Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) (19 page)

He takes another step, but I keep my attention on the lake, on the quick skips of my rock over the water. “You look beautiful, here in the moonlight with your hair moving over your face.”

My smile is quick, barely a quirk. “Thanks,” I manage, stepping to my left. When he continues to stare, his feet moving him closer, I clear my throat with my eyes focused on the fireflies and on water in front of me. “You know, I thought you’d have more planned.”

“I do.”

“Really?” Finally, I face him. “So this date will consist more of skipping rocks and catching fireflies and you gawking at me like you want to devour me?”

He’s caught off guard by my accusation and his expression is jumbled with surprise, guilt and finally humor. “I’m sorry, McShane. You’re beautiful. I told you, I don’t hold back when I like something.” My cheeks burn at his compliment and he notices, touches my face with feather light fingers. “But yes, I have other things planned.” When my eyes narrow, he laughs. “None of which include laying you flat on your back. Unless of course—”

“There will be none of that, Mr. Fraser.”

“Ah well.” He runs his fingers through his hair and holds out his hand for me to take. “Nearing the end of the date, a fella might treat his lady to an after dinner snack.”

“We haven’t eaten dinner though.”

Declan touches the side of his nose to emphasis his point. “Exactly. Backwards date, remember?” He picks up the jars and the paper bag, and I follow him away from the quiet lake.

Downtown Cavanagh is busy tonight. There is a fall festival being held in the main square. Streets are blocked off for dozens of vendors selling crafts and homemade wares. The smell of fried pastries and cakes hang in the air, mixing with the sweet whiff of beer and cocoa. Declan takes my hand as we weave through the crowd. Children scatter around us, running, chasing one another with painted faces snuggled against scarves and wool hats. We pass a cart selling apple tarts and I think I catch a glimpse of Joe, but the crowd is thick and there are more gingers among the townsfolk than scarves and beer, and I keep my head straight, not bothering to confirm my suspicion. Besides, I’d really hate to introduce Joe to Declan and experience lingering minutes of awkwardness. My father doesn’t see me as a woman and he’s already told me a half dozen times since hearing Tucker and me argue in front of my building that no man will ever be good enough for me.

I follow Declan away from the crowd and he leads me into a small yogurt shop free from the lingering festival goers.

We stand in front of the counter and his usual smirk twists his mouth upward. “What are you plotting?” I say.

“You’re always so suspicious. Relax a bit, will you?”

 
“You’re seriously trying to fatten me up. I’m not a waif. It takes work to keep my weight down, you know.”

“Jaysus, why is that so important? I like the way you look, woman.”

“Yeah, well, since I graduated I haven’t had to keep myself in competition shape. Thanks to my parents, my metabolism isn’t wonderful. Also? Hello, training.”

Declan orders a small cup of yogurt with lots of nuts and sprinkles and I sit across from him in a booth near the back of the shop. He dips the long plastic spoon into the bowl and waves it in front of my mouth.

“I’m not eating that,” I say, jerking back away from the spoon. “That would be an extra mile run tomorrow.”

“Fine then. I reckon another wager is in order.”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Declan’s lowered eyes and grin are immediately replaced with an expression of mock offense. “Miss McShane, do not besmirch my honor,” he says, copying my little joke from the day he cheated me into this date. When I don’t readily agree to yet another one of his rigged bets, he shrugs. “Ah, fine. No wager.” His eye light up. “Ever play ‘I’ve never?’”

Well. This could be interesting. It could be severely dangerous, but interesting nonetheless. I haven’t played the game since my friends and I were teenagers. Sayo had never heard of it, but when I explained that true statements that begin with “I never…” lead to players drinking when they’ve actually done the ‘never’ statement resulted in a lot of honesty and far too much drinking, she was game. But Declan and I playing? I’m not so sure about that.

“Of course I’ve played,” I tell him, “but I think you’ll agree you and I and alcohol don’t mix.”

