FIVE
Why anyone would stack a heavy box full of books on the top shelf, is beyond me. I narrow my eyes at the ladder leaning against the bookshelves. It is suspect, to say the least. There are rusted bolts securing the rungs to the frame and the foot grips are worn and frayed. I could call Sayo and have her send down the jackass to help me out, but that would require being in the same room with him and I’m not altogether eager to be anywhere near him.
The rational part of my brain tells me I shouldn’t be angry. How was he supposed to know about my mom? He doesn’t know anything about me and he was just mouthing off like he always does. Still, his comment was unsettling. I don’t mind the jibe about my filthy mouth. I have heard myself speak, after all. But being reminded of my mom, when I’ve tried so hard to never speak about her to anyone, especially with someone like Declan, has my heart pounding, a panic attack threatening in my chest. And, it hurts. Thinking about her, remembering her makes a million pinpricks of pain scatter in my body. I miss her. I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing her.
Determined to get on with it, I grab the ladder and move it in front of me. I say a quick prayer that I don’t end up with a broken neck and shimmy up the rungs. Everything is fine, sturdy even, until I get to the top and reach for the box. I’m just not tall enough. Even with the stretch of my fingers, I barely manage to scratch the bottom. A quick glance behind me has me squeezing my eyes shut. That’s a long way down. I stretch again and this time I raise up on the balls of my feet and am able to reach the cardboard cutout on the box that serves as a handle. I grip it, but the ladder shakes and then, because clearly the gods hate me, my ring gets stuck inside the box. I’m going down.
“Shit! Not good. Not good!”
The floor inches nearer and I squeeze my eyes shut, body tensed for a crash I know will hurt like hell, but then a pair of tennis shoes squeak on the marble floor and a large arm wraps around my waist. The ladder smashes to the ground and I am pulled aside as a dozen or more hardcover books fall around me.
A solid chest fits against my shoulders and a heavy, tattooed arm wrenches around my waist, gripping me tight. I try not to think about how heated his skin feels or how I like the way his breath smells as he pants against my neck, moving my hair with each exhalation.
Wait. Did I just think about liking anything at all about Declan Fraser?
“Alright then?” he asks and I can only manage a quick nod in response. His arm is still wrapped around me and I see an intricate Celtic knot weaving around the name “Moira” in elegant script beneath the thin black hair of his arm.
“Um. Thanks,” I say and scramble to my feet. I don’t speak further, instead, I make quick work picking up the fallen books. He’s at my side on his haunches, moving the broken ladder. “I’m sure Sayo would rather you help her out upstairs.”
“She sent me down here.”
Great. Note to self: pencil in the best friend for a lecture. An armful of books has me staggering, but I find an empty box behind the bookshelf and move it in front of me with my foot. Declan watches me. It’s a feeling I’m unaccustomed to. There is the sense of a substantial weight on my skin, the warmth of awareness inching over my body, that sensation that someone notices every twitch of your fingers, all the small gestures that you make without realization.
The sound of the broken ladder being picked up is to my right and I get the distinct feeling Declan is distracted in his task. I try not to let him affect me. Mentally, I prepare myself for his superior smirk or whatever sarcastic insult he’s going to use. I’m sure it’ll involve my incompetence or my idiotic notion that I could use a rickety ladder to pull down a hundred pounds of books.
But he doesn’t speak, doesn’t utter a single insult and, to my great surprise he isn’t even complaining to himself. Curious, I look over my shoulder and notice his eyes on me.
“What?” I return to the books lying on the floor. He only shakes his head and helps me gather up the mess. His silence has me on edge. From my brief experience with him, he always has a sarcastic remark or a lewd comment to make.
Dismissing him and his constant leer, I reach for another box, this one just above eye level and as I stretch for it, Declan moves over me and grabs the box with one hand.
“Let me,” he says and I nod in thanks. He doesn’t give me the box, instead he lifts it over my head and sets it on the long conference table next to the door.
