14. Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
~DECLAN~
The plan was to let her go upstairs alone.
It's Thursday night, eight forty-five P.M.—six hours since we landed in Tulum—and I'm supposed to be having dinner with Wyeth in the hotel restaurant.
Instead, I'm walking through the streets of Tulum Centro, hands in my pockets, trying to figure out when I lost control of this situation.
The answer is obvious—the moment I met her.
The moment I saw Darcy storming toward me at the resort bar in a dress that should have been illegal, looking at me with those hazel eyes and that smart mouth and zero hesitation about letting me know exactly what she thought of me.
Five weeks ago.
Five weeks, and I've gone from accidentally married to actively pursuing the one woman I absolutely should not be pursuing.
My phone buzzes.
A text from Wyeth.
WYETH: Where are you?
ME: Went for a walk. Not hungry.
WYETH: Bullshit. You're avoiding me.
ME: Also true.
WYETH: Don't do anything stupid
I pocket the phone and keep walking.
The streets are busy—tourists and locals mixed together, music spilling out of bars, the smell of street food everywhere. Tulum at night is alive in a way Manhattan never is. Messier. Louder. More honest somehow.
I find a small restaurant three blocks from the hotel—a hole-in-the-wall place that doesn't have a sign, just a doorway strung with Edison bulbs and a handful of mismatched tables on the sidewalk.
The air smells like grilled fish and lime, woodsmoke and night-blooming jasmine from somewhere nearby. Music drifts from inside—something acoustic and Spanish, a woman's voice low and sultry.
"Mesa para uno?" the host asks.
"Dos," I say before I can stop myself.
He leads me to a table in the corner, tucked against a stucco wall painted the deep blue of twilight. I sit, order a beer and an a?ejo tequila, and pull out my phone.
I shouldn't text her.
I absolutely should not text her.
ME: Still awake?
Three dots appear within seconds.
DARCY: Unfortunately. Room service got my order wrong and now I'm eating a salad I didn't want
ME: There's a place three blocks from the hotel. Real food. Not hotel food
DARCY: Are you inviting me to dinner?
ME: I'm informing you there's better food available
DARCY: That's not an answer
ME: Calle Centauro Sur. No sign. Look for the blue door. I'll be here. Waiting
The dots pop again, then disappear.
DARCY: Do you think that's the best idea?
ME: What, eating?
DARCY: We said separate rooms. Separate floors. Professional.
ME: We're having dinner. That's professional
DARCY: At 9 P.M. At a restaurant with no sign
ME: Your point?
DARCY: My point is that you're full of shit, Mr. Declan Shaw
I grin, enjoying her blatant insubordination.
ME: Your point is noted. Door's blue. Don't be long
I put the phone away and motion to the waiter.
The tequila arrives—amber liquid in a small glass, expensive enough that it doesn't burn. I throw it back anyway, welcoming the heat that spreads through my chest, the buzz that follows.
I mentally kick myself.
How the hell does my twenty-four-year-old temporary wife have more goddamn sense than me?
She knows this is a bad idea.
She's not coming. She's too smart.
She's—
"Hi."
I look up, and Darcy is standing next to the table in a sundress I've never seen before. The garment is white cotton—simple, thin straps leaving her shoulders bare. Her hair is down, damp at the ends like she just showered. No makeup. Just her.
"You came," I say.
"I was hungry."
"You were eating a salad."
"A bad salad that's currently making my stomach revolt." She sits across from me, sets her small purse on the table. "This seemed like the better option."
"Did it?"
"Are you going to make me regret it?"
"Probably."
She almost smiles. "At least you're honest."
The waiter appears, and we order—fish tacos for her, ceviche for me.
When he turns to Darcy for her drink order, she shakes her head.
"Just water for me, please. No ice."
The waiter nods and disappears.
I raise an eyebrow. "Not drinking on our work vacation?"
"That salad is staging a rebellion in my stomach. I'm not giving it reinforcements."
"Smart."
"Occasionally." She folds her hands on the table; her fingers are bare—no rings, no polish. "So."
"So."
"We're having dinner."
"We are."
"In Tulum."
"Technically we're in Tulum Centro. The hotel is in the beach zone."
"That's a very specific distinction."
"I'm a very specific person."
"You're a very something person." She picks up the water glass the waiter just set down and takes a sip. Her throat moves when she swallows, and I watch the line—smooth and lightly freckled, the sort of throat I want to put my mouth on. "This is a bad idea."
"You already said that."
"It bears repeating."
"Why?"
"Because—" She stops and sets the glass down. "Because we're supposed to be maintaining professional boundaries."
"We're having dinner. Colleagues have dinner."
"Colleagues don't text each other at nine P.M. suggesting secret restaurants."
"It's not secret. It just doesn't have a sign."
"That's the definition of secret."
"You're very argumentative tonight."
"I'm very argumentative every night."
"I've noticed."
The music shifts inside—something slower now, more intimate, a guitar and a voice like smoke and honey.
Around us, other tables are full of couples leaning close, speaking in low voices. The night air is warm but not oppressive, just soft and close.
Candlelight flickers between us in a glass holder, casting shadows across her face that make her eyes look darker—more gold than hazel in this light.
She looks so utterly fuckable I could chew through my own lip.