“I say we mix fine, love, but let’s alter the rules.” Declan folds his long legs out of the booth and grabs another spoon from the counter. “We’ll forego the liquor.”  He hands me the spoon then pushes the bowl of yogurt to the middle of the table. “Would you like to start then?”

I hate that my stomach flutters when he smiles at me. I hate that he wants to toy with me. I hate that I am a little worried about what statements he might make and which of my past experiences would match to his. But he licks his lips and taps the end of his spoon against the table and my curiosity vanquishes any worry from my mind. He’ll play hard ball. I can play harder.

 “Sure.”  There are a thousand things I could admit to, none of which I’m eager for Declan to know. So I start off with a trifle, an inconsequential thing that will relax him before I go for his throat. “I’ve never…stayed up all night to finish a book.”

We both dip our spoons into the yogurt.

“Yawn, McShane. How are we going to get to know each other if you keep things so vanilla?’

Ah yes, get comfortable, Mr. Fraser. “Fine then, smartass, you go.”

Smirk face again. That man needs a new expression. “I’ve never…snogged someone on a dare.”

Declan eats.

“I’ve never…cheated on a partner.”

Neither one of us take a bite of yogurt and a little worry that shouldn’t settle in my chest, eases. I don’t know where that fear came from.

His grin deepens the dimples on his cheeks and he rests his elbows on the table. When he speaks, his voice is so low I think he’s about to tell me a dirty little joke. “I’ve never…had sex at work.”

Declan’s spoon descends first, his eyes focused on my fingers and when my spoon joins his in the bowl, his eyebrow lifts as though I’ve just impressed him.

 I bite my lip, wondering if I should even venture in this uncharted territory, but the game is fun and I liked seeing the small surprise that moved Declan’s features when I shattered whatever misconception he had about me. “I’ve never…had sex on the rugby pitch.”

“Which rugby pitch?” he says.

“Our rugby pitch.” We stare at each other, then at the spoons, before Declan dips his in the yogurt.

“Dirty, Mr. Fraser.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“I’ve never…rubbed one off in the shower.”

I hesitate, but then quickly dig my spoon in the bowl before Declan’s follows. His smile is so wide now that I can clearly see his straight, top molars.

“I’ve never…lied about getting laid,” I say, shaking my head when Declan spoon remains in his hand. “Liar. All guys lie about that.”

He still doesn’t scoop the yogurt. “Never had to, McShane.” He isn’t smug or bragging. He says this with a nonchalance that brokers nothing but fact. “I’ve never…had sex with a friend.”

Both our spoons remain in our hands.

“I’ve never had children,” I say and relax in my seat when Declan doesn’t take any of the yogurt.

“I’ve never done a body shot.”

We both have a spoonful and as the yogurt hits my tongue, Declan pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. He wants to know, I’m sure, but that’s a story he won’t hear tonight.

“I’ve never asked to be spanked.” I don’t wait for his spoon to descend at my statement. I simply scoop up some yogurt, which he mimics, and I enjoy the how Declan chokes on his yogurt when I waggle my eyebrows at him.
 

He pauses, his eyes wide, then clears his throat. “I’ve never lied about wanting someone,” he says. A reluctant silence and then our spoons connect in the bowl.
  “I’ve never…”

“Not your turn,” I say before he can finish his statement.

“Slytherin, remember?” he says, as though that would explain him jumping the game. “I’ve never lied about wanting to be with Declan Fraser.”

He angles back, his arms crossing over his chest as he waits for my reaction. If I don’t dip my spoon into that Pandora ’s Box yogurt, he’ll know I’m a liar. If I do, he’ll act on it. I have no doubt of that. But he’s kissed me a lot. He’s heard my low moans when his mouth descended over mine in the basement, at the club and again tonight. There’s no way I can deny the truth and the expression on his face tells me he’s aware of my answer. He just wants me to admit it right now. Releasing a breath and avoiding his stare, I slip my spoon into the bowl and try to ignore his low, lewd laughter.
 

“Are you mad? Gibbs? You can’t be serious, McShane.”

