Chapter 9

“Note to Claire, if you want intense family drama, rent Spy Kids.”

Phil Dunphy, Modern Family

Once she heard Jessie and Finn’s door close down the hall, Hope inhaled what was supposed to be a cleansing breath, then choked on it as she exhaled. Great.

Careful not to let her door creak, she slipped out of her room and tiptoed upstairs to the kitchen, each step a struggle as she fought the urge to turn around and go back down. But then she reached the kitchen doorway and there he was, apron on, punching down a pile of dough while Johnny Cash crooned quietly from the radio; JD stared at her from behind a cut piece of plywood that blocked him inside the mud room.

“Uh, hey,” she said, suddenly realizing that all of her courage and daring had turned tail and run back to her bedroom. Probably hiding in one of her shoes. Or in her tote bag full of stuff. “I, uh, just brought my mug back. Thank you. For the tea, I mean. And the dessert.”

“You’re welcome.”

She didn’t know why she was walking like that, sort of sidestepping her way around him to the sink, but the whole way there she could feel his eyes on her, watching, even though she was pretty sure he never stopped working the dough.

“How’s, uh, how’s JD doing?” she asked, smiling down at the much more contented dog. “He looks pretty comfortable.”

“Hell if I know.” Ronan swiped his mouth against his shoulder. “He’s downed about four bowls of water, snarfed half of the leftover salmon and some scrambled eggs, but I’ll be damned if I can get him to go outside without me.”

“He likes you, is all,” she said, her voice dry and cracked. “You pulled him out of the hold and fed him, and dogs remember stuff like that. At least in the movies anyway.”

He blinked away from her long enough to split the dough into two loaf pans, which he then pushed to the far side of the counter before washing his hands. The whole time he was doing that, Hope moved around the kitchen with her hands folded behind her back, pretending she found great interest in the calendar page hanging on the fridge and the odd hand-carved wooden thing on the window ledge, which looked a bit like a fish.

“Okay.” After drying his hands on the dish towel, he tossed it over his shoulder again and lifted his chin a little. “So what’s up?”

“What? Nothing.” She shook her head as if to emphasize her answer, but she shook it too hard and too fast, which immediately gave her away.

“Is that right?” he asked. “ ’Cause you look like you’re about to share something else about blood-squirting toads or canaries.”

She started to deny it and ended up laughing instead. But even so, she couldn’t quite bring herself to start. Maybe if she went downstairs and started over, maybe if she hadn’t hesitated when she first came in…

With a glance at his watch, Ronan tipped his head and nodded. “Okay, well, I’m gonna be here awhile with the bread, so when you figure it out, let me know.”

“Why do you make bread?” That was not the question she wanted to ask and she was pretty sure he knew it, especially when he smiled at her like that, as if he thought she might be a wee bit crazy.

“Because then we have something to spread the PB and J on.”

“Yeah, that’s funny,” she said, without even cracking a smile. “I mean why do you make it yourself? Wouldn’t it just be easier to buy it?”

“Easier? Sure.” He opened the dishwasher and began loading everything into it. “But we try to be as self-sufficient as we can, and store-bought loaves all come in plastic bags, something we’re trying to avoid. Besides, you can’t tell me there’s a brand of bread out there that comes anywhere close to homemade.”

He had her there.

“So why don’t you make it during the day instead of staying up half the night?”

“Because there’s other stuff to do during the day and I like the quiet in here at night.”

“Oh.” It took a second, but his words finally sank into her brain. “Oh! You like to be alone at night, I’m sorry, I’ll—”

She pointed toward the door, but he raised his hand to slow her before she even moved.

“I didn’t say I liked to be alone, I said I liked the quiet. There’s no Jessie barking orders at me, no guests trying to explain to me how to make them a half-caff triple-shot vanilla soy mochaccino, and there’s no Finn making smart-ass remarks about my very cool and manly apron.”

That did it; if she wasn’t completely in like with him before, she was now.

He lifted his hand, gesturing for her to have a seat, and after a second she did. And then a second after that, she stood right back up again and walked to the other side of the table, where she had room to pace. For the love of God, they were grown adults—mature people; this shouldn’t be so difficult. The answer was either yes or no, and either way…Well, she didn’t know what to think about either way, but still. Either way.

What was it Matt Damon’s character said in that zoo movie? Something about twenty seconds of insane courage and embarrassing bravery—that’s all a person needed, and then something great would happen.

Sure, okay, she could do anything for twenty seconds. And so help you, Matt, you better be right.

“Okay,” Ronan muttered as he tugged off his apron and leaned back against the counter. “Whatever it is, it can’t be any worse than blood-squirting toads, can it?”