Instead I say, "Tell me about your father."
The question catches her off guard. "What?"
"Your father. You mentioned him in the car Monday night. Said he's the reason you left Miami."
"I don't talk about my father."
"Why not?"
"Because it's complicated."
"Most family relationships are."
She's quiet, fingers tracing the condensation on her water glass, her fingertip leaving a trail through the moisture.
Her gaze flicks up. "He's not a good man."
"Define not good."
"Controlling. Manipulative. A person who sees people as assets. Tools to be used."
"Sounds familiar."
"Does it?"
"My father wasn't much better. Different methodology. Same result."
"Which is?"
"Sons who spend their whole lives trying to prove they're not him."
She looks at me for a long moment, and in the candlelight I see the way her pupils dilate slightly when she holds my gaze.
"Is that what you're doing? Trying to prove you're not Thomas Shaw?"
I blink. "Every day."
"And the Tulum property?"
"Is my attempt to rewrite the ending." I lean back, and her eyes track the movement. "My father died before he could see what the company became. Before he could go straight. I'm trying to finish what he started."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"It's the only thing that makes sense."
The food arrives—her fish tacos fragrant with cilantro and lime, my ceviche bright and fresh. We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds silverware on plates, the murmur of conversations around us, the guitar still playing.
And underneath it all, awareness thrums between us like electricity.
The way she bites into a taco and closes her eyes briefly, savoring it.
The way I can't stop watching her pillowy mouth.
The way her foot bumps mine under the table and neither of us moves away.
"What about your mother?" she asks, voice softer.
"Died when I was sixteen. Cancer."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago."
"That doesn't make it less terrible."
It's the same thing she said in the car Monday night. Same words. Same tone. She understands time doesn't heal everything.
"What about yours?" I ask.
"Alive. Living in Miami. We talk occasionally. She's softer than my father. But she's still his wife. She chose him knowing what he is."
"That's not fair to her."
"It’s not?"
"No. People stay in bad situations for complicated reasons. That doesn't make them bad people."
She's quiet, pushing food around her plate. A breeze lifts a strand of her hair; she tucks it behind her ear.
"You're more generous than I am," she says.
"I'm older than you are. I've had more time to make peace with complicated people."
"Is that what you think I need? More time?"
"I think you need to decide whether you're running from your father or running toward something else."
"Can't it be both?"
"Not until you’re at peace with the first part."
We talk for another hour—about work, about Tulum, about nothing and everything. Somewhere in the middle of it, I realize I'm enjoying myself.
Watching the way the candlelight catches in her eyes. Listening to the way she laughs. Noticing the way she leans forward when she makes a point, the way her hands move when she talks, the way she unconsciously bites her bottom lip when she's thinking.
For a second, I hate myself.
Hate the pull inside my gut, the drumbeat beneath my skin—the stirring within my slacks.
Here, in this moment, alone with Darcy Madison, my world feels right in a way nothing has felt before her.
By the time we leave the restaurant, it's almost eleven.
The walk back to the hotel is quiet and warm. The street is less crowded now, just the occasional group heading to the beach or back from bars. The air still smells like night-blooming jasmine, now mixed with salt from the ocean a few blocks away.
We reach the hotel lobby—the sound of a fountain swishing nearby, the air tinged with faint expensive hotel flowers.
We stop.
"Thank you for dinner," Darcy breathes, her voice a husky whisper.
"Thank you for coming."
"Even though I had my doubts." She smiles, and the stirring in my slacks becomes a pulse. "Goodnight, Declan."
She turns toward the open elevator.
But I catch her wrist.
She stops, looking back at me, eyes wide.
In that moment—in the soft lobby light, with her pulse jumping under my thumb—I know exactly what I'm about to do.
What I've been wanting to do since she walked into that restaurant in white, looking the very picture of erotic innocence.
Since she sat across from me at Quinn's wedding.
Since the first time I saw her.
"Come upstairs with me," I say quietly.
"Declan—"
"I know. I fucking know the rules. I know the risks." I step closer, where I can smell that floral perfume again, see the twitch of her olive skin. "Come upstairs anyway."
"Why?"
"Because I don't care about all the reasons we shouldn’t."
She blinks, dark lashes falling and rising over those golden irises, her pink lips parting softly.
Her chest rises and falls faster now.
Suddenly I'm bombarded with images.
Darcy spread across my hotel bed, that white sundress bunched around her waist while I bury my face between her thighs.
Her naked on her knees, those hazel eyes looking up at me while she wraps that smart mouth around my cock.
My hands fisted in her dark hair while I fuck her throat until tears stream down her flushed cheeks.
Her bent over, ass in the air, begging me to fill her pussy while I make her count every thrust.
Those perfect tits bouncing while she rides me, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises.
Her coming on my fingers, my tongue, my cock—over and over until she's a trembling mess and can't remember her own name.
Every fantasy I've been trying to suppress for five weeks plays out in vivid detail behind my eyes.
"One drink, just to talk about work." she says finally, her voice rough, pulling me back to the present. "That's it."
"One drink."
"I mean it."
"I believe you."
We both know she's lying. We both know I'm lying.
We both know exactly what's going to happen when we get upstairs.
We get in the elevator, and I press eighteen.
The doors close.
And neither of us says a word.