The costume designer’s smile was genuine when he turned from the grill, tongs in hand. “Dec, glad you could make it. Drink station is by the pool. Help yourself.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Silence fell between them as Janelle began maneuvering the people closest to them away from their corner of the patio and toward the umbrella-covered tables dotting the terra-cotta tile surrounding the pool. A couple of fluffy dogs tussled in the grass, capturing Declan’s attention momentarily. Did Fiona want a dog, or was she a cat person? There was a fence in the backyard of that house in Pasadena, perfect for a dog or two.
“So.”
“So,” Declan echoed, tucking his hands in his pockets as he studied the array of meats on the grill top. The delicious scent of cooking meat, smoked and charred, clouded the air. Brats, burgers, chops, and steaks, and little sliders and hot dogs off to the side, obviously intended for the kids. “Nice spread.”
“Barbeque is good for bringing folks together. Hard to do in this town sometimes.” Rick set the tongs aside, taking a swig of his beer. “Fiona’s not here.”
“Your wife already told me.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”
Declan shook his head. “I want a clear head when I go to see her.” Whatever words he managed to string together, he wanted them to be the right
words for her, and there was no point in fuzzing them up with alcohol.
But he also needed the right words right
now
, with Rick. “I feel like I’m sayin’ this a lot today, but I love your daughter.”
Another swig of beer. “What’s not to love?”
“I’m
in
love with her, and I need her to believe it’s okay to love me back.”
“So, what, you want advice?” Rick set his beer bottle on the condiments station next to the grill before picking up the tongs again, as though he needed to keep his hands busy.
Declan didn’t blame him. His own hands fisted in his pockets. “No. Just wanna know where she is.” When Rick remained silent, Declan sighed, allowing the tension in his shoulders to dissipate with his exhalation. “I’m not a bad guy, Rick.”
Rick’s laugh was almost sad. “I know you’re not. Truth be told, I liked how happy you made her, when you were together.”
“So why is it that, after the nice little heart-to-heart between the two of you in my trailer, she dumps my ass?” Irritation flared, simmered. “You said somethin’.”
“I did. But I shouldn’t have.”
“Oh?”
The tongs banged on the grill as he flipped the steaks first, then the pork chops. “I think I scared her. I told her to be selfish and think about her future, because I didn’t want to see her throw it all away, like she did when—”
“When Alexei Wolkov came into her life.”
Rick shot him a sharp glance. “You know about that?”
Declan said nothing.
Clearing his throat, Rick stared down at the tongs in his hand. “Yes. Well.”
“That was five years ago. Five years is a long time. People change, your daughter included.”
“I’m aware.”
Declan stepped closer. “Fiona’s too smart to mess up her future over me.”
“I’m aware of that, too.” A heavy moment passed between them. “I want her to succeed in whatever it is she chooses to do, whether that’s dance, makeup, or something else that she doesn’t even know about yet.” Rick shrugged, raising his gaze to meet Declan’s. “Maybe she won’t do this for the rest of her life. Maybe she’ll decide she wants to write children’s books or teach dance lessons, or finish her degree and join corporate America. It doesn’t matter to me what
she does, so long as she’s happy. Happy and healthy and safe.”
“Safe?”
“Yes, safe. Secure.” Picking up an empty plate from the condiments station, Rick piled it high with burgers. A moment later, he was filling another plate with brats, then another with the steaks and chops. “Come and get it, everyone!” he called before ushering Declan aside, away from the suddenly swarming mass of humanity lining up—decidedly
not
in an orderly fashion—for the midday meal.
A red-and-white plastic cooler sat against the side of the house, and Rick bent to grab a bottle of water from within, wordlessly offering one to Declan, who took it, nodded his thanks, and popped off the cap for a long, refreshing swallow.
The silence between them this time wasn’t awkward, and Declan felt himself begin to relax. Yes, he wanted to be wherever Fiona was, but this was…nice. It was chaos and calm, the essence of family, found in a city reputed to be glittering and plastic and fake. The power of barbeque, perhaps, as Rick had said.
