12. Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
~DECLAN~
The plan is simple: focus on work and pretend Friday night didn't happen.
It's Monday morning. Three days since I fingered my hospitality coordinator in the office lobby while my executive assistant nearly watched from the elevator. And I'm sitting in my office trying very hard not to replay the way Darcy looked when she came on my hand.
And then my cock.
And fuck me, the way she sounded.
The way she tasted.
The Manhattan weather shifted over the weekend—seventy-three degrees and overcast. The kind of gray June morning that threatens rain but never delivers. My office windows overlook Fifth Avenue, and from here I can see the city moving at its usual relentless Monday pace.
I should be moving at the same pace.
I should be focused on the Tulum property deal.
Instead, I'm staring at an email from the seller's lawyer that makes my jaw tighten and my coffee taste like battery acid.
Subject: Timeline Acceleration - Competing Offer
Mr. Shaw,
Our client has received a competing offer from an unnamed hospitality group. Given the competitive landscape, they've requested an in-person meeting in Tulum by end of week to discuss terms and finalize the transaction. Please confirm your availability for Thursday or Friday.
I read it twice.
Then I pick up my phone and call Wyeth.
"Tell me you've seen the email," I say when he answers.
"The one where our Tulum seller suddenly has a mysterious competing offer and needs us in Mexico by Friday?"
"That one."
"Yeah. I saw it." I can hear him typing. "Could be a negotiating tactic."
"Could be real."
"Either way, we need to be prepared." More typing. "I'll pull together the financial projections. You handle the operational brief. We present Friday morning in Tulum."
"Agreed."
"And Declan?" He stops typing. "Bring Darcy."
I don't say anything.
The silence stretches.
"She's the vendor coordinator," Wyeth continues, tone casual but pointed. "She’ll know the supply chain better than anyone on the team right now. If they ask technical questions about operational logistics during the pitch, we need her there."
He's right.
"Fine," I say.
"Fine?"
"She comes to Tulum."
"Good." There's a pause. "How's that going to work, exactly?"
"What do you mean?"
"You and Darcy. Working together. After whatever happened Friday night that made our night security guard file an incident report about 'unusual activity in the main lobby.'"
Fuck.
"Nothing happened," I say.
"Jerry said the reception desk looked like 'a small hurricane had passed through' and that when he reviewed the camera footage from the hallway—"
"We were cleaning up coffee. And talking."
"About coffee?"
"About work."
"Right. Work." Wyeth pauses. "Look, I'm not going to tell you how to live your life." His voice shifts, more serious. "But if you're doing what I think you're doing with an employee who's been here only a month—"
"I'm not doing anything."
"Jerry's incident report suggests otherwise."
"Jerry's incident report is about spilled coffee."
"For several minutes."
"It was a lot of coffee."
Wyeth is quiet for a beat. "Dec. You know I don't care who you date. But she works for us. And if this goes sideways—"
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"I'm handling it."
"Are you?" He doesn't sound convinced. "Because from where I'm sitting, taking her to Tulum—where, if I remember correctly, you two had some kind of awkward moment at Quinn's wedding—might not be the smartest move if you're trying to keep things professional."
The awkward moment.
That's what everyone thinks happened.
“Quinn pulled away, I grabbed Darcy, and we ended up at the altar together for thirty seconds. Everyone laughed. Mildly embarrassing but ultimately harmless.”
No one asked what happened after.
No one knows we signed the wrong paperwork.
No one knows we're legally married.
And no one needs to know, because in thirty-four days the annulment will process and it'll be like it never happened.
My older brother sighs. “Bro, all I'm saying is be careful. The last thing we need right now is HR complications when we're trying to close the biggest deal in company history."
"There won't be any HR complications."
"Good. Then there's no problem bringing her to Tulum?"
"No problem at all."
"Great." He pauses. "Let's meet tonight. You, me, Darcy. We'll prep the briefing materials. Eight P.M. work?"
Eight P.M.
On a Monday. In a conference room.
With Darcy.
Who I was cock-deep inside in the office lobby seventy-two hours ago.
"Eight P.M. works," I say.
"Try to keep your hands to yourself."
"Fuck off, Wyeth."
He laughs and hangs up, and I sit there for a moment, looking at the Tulum email, trying very hard not to think about the fact that I'm going to spend tonight in a conference room with the woman whose taste is still burned into my memory.
And then I'm going to take her back to Tulum.
To the city where this all started.
Where I accidentally married her.
Where we spent one night learning exactly how to make each other come apart.
Should be fine.
