13. Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
~DARCY~
I know what I want the second our plane’s wheels touch down in Tulum…
To prove I belong here.
It’s a sweltering Thursday afternoon in Mexico—three days since Declan kissed me on my doorstep and walked away—and I’m standing in front of a beachfront property that’s worth more than I’ll make in ten lifetimes.
The Mexican sun is brutal, all ninety-two degrees of heat and humidity making my blouse stick to my skin and my hair frizz despite the professional twist I spent twenty minutes perfecting this morning.
At least the flight was early.
Seven A.M. departure in a private jet, taking off from a small airfield not too far from JFK.
Four hours of sitting one seat away from Declan and one row from Wyeth while I tried very hard not to think about the fact that the last time I was in this city, I married my boss in a legally binding ceremony that no one knows about.
Thirty-one days until the annulment.
I’m still counting.
We landed two hours ago and checked into the hotel—separate rooms, separate floors, just like Declan promised. I’m on twelve. He’s on eighteen. Wyeth’s on fifteen, which feels like a deliberate buffer between us.
And now we’re here.
At the property that could change everything for Shaw Entertainment Group.
The building is stunning.
Three stories of whitewashed concrete and floor-to-ceiling glass, set back from the beach by a pool that belongs in an architectural magazine.
The design is modern but warm—clean lines softened by natural wood and local stone.
Hundred-foot palms frame the entrance. Bougainvillea climbs the exterior walls in cascades of hot pink.
It’s the sort of place that announces you’ve arrived before you even walk through the door.
“Thoughts?” Wyeth asks, standing next to me with a notebook.
“It’s perfect,” I say.
“Too perfect?”
“No such thing.” I’m already walking toward the entrance, my laptop bag bouncing against my hip. “This is exactly what the pitch needs. Legitimacy. Sophistication. A statement that Shaw Entertainment Group isn’t just nightclubs anymore.”
Declan is ahead of us, talking to the property manager—a woman named Sofía who’s been giving us the tour for the past hour. He’s in a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark slacks, his sunglasses pushed up into his silver hair.
He looks like a silver-haired god under the Mexican sun, his tanned skin glowing, his corded muscles visible even beneath the breezy clothes.
I suspect that at any moment my knees will bend of their own accord—bow at the altar of this deity of brooding hotness.
Willing my heart not to beat out of my chest, I fall in step beside him as we enter the lobby; the temperature drops thirty degrees immediately.
The lobby is open-concept—polished concrete floors, soaring ceilings, enormous windows that frame the ocean like living art.
“The event spaces are this way,” Sofía says, leading us down a hallway.
I pull out my phone, start taking notes.
Main lobby: 2,000 sq ft. Natural light. Ocean view. Could host 150 for cocktails.
Hallway: 8 ft wide. Accessible. Good flow.
We reach the first event room and I stop walking.
It’s massive.
Maybe 5,000 square feet, with sliding glass doors that open completely to an outdoor terrace. The ceiling is vaulted, exposed beams, pendant lights hanging at varying heights.
The floor is the same polished concrete as the lobby, but warmer somehow—designed to feel both elegant and beachy at the same time.
“This is the main ballroom,” Sofía says. “Capacity is three hundred for a seated dinner, five hundred for a standing reception.”
Sliding into work mode, I’m already moving through the space, checking sight lines, testing acoustics.
“The kitchen access?” I ask.
“Through here.” She opens a door on the far wall. “Full commercial kitchen. Updated last year.”
I step inside and look around, gawking at the stainless-steel everything.
Six-burner ranges. Two ovens. Walk-in cooler.
It’s perfect.
“Loading dock?” I ask.
“North side of the building. Drive-up access.”
“Staff areas?”
“Break room and lockers on the ground floor. Manager’s office on two.”
I’m typing as fast as she’s talking.
Wyeth smiles slowly, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You’re very thorough.”
“That’s why you brought me.” I barely look up from my phone. “The terrace—is it covered?”
“Partially,” Sofía says. “There’s a pergola structure that provides shade. We can add market umbrellas for events.”
“Lighting?”
“String lights currently. But we can upgrade to whatever the client needs.”
“Good.” I’m making a mental list. “We’ll want dimmers. And probably spots for the entrance.”
“Darcy.”
I look up, and Declan is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me intently with those green eyes.
“Come see the beach access,” he says.
It’s not a request.
I follow him outside.
The terrace is even better than I imagined.
Travertine tile. Built-in seating areas. Fire pits scattered throughout. And beyond that—the beach.
White sand. Turquoise water. Palm trees swaying in the breeze.
A view specifically made to make you forget you’re supposed to be working.
“What do you think?” Declan asks quietly.
“I think this place is going to make you very rich.”
“Us. It’s going to make us very rich.”
The way he says “us” makes my stomach drop.
