5. Declan
FIVE
DECLAN
I was on my second dress shirt, which was a problem.
I looked at the first one — white silk — draped over the back of the chair where I'd left it twenty minutes ago. The second dress shirt was also white, with good fabric, and open at the collar. The difference was negligible.
I put the cufflinks in anyway, brushed my jacket, and checked my Patek, not the Rolex, because the latter said boardroom, and this wasn't that. I set it against my wrist, and the clasp clicked into place.
I pushed the lock of hair back from my forehead. It fell forward again. I left it.
My car waited downstairs. I drove to Coltrane’s, an exclusive Italian restaurant on the right side of town, arriving ten minutes early because I was a gentleman and would never keep a lady waiting.
The host led me to the table I'd requested — the corner, angled toward the door, the seat that faced the room. I ordered sparkling water and the Barolo I already knew I wanted, then sat back and let the music settle around me. I watched the door until she walked in at exactly seven.
She paused at the top of the steps and scanned the room.
The candlelight caught her from above — the gold studs at her ears, the line of her collarbone above the neckline of her dress.
The dress was orange, simple, fitted through the waist, and falling to just below the knee.
She wore low heels that made her appear taller. Her hair was up.
Her eyes found me eventually. She came down the steps slowly. I stood, buttoned my jacket, moved around the table, and pulled out her chair. She looked at the chair, then at me, one eyebrow lifted.
I smiled. "You're going to make me apologize for basic manners?"
"I'm deciding." She shrugged and sat down.
She set her clutch on the table, folded her hands, and looked at me across the candlelight. I picked up the wine list, then put it back down. I had already ordered what I wanted.
The table was small. Good. I wanted her close enough to hear the shift in her breathing, close enough that the candlelight could do its work on her cheekbones and those eyes I'd spent three hours thinking about.
I picked up the menu and opened it toward her, angling it so she could read the wine list. "The Sancerre is excellent. The Barolo is better, but it needs a red meat companion. Are you a red meat woman, Calloway?"
She took the menu from my hands. Our fingers brushed the leather. "I can read a menu."
"I don't doubt it. I just wanted to watch you decide."
She looked at me over the top of the menu. The candlelight flickered. "You're very sure of yourself."
"Occupational hazard." I leaned back, smiled, and let the silence sit between us. "I had them set aside a few things the chef does well…if you trust me."
Her eyes narrowed. "I don't trust anyone I met three hours ago."
"Fair." I signaled the waiter. "Then let's start with what I trust, and you can tell me if I'm wrong."
She watched me order. I chose the lamb for her because she'd been reading that section of the menu longest and the branzino for myself.
The wine came. I poured some for her. She took a sip, and her eyes closed for half a second. When they opened, they were wide with wonder.
"That's good," she said.
"I know."
"And I see you're also modest."
I smiled. "Who needs modesty when my price tag is on my forehead?"
She scoffed. "You just lost a thousand points with me. Show some humility, Mr. Hale."
"Wouldn't that be pretentious of me? My entire company — my image — is built on what I have to offer. My humility is never in question in those rooms."
"Hmmm…" She turned the wine glass by its stem, considering me. "How about in this room? Your price tag doesn't matter to me. I'm judging you, you know?"
I sipped the wine. "Judge all you want. I'm an open book, sweetheart. I'll tell you anything you want to know."
She cocked her head. "Really?"
"Really. Ask away."
Our gazes locked. A wicked glint lit her eyes — a dare. I was eager to see how far she would go on the first date and which buttons she'd push. That would tell me everything I needed to know.
"Are you sure you're ready for my questions, Mr. Hale?"
The food arrived at that exact moment. I barely noticed the waiter or the plate in front of me. As soon as he left, I answered, "Like I said…ask away."
"If you insist." She stabbed her fork into her lamb. "Well, what's the one thing you want the most?"
"You."
Her fork froze an inch from her lips, tines still glistening with juice. Her eyes widened—just a fraction, but enough for me to catch the flicker of surprise before she shuttered it behind a quick blink. A flush crept up her neck, barely visible in the low restaurant light.
She didn’t see that coming.
"Tsk, tsk, Mr. Hale. You just met me. Don't you have dreams that have lasted more than five minutes?"
"I'm a businessman, Ms. Calloway. I always get what I want."
"So you think you'll get me?"