Our arms brush, brief and only occasionally as we sort through the books, separating them into categories and when we reach for the same book, I jerk my hand back as though the feel of his fingers against mine send an electric current to my skin. We exchange a gaze that lengthens, stretches into a gape and his glance lingers over my face.
I try to ignore how intense his gaze is, how dark his green eyes become. “I got this. You don’t have to help down here,” I say, trying to pull the book out of his hand, but his grip is firm, unwavering.
“Sayo asked me to help you.”
“It’s fine. You can go tell her I don’t need your help.”
“That right? And if I hadn’t been here just a bit ago, you’d be flat on your arse with a broken back.” When I glare at him and begin to mutter more of what he calls “slaggish tongue” under my breath, Declan drops the book on the table, then pushes the box back to allow him space to sit. He grabs the book I’m holding out of my hand, flips through it idly, and I wonder what rude comments he’ll have for me now. “Do you think we can ever have a conversation that doesn’t begin with me apologizing to you?” he asks.
I can’t help it. The sound that leaves my mouth is somewhere between an undignified snort and a low gasp. His eyes widen and my cheeks flush hot, but I forget my embarrassment when his laughter echoes through the basement. After a few seconds, he sobers and lets his fingers run through his hair. “I was an arse earlier. About, well, about your mum.” At first, my lips lower, quiver, but when I turn my attention to the books, he touches my arm and squeezes his fingers gently over my skin. “My mum, she’s gone as well.”
My eyes pop back to his face and I relax my expression. “I’m sorry,” I say, forgetting the books for a moment. He nods once. “When?”
Declan lets his hand fall away from my arm. “Oh, it was some time ago. I was just a kid, but I don’t reckon that knot in your gut ever goes away.” He stands and we return to the books, but his eyes are on my face again and he smiles. “I should have known better than to say something so rude when I don’t really know you.” Declan shakes his head as though another thought comes to him. “Fact, I should apologize properly for the first time we met.”
“I thought you did that,” I say, earning a smile from him, a silent confirmation that his forced apology didn’t mean anything.
“I was pissed out of my head. Too much whiskey.” Again Declan frowns, moves his head as though he can’t believe what an ass he made of himself that night on the pitch. “It’s no excuse, I know, but I am sorry. I’m not like that, really.”
“Well, I wasn’t really pissed at you.” He raises one eyebrow and I smile. “Not for being rude today. You’re right, you don’t know me, but it’s still a bit, new, you know?”
“I do. It was a shitty thing to say so, again, I’m sorry.” We return to the sorting and our hands work together in the box. Several times we touch. His skin is rough and there are blisters on his knuckles, on his palms. He has a player’s hand, calloused and slender, good for grabbing, holding the ball, and I find myself looking at how long his fingers are, the width of the joints, the show of vascular lines on the tops.
“What do you play?” I ask and he stops for a moment, notices me staring at his hands.
“Wing. Well, normally I’m wing. Tucker’s convinced Mullens to set me as scrumhalf.”
“Ah, so that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Why you hate Tucker.” He doesn’t respond, just returns to the bookshelf to grab another box and my gaze follows him, takes in the rigid set of his shoulders. “He’ll be gone at the end of the season, you know.”
“Hmm. If I’m lucky,” he says.
“Mullens is a good coach. I’ve known him forever and he’s friends with Ava.” A wrinkle forms between Declan’s eyebrows. “Dr. Winchell.”
“Thick as thieves with the president, aren’t you?”
“No. Well, yes, but it’s not what you think. She was my mom’s best friend. They’d known each other since college.”
He opens his mouth as though he wants to say something, but then just nods before he clears his throat. “Sayo mentioned it was a car crash?” When my eyes narrow, he shakes his head as though I shouldn’t be angry. “That was after she and the other two barked at me forever. Told me what an arse I was, how rude I was, how you didn’t deserve to be disrespected.” I relax and he continues. “You were hurt?”