“Welllll…I guess that depends on which side of the table you’re on,” she said, then glanced up at the clock on the wall. Twenty seconds. Okay. Fisting her hands, she bounced them against her thighs and nodded. Twenty seconds starting…now. “Okay, can I ask you something?”

“That remains to be seen,” he said, chuckling nervously. “Can you?”

Fifteen seconds.

“I’m not sure,” she muttered. “But I’m gonna give it a whirl.”

She tried to look at him, but his eyes were too beautiful, and his mouth…well, crap. His mouth was curled up in a half smile that made every inch of her feel warm, almost feverish. Look away, Hope, just look away!

“Okay…” he prodded. “So whirl.”

Crap. Only ten seconds left. Just do it. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Maybe he’ll say no, but maybe—please, God, maybe—he’ll say yes.

“I know it hasn’t even been two weeks since we met,” she said, the words racing off her tongue as if they were driven by Richard Petty himself. “And we don’t really know each other super well, but…the thing is…you gave me those cookies. And you made me crêpes tonight—again, thank you, they were amazing—and then…well…you made me tea.”

“Yes. Yes, I did,” he said, gripping the edges of the counter. “But that’s not a question.”

“Right, I know. The question.” Two seconds. Hope blew out a quick breath and then stopped moving altogether. “Are you going to kiss me or what?”

“Am I—”

Hope didn’t know if his knees gave out or if he lost his grip on the counter, but he seemed to jerk suddenly, which startled JD, who jumped to his feet and let out a sharp bark. Ronan moved to the nearest chair, wrapped his fingers around the top, and looked straight at her, his dark lashes blinking in double-time, which was too much for Hope to watch, so she moved over to the plywood gate and held her hand out to JD to sniff. He didn’t.

Figures.

“I’m sorry,” Ronan said slowly. “Run that by me again.”

“Are you going to kiss me?” she repeated, never taking her eyes off JD. “It’s a simple question.”

It was not a simple question, but her twenty seconds were up, and she had absolutely no idea what to do now that she’d slammed the ball into his court that hard. And, worse, he’d let the ball whiz right by without even swinging at it.

So…crap. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go down; he was supposed to say something back. Anything would have been better than silence, because it left so much room for interpretation. Or misinterpretation. And according to the incredibly loud ticking coming out of that damn clock on the wall, Ronan’s own twenty seconds had long passed.

Like long long passed. And that was sort of an answer all on its own, wasn’t it? Nothing Hope could do now except…

“Do you know there’s a pineapple on the top of the Wimbledon trophy? I read somewhere that it has something to do with old navy captains who used to put them on their gateposts when they came home from the sea—pineapples, I mean, not the trophy—but that doesn’t make any sense, either, does it? I mean—a pineapple?”

Head down a bit, she retraced her steps from JD to where she’d started, behind the table.

“If the tournament was in Hawaii, sure, okay, I could see it,” she said. “But London? It should be something more British, like one of those big hats the guards wear or the Union Jack. A corgi maybe. But a pineapple? I just don’t—”

“Hope.” One syllable, spoken so softly, was all it took to put the stopper in her free-flowing ramble.

“Yeah?” She tried to blink up at him, but right when his face came into her direct line of sight, she stopped blinking altogether and shut her eyes, until he said the most ridiculous thing ever.

“You don’t want me to kiss you.”

“Mmm.” Bobbing her head from side to side, Hope squinted a little, then nodded. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She snorted—and none too gently, either. “Well, because…honestly…have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I! You’re—” She stopped, her words jammed up so tight that all she could do was point her finger toward him and wiggle it around, as if it were a pen in a Spirograph. “You’re all that, and if you’re not going to kiss me, then I can’t be held responsible for the things that are going to start coming out of my mouth in the next minute or so, starting with the fact that France was still using the guillotine when the first Star Wars movie came out—the first first one, not the second first one.”

“They were?”

“Or the fact that female kangaroos have three vaginas.”

“They do?” That seemed to throw him for a second, then he blinked hard and shook his head, as if that would rid his brain of the thought.

“Or how about this: The oldest condoms ever found were from sometime in the 1600s, and they were made of animal and fish intestines—how gross is that?”

“Pretty gross.”

“Exactly, and this is why you should kiss me.”

“Because condoms used to be made of fish guts?”

“Yes. I mean no.” Hope stopped and inhaled a long, slow breath, in the hope that it would calm her. It didn’t. “I mean if you would have just kissed me when this first started, I never would have had to share that disgusting piece of history with you.”

Damn it—he was doing that thing with his mouth again, that twisty half smile, half smirk.

“You’ve still got more things rattling around waiting to come out, don’t you?”

“Nooo,” she said, drawing the word out a little too long.

“Liar.”

Of course she did, but she’d already succeeded in making herself look like a big-enough idiot; she sure as hell didn’t need to prove it any further.

