The squealing whistle of the kettle snaps me out of the purple and into the present. I fix my tea and make my way into the bedroom to get ready for the day. Knowing I’m going to be seeing Declan, I want to look nice, so I set my mug down on the center island in my closet and start sorting through my clothes. Selecting a simple black shift dress, I pair it with patent black heels and my white, wool, knee-length coat.
After a slow morning getting ready and taking a phone call from Jacqueline to schedule a lunch date with the girls, I grab my purse and head down to the parking garage. It takes a while to get to the hotel with the hectic lunch traffic in the loop, but when I arrive, the valet takes my car and I make my way back to Declan’s office.
When I approach his door, I can hear his voice on the other side. He sounds angry, barking orders with whoever he must be on the phone with because it’s only Declan’s voice I hear. I wait, and when I notice the conversation has ended, I give the door a couple light taps.
“Come in,” he calls.
Opening the door, his focus is on his laptop and nothing else as he’s clicking away at the keyboard.
“Bad time?” I question hesitantly, and when he hears my voice, he flicks his eyes my way and swivels his chair away from his computer to face me. “I can come back.”
“No,” he simply states as he stands up and walks towards me, taking me by the elbow and turning me to walk with him. “This way.”
His snippy attitude the other day at the florist was irritating, but for some reason, right now, it doesn’t have that effect on me, figuring that whoever he was just speaking to is the culprit of his mood, and not me. I follow him out of his office and down to an opulent private dining room that’s currently free of people. He opens the double-etched glass doors and leads me into the dark room, dimly lit by the sparse chandeliers. Towards the back of the dining space, there is a secluded table that’s covered in burnt orange and white flowers with dark, rich greenery. Some accented with spiral grapevines and others darkened with blackened moss.
Declan still has a hold on my arm when we walk over to the table.
“I’m impressed,” I say, and it’s then that he releases me. When I look at him, I notice his jaw flex as he grinds his teeth. His focus is on the table and not me, so it’s with a soft voice, I speak. “Declan?” Looking over at me, I ask, “Are you sure this isn’t a bad time? I can go.”
He relaxes his face and runs his hand behind his neck and down along his lightly stubbled jaw. Releasing a sigh, he says, “Stay.”
Nodding my head, I turn away and take a step over to the arrangements and begin studying each one. There are five, each ornate and exquisitely put together. The designs unique and exactly what I had in mind.
I still when I feel Declan’s fingers graze the sides of my neck, and as I turn my head to see him standing right behind me, he moves his hands to the collar of my coat, and starts to slip it off my shoulders. Adjusting myself, I allow him to take my coat and watch as he lays it across the back of a chair.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
“What do you think?”
Keeping my eyes on him, I don’t answer immediately. I want the contact to see how he responds. It doesn’t take long for a sexy grin to cross his face.
“They’re perfect. I’m not sure how to pick one over the other.”
“So take them all,” he says.
“Take them all?”
“Why not? Who says you have to choose?”
“Isn’t there always a choice?” I ask with an undertone that states we’re talking about more than just flowers.
“Not when you’re a Vanderwal.”
With superficial offense, I say, “Is that what you think? That because of my name I simply take what I want?” He quirks a brow without saying anything, and I add, “Is that what you do? Because correct me if I’m wrong, but the McKinnon name sure isn’t one that people are not aware of.”
“Are we talking personal or business?” he questions.
“Business is personal when it belongs to you, and last time I checked, it’s your name that robes this hotel.”
He walks over to one of the other tables and takes a seat. Leaning back and resting one of his arms on the table, he says, “Yes. I take what I want.”
I stay put, standing by the flowers, and question, “In which case?”
“In all cases. Now stop standing there and sit with me.”
“Is this you taking?”
With a smile that he plays so well, he says, “Are you up for grabs?”
“No,” I state curtly. “And these games you tend to enjoy playing with me are getting old, and frankly, I don’t enjoy being toyed with as if I’m here solely for your entertainment. So again, cut the shit, Declan.” I grab my coat and start walking towards the door, hoping he makes the move I’m goading him into.
His hand grips the top of mine as soon as it hits the door handle, and I freeze, keeping my head down.
“Don’t go,” he says, and I remain silent as he continues to speak. “You’re not a toy, Nina, and I apologize if I made you feel that way.”
“So what is this?”
“This is me, simply wanting to get to know you,” he says, and when I look at him, he adds, “You say you don’t have friends, right?”
Turning my head away from him to avoid eye contact, he says, “Everyone deserves a friend, Nina. Even you.”
“And you think you’re gonna fill that void?” I ask, looking back at him. “What makes you think I need that?”
“Tell me then, who do you talk to about the things you can’t with your husband?”
I pull my hand out from under his and move to face him. “Who do you talk to?”
Silence.
“You expect me to just put myself out there when I don’t know anything about you? And what do you give me in return, huh?” I question.
“The same,” he answers. “So let’s start now. Before you knocked on my door a few minutes ago, I was on the phone with my father. He was being a fuckin’ knob as always, ridiculing me for decisions I’m making that he doesn’t have a say in, and it drives him crazy to not hold the power in this situation. So there you go, my father’s a bastard to me.”
His eyes are sharp as he says this, the intensity prevalent, and I feel like I just made progress. But I don’t want him pissed right now, so I break the tension, and make him smile when I tease, “A fuckin’ knob? Is this some Scottish insult you guys throw around because I’ve never heard anyone call someone a knob before?”
“Yeah, darling, it is, but if you prefer something more authentic, I can call him a fannybawbag, but then to the random American, I’d probably just sound like a pussy.”
I laugh at his statement, but let it fall off my lips as I look down at my feet and quiet myself.
“What is it, Nina?” he asks, taking note of my shift in mood. When I don’t immediately respond, he takes my hand, holding it in his as he walks me over to a table and we sit down. “Tell me something about you.”
“I don’t know what you’re wanting.”
“Anything. Just give me a piece,” he says, but when he sees me hesitate, he offers, “Tell me why you don’t have any friends.”
I release a breath, giving him what I know he wants to hear. “Because I’m not from this world. I’m not like those women, and . . .” I stall, taking a moment before adding in a hushed voice, “I’m afraid they’ll judge me, so I rather they just fear me because it’s easier that way.” When I say the words, the truth that lies within them surprises me.
“So you hide?”
“I suppose.”
“Are you lonely?”
“Do I seem lonely?” I question.
“In this moment? Yes.”
Deflecting, I turn it on him, asking, “And what about you? Are you lonely?”
“I moved here from New York when we broke ground on this place. I’ve been so wrapped up with getting everything fit for opening, so yeah, I’ve become lonely.”