Something warm unfurled in his chest, as it had when Fiona had taken him to the house in Pasadena. “You didn’t blacklist me when I hurt her, like you threatened to.” It was all too easy to see now, from a distance, exactly how deeply he had hurt Fiona when he walked away from her that night in the studio lot. He’d lost his patience—not for the first time and certainly not for the last—but in its place, he had gained perspective.
The care and keeping of Fiona O’Brien required a healthy bit of perspective, it turned out.
Rick chuckled. “Only because I feel more than a little culpable here. My threat stands, for next time.”
The warmth in Declan’s chest spread. “Next time, huh?”
Sighing as though greatly pained, the other man shook his head. “I feel very old all of a sudden.” His smile carried a hint of wryness. “She closed on the house yesterday morning. That’s where she’ll be.”
“Thanks, Rick.” Palming his phone from his back pocket, Declan found the number for his car service. As it rang, he watched Wes saunter over to where Sadie stood at the back of the line near a slender woman with a messy cap of dark curls and extend a hand in greeting, murmuring something as he did. The woman gave him a brilliant, dimpled smile and, ignoring Wes’s hand, hugged him.
The stricken expression on the Texan’s face was almost laughable.
With a grin, Declan placed the pick-up request with the driver, hanging up as Janelle glided over to put an arm around her husband’s waist, tucking herself neatly into Rick’s side. “I hate to do this to you, Declan,” she said, voice full of the same snarky teasing that often infused Fiona’s, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to kick you off my property.”
Deciding to play along, he returned the phone to his pocket and took another swig from his water bottle, arching a brow. “Bit rude of you, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. Very rude.”
“And I haven’t even finished my drink.”
“It has a cap. Perfect for on-the-go.”
“I didn’t get to eat.”
“You can experience Rick’s grilling skills another night. We’ll have you over this weekend, how about?” She paused, before clarifying, “You and Fiona.”
Declan grew serious as he hefted the capped water bottle in his hand. “I’d like that very much.” His phone buzzed in his pocket, alerting him that his ride was five minutes away. “Great party, Janelle, Rick. I’ll be sure to let Fiona know what she’s missing.”
“You do that.”
SEVENTEEN
Fiona was having a picnic on the hardwood floor of her new living room. Except there was no blanket, no basket, and the only food in front of her was a packet of French fries and a Diet Coke, which anyone could tell you didn’t actually qualify as “food.”
If she had to live the rest of her life denying her body what it truly wanted, there were going to be fries. Lots and lots of fries.
But it wasn’t just her body in denial. No, her heart was experiencing a few pangs of its own today. Like a painful, aching bruise that throbbed in time with her pulse—meaning it pretty much never stopped hurting.
God, she missed Declan. It didn’t matter that she had been in his bed less than twelve hours ago. This was a permanent sort of missing, the kind that said,
Get used to it, pal. This ain’t gonna be pretty
.
Love sucked.
This picnic sucked. She should have gone to her parents’ house for the barbeque, but the certainty that Declan would be there had nixed that idea. No point in torturing herself with the sight of him, not after her decision last night…even if part of her already regretted that decision.
Scowling, she bit into another fry. Any claim she’d had on regret had been relinquished the second she left that hotel room. In twenty-seven years, she had collected her fair share of regrets: getting involved with her choreographer, dropping out of college, running away to Vegas, shutting her mom and dad out of her life. All choices she’d made of her own free will, just as she had made a choice with Declan—first to get involved with him, then to end that involvement when the world started to shake beneath her feet.
It made her a coward, didn’t it? She sighed and flexed her feet, toes—this week painted a deep matte plum—pointed toward the wall. The house—
her
house—seemed even more perfect now that she owned it. The white trim so clean against the soft, muted green of the walls, the wood floors gleaming warmly in contrast. The beams across the ceiling made the front room seem larger, airier, and she sighed happily.