“Hope.” God, his voice was incredible; low, deep, and bordering on raspy, it was as if he were caressing her name rather than speaking it. “Tell me.”

“No. They’re stupid.” And the only way she was going to stop herself from spewing more of them was to get out of the room as quickly as possible.

Stupid Matt Damon—what the hell did he know about anything? Insane courage and embarrassing bravery were supposed to pay off somehow, weren’t they? All they’d done was make it a billion times harder to look Ronan in the eye, but she had to do it, because if she didn’t do it now, she’d never be able to do it again, and that was going to make for an excruciatingly long summer.

Shoulders back, chin up (attagirl), she lifted her hands in surrender and let her I’m-so-mortified smile out, because it was better to be honest than to try to fake anything at this point.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I misread things. I thought…Well, it doesn’t matter. You don’t want to and that’s totally fine. No problem. All good. I’ll just…yeah. I’ll say good night, then.”

If there was anything she was proud of, it was the fact she’d maintained eye contact with him that entire time. But now that it was done, she looked straight at the door and headed for it with steadfast purpose. Exit…stage left.

The last thing she expected was for him to step in front of her two feet shy of her goal. He didn’t touch her, just stood there, blocking her way.

“I never said I didn’t want to.”

So determined was she to get the hell out of there, it took her a second to understand what he’d said, and by that time he was already backing out of her way, hands lifted slightly.

“But you said it yourself, Hope; you’ve only been here a couple weeks, so you don’t know me very well. Once you do, you’ll realize I’m not what you’re looking for.”

“And you know that how?”

“Because I know me.” He grabbed the tea towel off his shoulder and twisted it between his hands. “And I know I’m not good at shit like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.” He slumped against the counter again, arms crossed, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “Like you.”

“Okay, first of all,” she said, “I’m going to choose to believe you didn’t just stand there and insinuate that I was shit.”

There, that smoothed out a bit of his frown.

“And second of all, I’m not asking you to marry me, Ronan. I’m only saying that it seems like there might be something here and maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if we spent a little time seeing where that goes.”

For about two seconds she thought he was going to agree with her, but then he exhaled, long and slow, and shook his head.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said. “Believe me. But I already know how it’s going to end, and it’s not going to be good.”

“Oh, I see, so you’re psychic now?” Hope opened her eyes as wide as she could and pretended to be amazed. “Funny, that wasn’t in any of the notes Luka gave me, but I gotta tell you, it’ll put a whole new spin on the show.”

The sound that erupted out of him was more of a grunt than a laugh.

“I’m trying to save you the aggravation,” he said. “Because things never end well with me. I’m gonna end up treating you like crap, and it won’t be because you’ve done anything. It’s just me.”

“It’s just you?” Hope stared back at him for a second, waiting for something better than that. It never came. “Seriously? You’re giving me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech already? Wow. Okay.”

Clearly Matt Damon didn’t know from shit about embarrassing bravery.

“Then thanks, I guess, for saving me the aggravation.” She went to take a step, then changed her mind because another question was picking at her brain. “So the extra little bits you’ve done for me—the bag of cookies, the fancy dessert—what was that all about? Do you do that for everyone?”

“No.” It actually looked as if that one word pained him.

“Then why do it? If you don’t want this, if you think the idea is so horrific, then why do things like that?”

Instead of answering, he pinched his mouth shut tight, sending the muscle in his jaw and the vein in his neck twitching.

“You’re not going to answer that? Okay.” Hope stuffed her hands deep in her pockets and nodded, wishing his silence didn’t annoy and frustrate her as much as it did. “Then I’m going to need you to do me a favor, please, and just stop it. Don’t do anything special for me, stop looking at me like that, and don’t ever presume to think you know what’s best for me, Ronan. I’m a big girl, and I don’t need you or anyone else deciding who I should or shouldn’t be aggravated over.”

“Hope.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said, forcing herself to believe it was the truth, even if it wasn’t. “I’m not mad; I’m actually glad we got this out of the way, because now I—”

Ronan’s growl started low, but it was enough to stop her in mid-sentence. The memory of that conference call was still fresh enough that she knew what was coming—and yet it didn’t.

“I told you I’m not good at this shit,” he said, his voice a barely restrained tight whisper.

“Yup, you did. And going by what you’ve just told me, along with what I already know about you, I’m guessing part of the reason you think you’re not good at this shit is because of stuff that happened in your past. Part of it might be because you think I’m expecting a lifelong commitment right here and now, and part of it is because you think I expect you to use big flowery words and expound on what it is you’re feeling.”

Something akin to shocked confusion flashed across his face. So she was right; that was exactly what he thought. It was no wonder he didn’t want to say anything half the time.

“Look, Ronan, to quote this guy I know, it ain’t rocket science. I like you, and it seems as though you like me. Or at least it did until a couple minutes ago.”