“Yes.” My hands shake, tremble as they rest on the box in front of me and I can see myself bloody and still in the car, remembering the pain, the suffocating feeling of my mother’s loss. A breath tamps down the burn of tears in my eyes. “Three broken ribs, a completely busted up leg, and a lacerated abdomen. I had more scrapes and bruises than even you’ve probably had.”
“I’ve had many. Loads of scars as well.”
I don’t know what possesses me to do it, perhaps some subconscious need to prove how tough I am, that I’m not some sniggering girly girl, but I lift up the side of my shirt and show Declan the top of my incision from the surgery. It’s a horrid, long line still pink that runs from my hip to just below my bellybutton.
“A steel rod from the truck that hit us pinned me to the seat. Seven hour surgery.” Declan winces. The scar had faded and the doctors told me that over time it would continue to diminish, but it would never disappear completely. Five months on and it’s still quite disgusting.
Seemingly without thinking about it, Declan reaches down and rubs his thumb against my scar and at his touch, my stomach flips. I know he can see the light hairs on my stomach stand on end and how my skin covers in goose bumps. He looks at my face again and once more his eyes linger too long in my eyes, then down to my lips. But then he breaks contact and unbuttons his shirt.
“I’ve got a few nasty ones as well. See this?” He lifts his undershirt back over his left shoulder and I nod, curious of his point, his intentions. “Rory McDonald pushed me straight through the rusty, broken uprights when I was fifteen. Twenty-nine stiches that ached like a bugger. And here,” he lowers his shirt then pulls up the hem to show me a smooth gash just below his bellybutton. “Mickey Douglas forgot to ditch his watch during a practice match when I was eighteen. Fecking thing nearly ripped me in half when he lined me up and smashed me as I went for a try-scoring pass.” The scar is faint, barely noticeable and doesn’t register really as I am distracted by muscles so taut that I can see the lines across his stomach. There is a long trail of black hair below his navel that disappears beneath his belt and I can’t help the wild dip of my stomach as I watch his bare skin.
“That’s um, yeah.” I swallow against the dryness in my mouth and Declan steps closer, his shirt still raised. Again I feel him watching me, and I don’t realize how close we are standing until he drops his shirt. There is no smile on his face, no condescending little grin that tells me he thinks I’m an idiot.
I don’t react when Declan reaches for my face or when his hand cups my cheek. The tips of his fingers are smooth, not like the rough callouses on the tops and palms of his hands. I’m about to speak, say something glib, sarcastic, but just then Declan rubs his thumb across my bottom lip, a mimic of what I’d done to him Thursday night on the sidewalk. I can only manage to watch his head lower until his lips are at my ear. When he whispers, his voice is low, a soft rasp that nears a growl and instantly makes my body ache.
“Like what you see, love?”
He steps back and the crackle present in the air, the one I’d forced the other night, returns, collects into the stillness of the basement. The seconds stretch, he moves forward, and the only sound I can hear is the low hum of the lights overhead and my own heartbeat thumping in my ears.
“Yes…um, no…it’s not like that.”
“Liar.” He runs his fingers through my hair, by my ear and I like the way his hand fits perfectly against my skin.
I ignore the pulse that throbs between my thighs, close my eyes to breathe in and out. When I step away from him, Declan lets his hand smooth down my arm before I walk to the bookshelf. Another box rest precariously on a shelf above my head, but Declan doesn’t give me a chance to grab it. He reaches over me, only this time he stands directly behind me and I feel the heat of his body behind me. One hand stretches to secure the box, the other rests lightly on my hip. I pray he can’t feel how I’m affected by him standing close to me or how I unexpectedly enjoy the warmth his body gives off.
“You know, I don’t think standing so close to me is necessary for an apology,” I say, as I bump against him to emphasize my point.
His laugh is deep, raspy and he lowers his mouth close to my cheek. “Probably not, but a bloke’s got to try to make amends, no?”