“I am wholly and completely serious. O'Meley’s hit to Gibbs knocked him out and he missed the next match. Besides, we’re talking the sheer violence of the hit. That one was God awful.”

“But John Hopoate’s shoulder charge to Keith Galloway cost him his career.”

It’s the same argument we’ve been having since we left the restaurant. In between our main course, then salad, then soup, which Declan insisted be served in that order, we started talking shop. He’s a Wallabies fan. I’m a diehard All Blacks devotee. And then we started in on the worst hits in rugby. Clearly, this man is insane.

We walk down the sidewalk heading to my building and he shakes his head, mumbles under his breath, catching my eye here and there as though he’s waiting for me to laugh, to admit to joking about my opinion. A quick flash of Tucker’s much more aggressive admonishments at me over my ideas slip into my mind, but then Declan grabs my hand and the memory vanishes.

“Well, I’ll have to convince you otherwise at some point, McShane.” He pulls my hand to his chest and I forget all about his insane devotion to Australia or his opinion on that admittedly bad hit. I can only focus on how tight his grip is, how my hand disappears under his.

We enter my building and I rest against my door not sure if I should invite him in, not certain if I want him to leave. He’s already had his goodnight kiss. I can’t decide if I want another. “Do I have to go in and have you knock or is here fine to end the night?”

“Not necessary since we got the snog out of the way.” He smiles. “Unless you planned on greeting me with a kiss, of course.”

“I wasn’t.”

He brings back the smirk I’ve grown used to. “Thanks for tonight.” I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. Despite myself and my efforts to keep Declan at arm’s length, I don’t want this night to end. He’s made me laugh, made me blush, made me uncomfortable. I’ve loved every second of it. He’s made me willing to ignore the swarm currently thundering in my stomach.

“Are you—in a hurry to leave?” I say, not sure why I say that aloud. I like how his smile returns, how his eyes are light, excited, as though he’s very pleased that I don’t want him to leave.

“I don’t have anywhere to be but here, McShane.” He glances over my head, into the kitchen through the door window. “I could polish off some of those biscuits for you.”

“Is that just an excuse to get into my apartment?”

“Of course it is.”

Just before his mouth connects with mine, I push on his chest, level a firm stare at him. “I’m not sleeping with you, Declan. No casualness.”

His shoulders lower and I can’t tell if he’s disappointed by my refusal or annoyed that I think that’s all he wants. His finger runs along my forehead. “I’m not interested in casualness, love.”

“Since when?”

He wets his lips and a dimple on his right cheek dents with his smile. “Invite me in.” He rubs my bottom lip. I had no idea what that little move would do to me, to him when I initiated it that night on the street all those weeks ago. I inhale, and his scent turns the swarm into pandemonium.
  “Just for a bit. I really want…” his mouth lingers so close to my lips that I feel his breath hot against my skin, “another biscuit.”

He smells my hair when I turn to unlock the door and I feel his gaze on me as I put down my keys and bag and snatch a couple of cookies for him off of my kitchen counter. “I have beer or wine or water. I’m afraid my selection is sparse.”

“I’m fine.” Declan’s fingers brush my wrist when he takes the cookies and I stare at his nose, his cheeks, anywhere but in his eyes. My mind is warring with a thousand different scenarios, hundreds of reasons why him in my home is a very bad, a very enticing idea. He seems far too relaxed, far too comfortable here. There is no tension in his shoulders as he walks around my place, taking in the movies next to my entertainment center. He simply nibbles on a cookie as he walks to the mantel, glances at the pictures there.

Unable to figure out what I should be doing, I settle on the sofa, my back straight, shoulders rigid. Declan comes to the large bookshelf next to the hallway entrance and pulls out a few of my books to scan the titles, nodding now and then with approval. When he spots a picture of my mother and me next to my collection of first editions, he stops and edges forward to squint at image.

“This your mum?”  He moves his chin to the picture.

 
“Yeah. From a couple of summers ago.”

“You look like her.” He continues to stare and I notice the small pull of his lips, how he smiles at us in black and white, laughing for the camera. It was at the beach in Orlando, one of our girl’s weekend trips she insisted we take at least twice a year.