“The vendor logistics are going to be complicated,” I say, pulling my professional mask back on. “Tulum isn’t Mexico City. Supply chain here is going to require local relationships. Reliable transportation. Backup plans for everything.”
“Can you handle it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” I turn to look at him. “This is what you hired me for, isn’t it? To make sure the operational side works?”
He blinks, those weapons-of-mass-attraction he calls arms folding over his chest.
“You’re very good at this, you know,” he says finally.
“At what?”
“At seeing what a space could be. At asking the right questions. At—" He exhales sharply. “At making me believe this is actually going to work.”
The compliment catches me off guard.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Like I said before, you earned it.”
We stand for a moment, looking out at the ocean, and I’m suddenly very aware that we’re alone.
That Wyeth and Sofía are still inside.
That we’re standing close enough that I can smell his cologne—a scent slightly different here than it is back in New York.
Here, Declan’s scent leans into the sea, an undercurrent of salt and cypress that has my head swimming.
“We should get back,” I say, struggling to swallow.
“We should.”
But neither of us budges.
Until Declan takes a step closer.
“Darcy—"
“Mr. Shaw!” Sofía’s voice from inside. “I have the occupancy permits you wanted to review!”
The moment breaks, and Declan steps back, motioning.
“After you.”
I walk back inside and try very hard to ignore the fact that my hands are shaking.
The meeting with the seller goes better than expected.
We're in a conference room on the second floor—us, Sofía, and the property owner, a man named Eduardo who speaks perfect English and drives a hard bargain.
Wyeth handles the financial projections, Declan handles the vision, and I handle the questions about logistics.
"The vendor infrastructure," Eduardo says, looking at me. "You're confident you can manage that remotely from New York?"
"Yes. I've already started building relationships with local suppliers—florals, linens, catering, audio-visual. We'll have a dedicated on-site coordinator, but all vendor contracts and quality control will run through me."
"And if something goes wrong?"
"Then I get on a plane." I shrug. "I'm not interested in managing this property from a spreadsheet. I'm interested in making sure every event that happens here exceeds expectations."
Eduardo smiles. "I like her."
"So do I," Wyeth says dryly.
We spend another hour going through details. By the time we're done, it's almost seven P.M., and my brain feels like it's been run through a blender.
"We'll have a decision for you by Monday," Declan says, shaking Eduardo's hand.
"I look forward to it."
We walk back to the hotel in silence.
By the time we reach the lobby, the sun is setting—the sky streaked with orange and pink, the sticky heat finally starting to break.
"Good work today," Wyeth says, pulling out his phone. "Both of you. I'm going to call Quinn, give him an update. Dinner in an hour?"
"I'm exhausted," I admit. "I might just order room service."
"Declan?"
"I'll eat at the hotel."
"Great. Meet in the restaurant at eight-thirty." Wyeth's already walking toward the elevators. "Don't be late."
The doors close behind him, and Declan and I turn toward each other.
"You were impressive today," he says. "The way you handled Eduardo's questions. The site assessment. You made me look good."
"That's my job."
"Is it?" He steps closer. "Because from where I'm standing, you just proved you're capable of running this entire operation. Not just coordinating vendors. Actually running it."
"I—" I don't know what to say. "I don’t know about that. How many twenty-somethings at the company are running entire operations like this?"
He blinks. "Does it matter?"
“I’ve only been working here a month.”
"And you're better at it than people who've been doing it for a decade." He's right in front of me now. "Stop underestimating yourself. It's getting annoying."
I almost laugh. "Are you complimenting me or insulting me?"
“Yes.”
I laugh. “Well, that’s very…altruistic of you.”
"That's the worst description of me I've ever heard."
“I’m sure I’ll think of worse things to call you soon.” I grin. “Plus I’m tired. My brain doesn't work when I'm tired."
"Then go upstairs. Get some rest. We'll do dinner tomorrow instead."
"What about Wyeth?"
"I'll tell him we're working." He reaches out, sweeping a strand of hair behind my ear. His green gaze seems fastened to my mouth. "Go, Darcy."
The command, the touch, the closeness—so casual, so automatic—shows exactly what I expected from Declan Shaw.
He and I too easily fall into a natural rhythm whenever we’re near.
It doesn’t help that my body feels literally magnetized to him, pulled to his unapologetic masculinity, his bossy certainty, his surprising tenderness.
I inhale, stepping away from his force field.
“You’re right.” I nod. “Goodnight, Mr. Shaw."
"Goodnight, Miss Madison."
I walk to the elevator and press twelve.
I enter the lift, the doors closing shortly afterward, and I stand there for a moment, staring at my reflection in the mirrored walls, trying to figure out how long I can keep up this charade.
Pretending I can simply be Declan Shaw’s employee and nothing more.
I sigh.
Thirty-one days until the annulment.
I just pray I can make it.