Declan steps aside then sets the box down and we sort through the books. I try to keep my distance, moving my body to the other side of the table. He shakes his head, smiles to himself as I put space between us.
“I’m not going to bite, McShane.”
“Yes, well, you seem to take apologies to the extreme. Except when they’re forced. Can’t have that, now can we?”
“Oh, I think we can. We can have that plenty.” His accent gets thicker when he’s angry, or, like now when he’s trying to flirt. He sidesteps closer to me and I believe he’s momentarily forgotten about the night we met. Either that or he doesn’t see me as much of a threat.
“I don’t think that would be wise.”
“And why not? Have you already fallen for the nancy captain?”
“No. It honestly has nothing to do with Tucker.”
“Ah, still hacked off at me for that kiss?” He moves back and his hand covers his crotch.
I lift my hands in surrender. “No worries, I’m not going to attack. Besides, I’m over it. I just think you and I would be inappropriate. You’re an undergrad. You can’t be more than twenty, right?’
“I got started late.” He plays with my hair and ignores the slap I give his hand. “I’ll be twenty-four in January. Plenty legal.”
That’s surprising. Most men his age would have given up on their education. Part of me wants to know what’s taken him so long to get through his studies. “Still inappropriate. I’m not going to jeopardize getting a faculty position next year.”
“Wouldn’t messing about Tucker do that?”
I glance at him once, notice how he’s forgotten the books completely. He relaxes on the table, resting back on his elbows. “Tucker graduates in the spring. But he’s not even a consideration.”
“Why’s that?”
He doesn’t need to know about my history with Tucker. “You, on the other hand have, what, three more years?”
“Two. I transferred. Two years is a long time to become mates.” The table moves when Declan inches off of it to stand next to me.
“I have enough friends, thanks.”
He lowers his shoulders, returns to the books, scanning the spines. “Come now, you can never have enough friends.” The Americanized term sounds odd spoken through his brogue. His bare arm rubs against me as we work and I don’t think it’s at all accidental.
“I think you have decidedly too friendly ideas about me.”
He laughs, then steps behind me so that his mouth is next to my ear. “I won’t deny that.”
Before I can I respond, the lights overhead flicker once, twice. There is a wheeze and a pop and then the only light in the room comes from the small basement window above the bookshelves.
No, I think. Not now.
“Is there a storm?” Declan asks, but I can’t answer. The doors in the stairwell whine as the alarms lock and I already feel the pulsing panic in my chest surface. “McShane?”
“God…oh, God.”
He must see my panic, how my eyes have rounded because he reaches forward to touch me, then retreats when I jerk back. My limbs shudder and I back up against the bookshelf before I crumble to the floor.
“How’s her breathing?”
“Bad. Her face has gone all pale and she looks like she’s about to hyperventilate. What the feck do I do?”
“She won’t hyperventilate. Just be patient with her and try to get her to calm down.” Sayo’s voice is composed, level, but I hear her shouting at the maintenance men through the speaker of my cell. Mollie and Layla are asking questions, that much I can make out, but Sayo puts them off, tries to make them quiet.
Pain radiates in my chest and my heart is a constant drum of aching palpitations. There is no way I cannot be dying. I am dizzy, winded, and when thunder cracks above us in the distance, my mind flashes to the accident, to the winds and pain, blood and loss.
Dammit, I can’t breathe.
Logically, I know Declan is here. He’s crouched on the floor, my phone in his hand, but my mind is a flutter of worry. Nothing makes sense. I hear his conversation, hear my best friend on the speaker, but can’t make the words form coherent sentences. Being locked in this small basement, electricity out, a storm raging overhead, has me freakin’ out.
“Declan, I’ve got to get the maintenance people in line.”
“You better not be an ass to her!” Layla yells into the receiver.
“Hush,” Sayo says, then her voice becomes clearer as she returns her attention to Declan. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take to get the power back on. Oh and just an FYI, Autumn is going to try to escape. Please don’t let her hurt herself.”