“Except the hair.” I draw his attention back to me. “Her hair was much darker.”

Declan nods, finishes the last of the cookie and brushes his hands clean. “She was beautiful, McShane. I see where you get it from.” He sits next to me on the sofa, but not too closely. Again, he seems too relaxed, back slouched against the sofa, hands dangling off the sides. “Your face,” he says. “It’s hers.”

It’s not like I haven’t heard that before. My whole life people have commented on how much I favor my mother. Joe gave me his coloring, but the sharp cheekbones and somewhat pointed chin comes from my mother. It’s the highest compliment anyone can pay me. I’ve always thought my mother was beautiful. Me? Not so much.

“Well, thanks.” I say, uncomfortable with the way Declan ogles me. There is a large space between us and I’m overcome by a sudden burst of uneasiness. Maybe it’s the way he stares. Maybe it’s how he runs his fingertips over the back of the sofa, soft, slow touches that could mimic how he’d like to touch me.

“You don’t like being complimented, do you?”

A nervous, stupid laugh leaves my mouth. I try to cover it with a small cough. “I’m not really used to compliments.” Suddenly, I find my fingernails very interesting. This is ridiculous. We’ve had fun tonight. But everything we did was done in public, surrounded by lots of people. Plenty of witnesses. Declan here, sitting next to me makes me uneasy, reminds me of the last time he was here, of the night we drunkenly groped each other and our long conversation the next morning.

 “Well,” he says, inching closer to me, “you shouldn’t be fussed. Nothing wrong with you being called beautiful.” I can feel his legs next to mine, his fingers running through the ends of my hair. “Your mother was beautiful. You are beautiful. I’m just stating fact, aren’t I?”

“Do you—would you like another cookie?” Why is my voice high pitched? This is Declan. He’s my, no, not friend, but he’s my…whatever. He shakes his head, eyes lowered.

“Am I making you nervous?”

“No,” I say too quickly. My eyes close at his laugh. “I’m not nervous.”

“Good. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t.”

“Then why are you blushing?” He laughs again and I come back to myself, slap him lightly on the arm. “There she is.” He pulls on my shoulder. “Come here.” His chest is warm, comforting and I don’t jerk back from him when he takes my hand, rubs his thumb across my fingernails. “Your mum, what was her name?”

“Evelyn.”

“‘McShane’ is a northern name, yes?”

“Her people were from Belfast originally.”

“Ah.”

The questions aren’t invasive. Declan seems genuinely curious and I don’t mind him prying. Then his next statement changes the mood and I feel the heavy weight of such an invasion gather in my chest. “You miss her.” He says it so simply, as though he knows exactly how I feel with very little confirmation from me.

I close my eyes again, tilt my head against Declan’s shoulder. I try to ignore the sharp flashes of memory that rush to the forefront of my mind when my vision crosses the room to that picture. I can only manage to answer Declan with a nod.

“I’m sorry, love. I don’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s fine.” I sit up, put distance between us, but I can’t help answering him. “I do miss her. Sometimes I miss her so much I can’t manage to breathe.”

“I remember that feeling.”

“Do you?” I ask, but there is a lump already forming in my throat. It makes my voice shake. Before I can stop it, the accustomed burn beneath my lids fires up and I shoot for subtly, rubbing my eyes to clear away my tears before they begin.

“Shite, I’m sorry,” he says, resting his hand on my back.