Wow—she’d never seen someone’s jaw grind that hard.

“I get it, you’re not good with relationships, and maybe you’re right, maybe it’d save us both a lot of grief to ignore whatever this is between us.” She hesitated, not entirely sure she should ask the next question, but she was already hip deep, so what the hell. “Is that what you really want? Do you want to just blow this off without even giving it a shot? ’Cause if it is, I’ll walk outta this room right now and we can pretend I never walked in here, no pressure, no worries.”

She tried to count the ticks coming out of that damn clock as they reverberated inside her head, but each one was a blaring confirmation that that was exactly what Ronan wanted, to leave things as they were. And when his head finally started to move, it was all she could do not to reach up and smack the clock off the wall, but then it struck her—Ronan wasn’t nodding, he was shaking his head.

“No,” he growled. “It’s not what I want.”

It took Hope an embarrassingly long time to stop grinning long enough to respond to that.

“Okay, then,” she said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? A simple yes-or-no answer, easy peasy.”

“Right,” he snorted. “This shit’s never easy.”

“Well, maybe if you stopped calling it shit,” she muttered. “That might help.”

The glare she shot him immediately dissolved when he grinned back at her, because that look right there—the one where his eyes, so soft, watched her with such bewilderment, as if he had no idea what to do with her—that was the look that had convinced her to come upstairs in the first place.

And it was that look that made it damn near impossible to stay annoyed with him, especially when he tipped his chin and nodded.

“No expectations,” he said hesitantly, as if he was feeling her out a little. “No flowery words and no expounding.”

“No, no, and no,” she said. “I’m more of a single-syllable kind of girl.”

“All right, then.” The sigh he released sounded as if he was bracing himself for the worst. “Ask me again.”

Hope’s mouth opened, but the only noise she managed to produce was a short squeak.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “You didn’t have any trouble the first time.”

“Ha!”

“Okay,” he conceded. “You had a bit of trouble, but it’ll be easier this time.”

“For you maybe.” Hope straightened her shoulders, licked her lips, and expelled as much of her pent-up nerves as she could. “Are you going to—”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Of course that’s what she expected him to say this time, but she hadn’t expected him to say it so hard and fast, and she sure as hell didn’t expect to react the way she did: choking out a laugh, stumbling back a step and reaching for something—anything—to brace herself on. Since she’d been on her way out the door, the closest thing was the doorframe, so that’s what she grabbed.

The craziest thing was that the more off-balance she felt, the calmer and more relaxed he seemed.

“Any other questions?” he asked.

“Uh…” She started to shake her head, then stopped. “When?”

Before he could answer, JD let out a low growl that lasted a few seconds, until the back door opened and Liam walked into the mudroom.

“Hey, JD,” Liam said, holding his hand out. “You gonna let me pet you yet?”

The dog growled again, lower this time, and tucked himself against the wall until Liam moved past and stepped over the plywood.

“Hey, Ro, I’m glad you’re still up; do you have any of that salmon left—oh, hey, Hope. I promised the guys in the orange cabin that I’d bring salmon sandwiches on the boat tomorrow.” He reached for the handle on the fridge, then stopped. “Sorry, did I interrupt something?”

“No,” she said. “Not at all. I was just…uh…following up on something. He’s all yours.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I think we’re good.” Hope flashed a look at Ronan, whose neutral expression didn’t give off so much as a hint of what they’d been talking about a minute earlier. “Besides—guests come first, right?”

“Right.” Liam jerked open the fridge door and leaned in, searching for the leftover salmon. He wasn’t in there long, but it was long enough for Ronan to offer Hope a brief and helpless smile, which immediately vanished when Liam turned toward him.

“Good night, then,” Hope said. “See you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Liam said, not even looking at her. “G’night. Hey, Ro, you got any of that chipotle spread left?”

Ronan lifted his hand in a barely noticeable wave as Hope backed the rest of the way out of the kitchen and into the restaurant, her last question hanging unanswered. Now what the hell was she supposed to do? It had taken all the gumption she had to ask the first question twice; she didn’t know how long it would take her to ask the second one again.

Blowing out a breath through puffed cheeks, she let the door slip closed behind her and stood by the bar for a few seconds to get her head straightened out.

From the other side of the door, Liam’s and Ronan’s voices cut through the empty quiet of the pub.

“You’re gonna have to find somewhere else to keep that dog, Ro. There’s already too much stuff in the mudroom.”

“It’s not staying.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” It sounded as if Ronan ground the word out through clenched teeth. “None of us have ever had a dog.”

“So? There’s a first time for everything, right?”

Hope had just taken a step away from the bar, so she might have misheard him, but it sounded as though Ronan grumbled, “I’m getting real tired of people saying that to me.”