“Right. Okay. Cheers.” I think he disconnects the call. I think he tries to touch me, tentative grabs toward my arm, but he is too large. Too close. I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him. Why is he staring at me? Is he staring at me?
Escape. I need an escape. “McShane, please calm down.” Is he following me? There. Right there. Bookshelves. A low ceiling and a window.
My mind is wracking with impossible, ridiculous scenarios. I need air. I need breath and freedom. I need an open field and the sun beating on my face. I need space. Where can I find space? We’re going to die down here. We’re going to starve. We’ll suffocate. I’m going to die like my mom. I’m going to bleed and starve and run out of oxygen.
I spot a window above the tallest row of shelves and dart toward it. Declan is on my heels. “No, McShane, don’t you dare.” I make attempts to climb up the shelf, knocking books to the floor and I actually manage to clear several thick shelves before Declan pulls me down, circles my waist to hold me tight against his large chest. “Calm yourself,” he says. His voice is low, soothing, but it does little to abate the trembling that has taken over me. My whole body is like a livewire, moving, twisting for a reprieve from his hold.
Declan runs his large palm over my forehead, his fingers glide through my hair and it’s still no good. The shuddering continues and my defenses kick in, I twist around, punching against him and his hold eases. My back slams against the bookshelf in my feeble attempts to escape him, but he won’t let me move. His hands are on my shoulders and his eyes broaden. There is real fear in his expression, he is guarded, concerned, but he won’t move away from me, won’t let me have the space I need. When I push against his chest, try punching at him again, he exhales, his face flushing red then his hands cup my cheeks and he kisses me.
This is not like the sloppy drunken kiss from a few nights ago. He is demanding and my instinct is to resist, to rebel against his invasion. But then he strokes my face, feather light, gentle, and I relax against him. His lips are smooth, full, and he doesn’t attempt to deepen the kiss. When I grip the collar of his shirt, Declan makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and circles his arms around my back.
Our chests connect and I swear I can feel his heartbeat—wild, pounding, a matching rhythm to my own. I am kissing Declan Fraser as though it is a completely natural, necessary act. The anxiety that controlled me, festered into my chest, dissipates. Calm replaces the manic fear, the desperation to flee, and I sink deeper into him, loving the feel of his body over mine, the firm grip of his hands on my back.
His hands work up to my neck, holding me firm and I am free of tension. I press against him, pulling on his shoulders, lowering him down to me. I don’t know what I’m doing or why, but the sensations he works in me cloud my judgment, my reason. I don’t understand why I’m not fighting this. I never like to relinquish control, but the way Declan kisses me, touches me, has me willingly weak. Losing all sense of tact, my tongue licks against his bottom lip and I feel his heavy inhale, his hot breath against my face. He returns the action, tentative at first, and then his tongue slides against mine and he is pulling me up, holding me close. When my body responds, a small brush against him, Declan breaks the kiss. His breathing is labored and he blinks several times as though he tries to clear whatever thoughts are in his mind.
We stare at each other for seconds, but time expands until the air around us is weighted. Declan chews on the inside of his mouth and lets one long, slow breath release through his nose. When he speaks, his voice is whisper loud. “Not exactly the first kiss I was expecting.”
“That…that was the second.”
“Me molesting you while pie-eyed doesn’t count.” Mouth quirking and me still wrapped around him, Declan again exhales. “Just now, that was really the first.” He glances from my eyes to my lips then back again. “And here’s another.”
I don’t argue. His lips touch mine once, twice and settle on the third, working over my swollen mouth. He doesn’t wait for me to react, he simply slips his tongue against mine and twists our bodies around, lowers us to the floor so that I’m sitting on his lap. He moves his hands up my back, still, gentle, and I feel a desperate thump kindle in my core.
My cell phone rings and I pull back, feeling over his jean pockets until I find my phone. Declan releases a groan when my hands come too close to his slightly at-attention dick and I repress a chuckle.
“Sayo?” I ask, standing up.