“No. No, it’s okay.” When I throw a glance over my shoulder, I notice that there is clear concern in Declan’s eyes. “It’s hard. Sometimes, you know, sometimes I forget. Not her. Just sometimes for a few seconds, I forget she’s gone. Mostly when I’m half asleep or in that space between asleep and awake?” Twisting around, I slouch against the sofa, fidget with the seam of my jeans. Declan watches me, his attention is fierce and I don’t question why I can speak so freely with him, why mentioning my mother comes effortless with no one else but Declan. “It’s like my mind sorts through all the data of my day, but then that’s not a part of it. It slips past the filters and I forget. Then I worry that I forget too often and I—” I shake my head, brush back the tears that have collected in my eyes. Declan reaches for me, but I leave the sofa, return to the kitchen counter. “You sure you don’t want anything to drink? I know you like chocolate, I have—”

“You’re not a bad daughter for forgetting.” He stands behind me, interrupting my flippant distraction. Declan rests his hands on my shoulders and I like how firm his grip is, how he won’t let me disregard my feelings. “It’s only natural. For me it got so that I’d started to forget what my mum looked like.” I face him, mildly horrified that he’d admit something like that. “It’s not likely to happen to you since you were so much older than I was when you lost your mum, but there will be days when you won’t think of her a’tall. And that’s okay, love. That’s what’s supposed to happen.”

“Forgetting her is okay? I don’t see how.”

He brushes his thumbs over my tears, wiping my cheeks dry. “It doesn’t mean you don’t miss or that you don’t still love her. It just means that you’re learning to live with the crushing agony of it all. It just means that the gaping hole in your chest is growing smaller.”

“But you haven’t forgotten your mom completely.”

“Course not. But I have my da. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d been on my own.” He smoothes my hair behind my ear and I enjoy the calm his fingers send through my skin. “Honestly, love, you being on your own and still managing, it’s fecking brave. You’re so damn strong, stronger than I would have been.”

“I didn’t really have a choice. Besides, I have Ava and my friends.”

Declan nods, his hand resting on my shoulder and then I feel the familiar crackle of energy when his eyes lower to my mouth. Suddenly, thoughts of my mother, of our mutual heartbreak fades away, like something I was meant to remember but can’t clearly recall. When I inhale, bringing my chest up, Declan’s thumb rubs against my bottom lip, then just as quickly, stops. “Can I ask you something?” he says and I smile, a silent reply. “That part of the bet, the proper kiss at the end of the night?” My grin stretches and my hands shake when I touch his chest. He draws one step closer. “I’d like to amend that.”

“No—no take backs,” I say in a whisper.

“Sorry?”

“It’s…just an expression.”

And then, he kisses me.

His lips are soft, warm and I don’t let myself think, I don’t analyze that I shouldn’t be letting Declan Fraser kiss me again, that I’m not for him, that it’s inappropriate to be with him, alone, yet again in my apartment. I just let him kiss me. I don’t refuse him when his hands tighten around my waist, when his tongue slips past my lips and slides against mine. I don’t argue when he maneuvers us back to the sofa or when he lifts me up and sets me on his lap to straddle him. Weeks of flirting, of infrequent, hurried kisses and lingering gapes, brief touches coalesce in this moment, spilling heat and greedy need between us.

His kiss leaves my mouth, runs to my chin, along my neck and my heart staggers, is wild against my chest. Declan’s hands rip fire over my skin. He grasps my hair between his fingers as he kisses behind my ear, down to my throat. There are soft noises leaving our throats, light moans that echo around the room and I’m not certain who makes them. I’m only sure that I like his attentions, that my skin warms like a fever and that I never want it to stop. My fingers glide through his hair, scrape against his scalp and I feel his shoulders straighten, his body as it moves against mine. His hips arch as he tries to get closer, to kiss me deeper. Declan’s hands leave my hair and lower down my spine, coming to rest on my ass, gripping me down so that our bodies connect. I pull back when I feel a hardness, a rigidity pushing under me.

We stare at each other for a moment, questioning, seeking permission, but I can’t break down that wall, can’t relinquish my pride, even if it means disappointing him. Yet I like the way his eyes have darkened, how his hold on me is firm, desperate and so I don’t stop him when he stands, when he doesn’t ask my permission to leave my living room with me wrapped firmly around his body. Instead, I encircle my legs around his waist as he walks us back to my bedroom. He lays us down, hovers over me and his weight flattens me to the mattress. He kisses me again, deeper, harder and I let my fingers run against his face, let my nails glide down his neck.