At eight P.M., the conference room on fourteen is set up like a war room.
Laptops. Spreadsheets. Vendor contracts spread across the table.
The wall-encompassing windows show Manhattan settling into its nighttime rhythm—lights coming on in buildings across Fifth Avenue, traffic below moving in rivers of white and red.
Darcy arrived ten minutes ago in the same navy skirt from this morning but she's traded her blazer for a gray cardigan, and her dark hair is pulled back in a clip that's already losing the battle.
There's a coffee cup in front of her—her third, based on the empties lined up near her laptop—and she's typing furiously, head down, pretty brows scrunched.
The urge to reach over and wipe the frown from her face is immense.
But, as Wyeth requested, I’m keeping my hands to myself.
As for my annoying brother, he’s seated across the table, reviewing financial projections, occasionally asking Darcy questions about vendor timelines that she answers without looking up from her screen.
Despite what happened between us Friday night, she’s behaving perfectly professional. Appropriate.
Which is exactly what I should be doing.
Except I can't stop looking at her.
At the way she bites her bottom lip when she's concentrating.
At the way her fingers move across the keyboard—fast and confident, the same fingers that were gripping my shoulders Friday night.
At the hollow of her throat where I can see her pulse.
"Declan."
I lift my gaze to find Wyeth watching me.
"What?"
"I asked if you reviewed the infrastructure timeline."
"Yes."
"And?"
"And it looks good."
"You didn't look at it, did you?"
"I looked at it."
Darcy glances up, catches my eye for half a second, then looks back at her screen.
Her cheeks are noticeably pinker today.
"I'm going to take a call," Wyeth says, standing and grabbing his phone. "LA office. Keep working. I'll be back in twenty."
The door closes behind him, and Darcy and I look at each other across the table.
Five feet of polished wood and four weeks of unresolved tension.
"So," she sighs.
"So."
"Tulum."
"Tulum."
"You want me to come to Tulum." She sets her pen down and looks at me directly. "With you. To the place where we... where this all started."
"Wyeth wants you to come to Tulum," I correct. "For operational support. You're the vendor coordinator. If they ask technical questions during the pitch—"
"I get it. I'm functionally necessary."
"You are."
"Not because of Friday night."
"Definitely not because of Friday night."
"Good. Because that would be inappropriate."
"Extremely inappropriate."
She picks up her pen, clicking it twice. "When do we leave?"
"Thursday morning. Red-eye. Back Saturday afternoon."
"Two nights."
"Separate hotel rooms," I say. Not a question. A statement.
"Obviously."
"On separate floors."
Something moves across her face. "Is that really necessary?"
"You tell me."
Because she seems content to pretend like Friday night never fucking happened.
Since then, something’s shifted, something in her face—a door closing.
So I've been doing what I always do. Controlled. Professional.
"I've been giving you space, Miss Madison," I say.
She blinks. "What?"
“You seem to need it.” I lean forward, hands flat on the table. “And I’ll respect that.” I hold her gaze. "But if we're going to Tulum together, I need to know where you stand. Because I cannot spend forty-eight hours in the same hotel pretending I don't remember exactly how you sound when—"
“Mr. Shaw.”
"—when I fuck you senseless against a wall."
Her cheeks flush again. She’s silent for a while, the hum a room makes when everything goes quiet the only sound, until she exhales and nods.
“You’re right. We need to be professional.”
But her voice has lost its certainty.
Jaw ticking, I turn my attention back to the documents in front of me.
“Good. Thursday morning, Miss Madison. Six-thirty A.M. Car will pick you up. Professional attire. Professional behavior. Can you handle that?"
She's still against the table, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Yes," she says.
"Yes, what?"
Her eyes narrow slightly—that flash of defiance again. "Yes, Mr. Shaw."
"Good girl."
She inhales sharply, seemingly ready to respond, when the door opens suddenly.
Wyeth walks back in, phone still at his ear, and if he notices the tension—the way Darcy is still pressed against the conference table, the way I'm standing with my arms crossed watching her—he doesn't say anything.
"—yes, I'll have the numbers to you by tomorrow," he's saying into the phone. He sits, looks at us. "Where are we on the vendor brief?"
"Almost done," Darcy says, and her voice is steadier than I expected.
"Good. Let's finish this up. I want to be out of here by eleven."
We work for another two hours, and Darcy doesn't look at me directly again.
By the time we're done, it's ten forty-five. Her eyes are heavy, and she's yawning into her fourth coffee cup.
"I'm calling you both cars," Wyeth says, packing up his laptop.
"I can take the subway—" Darcy starts.