“Hey, you’re okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I step away from Declan who looks like a deflated balloon slumped against the bookshelf. “What’s going on up there?”
“A transformer blew and the whole circuit on this side of campus is out. It’s going to take a while. The janitors are trying to override the locks down there but it’s no good without power. Even the generators aren’t working. I’m so sorry, honey. Are you sure you’re okay? Is the jackass bothering you?”
“No. He’s being well behaved.” I turn to see Declan sitting up with his arms resting on his knees, the constant smirk pulling his mouth. “Just keep me updated.”
Sayo disconnects the call and I return my phone to my pocket. The air is still thick and heated down here, but I am calmer, certainly more relaxed. Declan comes off the floor, follows me to the table near the door and I make room for him when he budges next to me.
“We’re going to be here a while?” he asks.
“I’m afraid so. Transformer and generators are down.”
He lays back and lets his arm cross over his eyes. I’m uncertain what to do with myself. There is an awkward silence in the room, the unspoken reality of our kisses left unmentioned. Should I say something? Will he? God, I feel ridiculous. I’m not sixteen. I should be able to at least attempt adult behavior.
“Thank you,” I say, my head inclined toward him.
He sits up, lets his hand rest on my back. “Think nothing of it, McShane. You were fussed is all.”
“I—I haven’t always been like this.” I rest my hand under my chin, my shoulders slumping. “These damn panic attacks started after the wreck.”
“Ah. Well, should I apologize for kissing you? You seemed to enjoy it, but I don’t want you to think I’m—”
“No, don’t apologize.” There is a genuine smile on his face and some semblance of relief relaxing his features. He hovers close to my lips, but I deflect his attempts by jumping off the table. “That doesn’t mean I want to spend whatever time we have here making out with you like a horny teenager.”
“Pity, that.”
The light from the window above the bookshelves is thin and I can make out the dark, stormy clouds, but there is still mild visibility in the room. It won’t last long and I worry that once we are in total darkness my anxiety will resurface. A smaller concern is that Declan will take the blackness as an invitation to tackle-kiss me again. Not that I think that will be an altogether terrible thing.
God, what’s wrong with me? Tucker returns and I avoid him. Declan gropes me and I knee him. And now I’m making out with him in the basement of the library. Have I gone completely insane?
“Well, we can at least work on sorting these books while the light is still good.” I immediately return to the table and move the unopened box of books between us.
He releases a small sigh, but gets up and stands next to me. “If we must.”
The last box left on the shelf contains several worn titles. Some of the pages are frayed, the spines cracked and protest when I open them. I add Persuasion to the “A” section and Nineteen Eighty-Four to the “O” then reach into the box for the last book. My breath catches when I see the title. “To Kill a Mockingbird” by Harper Lee. Hand shaking, I open the book, scan the title page to see the dated inscription on the inside. “To Adrienne— Never forget to disturb the peace, Harper Lee.”
I flip through the pages, pausing here and there to read some of my favorite lines and a small thump in my heart has me remembering my mother reading this book to me when I was eight. Joe had argued with her over it, saying I was too young for such a heartbreaking story, but Mom insisted and cuddled next to me on my bed, book in hand. She wrapped me in her arms and read to me Scout and Boo’s story. I’d never cried harder than when we came to the end. I stop at a well-worn page and smile when I read the section. It had been my mother’s favorite quote in the book:
“Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”
Declan comes behind me and I brush my hand against my face to wipe it dry. He sets a stack of books next to me and I can feel his gaze again. I don’t argue when he slips the book from my hand and thumbs through it.
“Thinking of nicking this?”
“Yeah, maybe.” I sit down fully and rub my sleeve against my eyes. “Some people really have no clue what they have on their bookshelves. These,” I wave to the collection of donated books, “are given to the library because people run out of room in their houses or they move or they’re given books as gifts and never read them. Most of them are just paperbacks or hard covers with spines that have never been cracked, but sometimes, sometimes you find something special. Like this.” I take the book back from him and hold the delicate cover in my hands. My fingers smooth over the pages. “My mom used to read this to me when I was a kid. I was obsessed.”