Home. She was home.
For the first time since Vegas, she felt every last molecule of tension evaporate from her body. Closing her eyes, she cleared her mind and breathed deep, feeling the light breeze caress her face as it wafted in from the open windows and front door, which she’d left ajar to rid the house of its stuffiness from being closed up for long days.
Opening her eyes, she glanced down at her impromptu picnic. Next to the fries and soda between her spread legs lay her phone, screen black. Coward that she was, she’d been staring at that blank screen for the better part of an hour, debating whether to text her father and find out if Declan was, indeed, at the barbeque.
And if he is?
Well… Well. Then she would leave her house—holy crap,
her
house, she thought again with a grin—hop in her car, and get her butt over to the barbeque.
Her jaw firmed, determined, as she picked up the phone. Her house would be here. She’d signed on the dotted line, and it was hers. Hers to make payments on, hers to maintain…and hers to lock up for the week if she wanted to catch a flight from LAX to Heathrow and see her boyfriend. Busting her ass all this time to make a hefty down payment hadn’t been for nothing—she’d planned it that way to make her mortgage payments each month manageable on what she would earn working only
one
job at a time.
One job meant free weekends, and vacations, and, depending on the filming schedule, coming home at a reasonable time in the evenings. She
had
planned for this, it turned out, and, as everything thus far had gone according to the plan, who was to say she couldn’t adjust her plan to include Declan? Any choice involving him was a good choice. Nothing and no one could derail her, not unless she permitted it, and there was no chance in hell she’d permit anything of the sort.
She just hoped he still wanted her, and not only her but to
be with
her—that was the key. Being with someone, in her understanding, meant adjusting your plans…and then making new plans hand-in-hand with that someone. If she could convince him that she was flexible enough to fit him into this careful life of hers that she’d spent so long rebuilding, maybe she could convince him to fit her into his, too.
It was worth a shot.
Instead of texting Rick, she flicked her finger over the screen, taking her to Declan’s number, and pressed CALL, lifting the phone to her ear as it started to ring.
It started to ring really, really loudly. Almost as if the phone were right next to—
“Hey, darlin’.” His lilting voice echoed against the walls of the empty room as she looked up to find Declan standing there, framed in warm summer sunlight from her open front door. His expression serious, he thumbed off his own phone.
She did the same to hers.
One step and he was inside her house, the house she’d dragged him to that Sunday morning over a month ago, high on the excitement of having finally, thank-freaking-God, slept with him. The excitement brewing in her now was different, wary, but almost more intoxicating for the healthy dose of fear she could feel tripping through her veins. It took her a moment to find her voice, and when she did, she could only manage a hoarse, “Hi.”
“Your dad told me you were here.”
He looked so damn good. Scrumptious, really, like she could just eat him up with a spoon and then lick it clean. Those jeans of his, the ones that touched him in all the right places, sat low on his hips due to the tense hands he’d shoved into the front pockets. A plain gray tee, soft with repeated wear and washings, clung to his shoulders…much as she had last night, she remembered with a blush—first against the window, then, heartbreakingly, on his bed. Scuffed black motorcycle boots and a scruffy jaw lent him enough of a bad-boy air that it didn’t surprise her one bit that this was a man who could play the villain in a movie as easily as he could the hero in real life.
Coffee eyes, rich and warm and so deep she’d been swimming in them since day one, gazed down at her, darting a glance at her pathetic picnic. “There was better food at the barbeque.”
“I know. I should have gone.”
He moved a step nearer. “S’okay. We’ve been invited back. This weekend.”
“We?”
Another step. “You and me. Together.” Closing the distance, he dropped to the floor next to her, a spill of lanky limbs facing the opposite wall from her. His eyes never left her face. “You called me.”
She nodded, unable to look away. That face,
his
face, the face she’d had the privilege of touching every single day since she had met him—and, if she got this between them right, the face she would have the privilege of touching, kissing, waking up next to for a long time. Maybe even forever.