, they offered him a paying job. He came home to celebrate. What my entire family was unaware of was that the same morning I’d hidden a test with two pink lines under a floorboard in my room.
I swallowed hard and turned my face back toward the window. Reminiscing just brought up the demons. Cameron was excited to share his good news with me. The parents weren’t home, and he thought it was the perfect moment to solidify us.
It was rape, pure and simple. It was evil. He was evil. Three weeks later, my stepmother found the test. She wanted to do some renovating and noticed a loose board. Cameron assumed he was the father.
And that was the end of my life as I knew it.
The car slowed, and we pulled up to the curb. The engine idled, but the sudden stillness startled me from the past.
Marcel’s voice cut through the fog, gentle but anchoring. “I hope this will put a smile on your face.”
He opened the door and reached for my hand. Stepping out, I blinked and looked up. Waterstones Piccadilly. The building stood in front of us, its windows filled with displays and soft light, a quiet promise waiting behind glass.
“I’ll park the car. Call me when you’re ready,” Marcus said as Andrew went to close the door.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away. A rush of emotions surged to the surface. Visions of my mother bringing me here, her excitement mingled with mine, came rushing back. I swallowed the lump in my throat as my mother’s loving presence washed over me, silencing the horrors of my past.
Like the perceptive man he was, he sensed the change in my emotional state. His gaze was questioning and slightly apprehensive.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“I…my…mother, she used to bring me here.”
He gently took my hand and rubbed small circles on my palm. “We don’t have to go in if it’s too painful. I thought you might like to pick up a book or something poetry related. You mentioned you liked it, and I wanted to do something nice for you. But we don’t have to.”
“No, please. I’d like to go inside,” I said in a rush.
His entire face lit up, and the infamous dimples flashed. Another reminder of Declan. Stepping inside the bookstore, a wave of nostalgia hit. The shelves and tables stretched out before me. A kaleidoscope of titles whispered an invitation to adventure.
The scent of leather and new books combined with the hushed ambiance of the store had me lightheaded. I had so many dreams when I was younger of becoming a famous fantasy writer or even an editor.
Books had always been a lifeline, and it was like I’d stepped back in time.
I was twelve again, with my whole life ahead of me.
My face broke into a huge smile. I needed this experience, even if it was to do nothing more than weave my way through all the selections.
It had been so long since I’d browsed freely.
“My God, you’re beautiful,” Andrew murmured, a look of shock on his face. “Who knew books could make a person so fucking…radiant?”
“Stop,” I said, feeling heat crawl down my face and neck.
“Shall we then?” he asked, gesturing to the array of books.
We wandered around for what felt like hours.
He’d stop every once in a while and encourage me to pick out something, anything.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wouldn’t be able to keep it.
We strolled over to the children’s section, and my eyes sought the authors whose last names started with J.
And there it was. “Howl’s Moving Castle.” I lingered there the longest, my fingers tracing the cover lovingly.
“See something you finally like enough to buy? Are we ready to commit?” Andrew teased.
“I loved this as a child. I read my original copy so often it was as worn out as a raggedy old blanket,” I answered with a chuckle.
“Do you still have it?” he asked.
“No,” I whispered.
It was one that Cameron had made me burn right after the teahouse incident. Tears filled my eyes, and I choked back a sob, feeling foolish over a book.
“That’s it then. We’re getting it, and you can’t stop me.” He reached around me and plucked it from the shelf.
“Really, it’s not necessary.”
“I’m buying it.” He flipped it over and read the blurb on the back. “This sounds fascinating: a moving castle, a fire demon, and a witch. I’m sold.”
“Andrew, put it back,” I exclaimed with my hands on my hips. His face fell, and I let out a light laugh. “If you’re buying it, then you get the one from the back of the stack. Fewer hands have touched it,” I said, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
He leaned in and kissed me on the lips. When he pulled back, he looked as surprised as I did. My heart fluttered inside my chest, and I gulped. We both moved toward the line, and my eyes caught something near the stands.
“Do we see something else we might want?”
“One book is plenty,” I lied. Truthfully, if I had the opportunity and the money he had, I’d own a bookstore.
“But that isn’t a book. It’s a journal,” he remarked.
Damn his attention to detail. “I can’t, really.”
“Why not? If you want it, then you should get it,” he whispered in my ear, his voice doing things to me that it shouldn’t. “I can tell you want it.”
“You sound like a drug dealer.”
“Have you been around a lot of those?”
I shook my head as he stepped out of line and headed toward the journals. I stubbornly stayed where I was. He held up several, and I shook my head at each one.
None of them worked. It was Autumn after all. Then his hand moved toward a section I couldn’t see clearly, and he held up one with the most beautiful cover.
It had rich, warm hues that captured the season. A tapestry of crimson, gold, and deep earthly brown adorned the woodland scene. It looked hand-painted. My breath caught in my throat. My eyes met Andrew’s, and he dug toward the back of the pile.
“This is the one, right?”
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.
“Next in line, please,” the cashier said loudly, startling me.
Andrew hurried back over, still holding the journal.
I daydreamed about what it would be like to fill the pages with all the things that had happened in the last few years.
It had been so long since I’d physically written to any of my season sisters.
I longed to pour out my soul to Autumn on the pages.
“I’m taking you on a proper date tonight. To a poetry reading later. Maybe it will inspire you. You could try your hand at writing. I know you mentioned it, but you didn’t really seem to want any of the ones on the shelves,” Andrew said casually.
I was in a stupor, and the confession tumbled out, “I actually used to write poetry. And journals…they were a lifeline when I was younger.”
His eyes held mine as we stared at one another.
“Can I interest you in some pens?” the cashier interrupted.
“Huh?” I asked stupidly.
“We’ll take them,” Andrew answered her before pulling me into his arms. “Relax, it’s okay.”