I shrugged and leaned back. "The night is young. Why don't we leave that to the forces above to decide?"
I cut a piece of the branzino, pressed it into the herbed butter on the plate, and held my fork across the table toward her — an offering, not a theft — my eyes on hers the whole time.
"Try this," I said.
She looked at the fork, then at me. Then she leaned forward and took the bite. She chewed and nodded slowly. "That's very good."
"Mmhmm." I set the fork down and picked up my wine. "You're welcome."
The heat rising up her neck was worth every cent. She reached for her wine and took a sip.
"Tell me," she said. "You know what I do. I know what you do, or what the Internet says you do. Tell me something the Internet doesn't know."
I swirled my wine. "The Internet knows everything about me. That's by design."
"Oh, come on. There has to be something."
Grinning now, I lifted my glass and took a long, easy drink. Well, if she insisted. I would never deny a lady what she wanted.
"I play piano," I said. "No one knows that. I learned as a kid. Blame my mother—she wouldn't let me drop it. I could play a pretty sick tune for you, if you'd let me."
She tilted her head. "So you still play?"
I shrugged. "Occasionally." I turned the glass in my fingers. "What about you? Do you play?"
"Oh, no!" She raised her hands. "My talents lie elsewhere."
Our gazes met. "Really? And where would that be?"
The wicked glint in her eyes was gone. Her eyes darted to the side. I wondered why. She acted with confidence all evening, but that could be a front. Maybe she was running from something, and this was her one night away from it.
I was more than happy to help her forget.
My knee pressed against hers under the table. She pressed back.
"Do you ever play for anyone?" she asked after a beat.
"No."
"Would you play for me?"
"I said I would but you have to tell me what your talents are."
I knew it was a long shot, but damn it, I enjoyed pushing her buttons. I wanted to see her unravel, watch her come undone.
Twenty minutes. That's how long we danced around what I'd said before Thea diverted the conversation.
We spoke about random things, she was good with conversations.
Soon, the check came, and it felt like the night had come to an end too quickly.
She reached for her bag, but I covered the bill without looking at it and held her gaze while I signed.
We stepped outside. The air was cool, damp with mist that hadn't committed to rain. She wrapped her arms around herself.
"I'm not ready to go home yet," she said.
Neither am I. Not tonight. Not with you.
"There's a bar I know. It's not far," she continued.
"Lead the way, Ms. Calloway."
She led — six blocks through streets that grew narrower and louder, away from midtown and into her neighborhood. I matched her pace without asking her to slow down.
Willow's. No sign, just a green door tucked below street level. Inside, it was small and loud — exposed brick, warm light, and the works. A bartender with a shaved head and tattooed forearms glanced up when we walked in.
"Thea." He grinned. "Weeks. Weeks, Thea."
"Been busy, Leo."
She slid onto a stool and hooked her clutch under the bar. "Two of the usual." Leo looked at me, then at her. "Leo, this is Declan."
"Declan." He nodded, his eyes studying me intensely. "Nice jacket."
"Thank you."
"Don't break anything." He turned and made the drinks.
I smirked. "He's warm."
She took the drink Leo slid toward her. "You'll grow on him."
"Most people like me immediately."
"Most people don't know you."
I picked up my glass. "Touché, Calloway."
We moved to a corner booth. The seat pushed us together — shoulder to shoulder, my arm along the back behind her, her warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of her dress into my arm.
She didn't lean away. She leaned in to speak over the music, her mouth close to my ear.
I could smell lavender on her neck — soft, warm, lingering just beneath her ear.
"I'm very good at pushing people away," she said. "You should probably know that upfront."
"I'm very good at leaving, so we're even." I winked at her.
She looked up at me. The smile that came was something I hadn't seen before. I wanted to kiss her so badly my hand tightened around the glass until my knuckles went white.
Leo brought another round. Our hands rested on the table, side by side, pinkies almost touching. She told me about a client who'd just been placed in permanent housing after eighteen months, her whole body angled toward the story.
She turned to say something, and my face was right there — inches away. Her lips parted. The sentence evaporated.
The bar noise faded. The crowd faded. Her mouth. My eyes. The inch of space between us that had been closing all night finally ran out of room.
I pulled back.
"Come on." I dropped a bill on the table and stood, offering my hand. "Let's walk."
She took it. Her fingers were cool, fitting inside my palm.