“Still are, sounds like.”
“I’d never deny being a book nerd.”
He sits next to me, his elbow on his knees and I know that he watches the expression on my face, the change in emotion as I read several pages.
“What was she like?” he asks, his voice curious, soft.
“My mom?” He nods. I hesitate only for a moment, unsure if I’m comfortable discussing her with Declan, but then I notice the half smile on his face, the way his eyes relax as though he is genuinely curious and I relinquish my anxiety. “For a long time, when I was a kid, she was happy, smiling all the time, dancing to music that didn’t play.” My smile widens as an image of her in her bikini, twisting and dancing to “Proud Mary” comes to my mind. I found her highly embarrassing at eleven. “But then later, after my father left, she lost her zing.” I don’t let him ask the question I know is on the edge of his tongue. “She smiled, but it was never quite as wide, quite as genuine as when my father was around.”
“Where’d he go?”
I close the book and set it back in the box. “No idea. Don’t really care.” Uncomfortable with the course of the conversation, I dust off my lap and nudge Declan with my shoulder. “What about your mom?”
He straightens and his eyes are trained on his Chucks. They are filthy and covered in a thin film of dust and he brushes them clean as he speaks. “Sad mostly. She was sick a lot and I had to look after her. Missed a bit of school because of it, but I didn’t mind. She was sweet, but like your mum there was always a sadness there.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t easy for her, I reckon. She raised me on her own for most of my life, but she got sick and was dead by the time I was seventeen.”
He doesn’t pull away from me when I grab his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s done.”
“Still sucks though.”
“That’s the truth, McShane.” We’re silent for a moment, both lost in our thoughts and then Declan smiles. “She made the best biscuits and cakes.”
“Typical man, thinking of his stomach.”
“They were brilliant. Especially for my birthday. She’d make these grand, elaborate cakes. Chocolate. My favorite is chocolate and I’d nosh away at them. She wouldn’t let anyone else have them. The birthday cakes were all for me.”
“So you were spoiled?” Declan’s smile widens when I nudge his foot.
“A bit, yeah.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“January twentieth. You?”
“Oh. Um, November twelfth.” The light from the window is nearly gone when I come to my feet. The day has passed quickly and in our busyness, I hadn’t noticed how the light in the basement has grown thin. Glaring at the battery on my phone, I see that the icon is blinking red. “My phone is almost dead. What about yours?”
“I left it at my place. I was late this morning, wasn’t I?”
I sit down again, stretch out my legs and we both watch the light from my phone grow dimmer and dimmer.
“You don’t like talking about your birthday?” I can barely make out his face in the low lit room, but I know his question is more comment than accusation.
“Not really. I haven’t celebrated it since I was fourteen.”
“Why not?”
Declan has this unreasonable ability to fish information out of me like no one else I know. Normally, I don’t talk this much about myself and certainly not about my family, but I get the sense that he is just interested, that his intentions aren’t to ferret out the details of my life to initiate some emotional catharsis. That’s something Sayo tried doing months back and it led to the biggest fight we’ve ever had. But I don’t believe that’s Declan’s motive and I find myself unable to secure my secrets when he digs.
“My father left on my birthday.” I bump my head against the bookshelf behind me when I stretch my neck. “We were supposed to go to Nashville for the weekend. But I woke up with him crying on my bed and in the morning, he was gone.” Declan reaches his fingers to link with mine and he holds my hand. I’m not bothered that he’s likely feeling sorry for me. “Since then, I haven’t wanted to celebrate it. I’m not much of a holiday person anymore. Besides, it’s just another day.”
“Your mum didn’t bake for you or want to celebrate?”
“She did, but it was always low key. My father was the one who went in for big parties, but when he left, well, that all stopped.”
“Damn. I’m sorry, McShane.” He pulls my hand to his mouth and kisses my palm and thoughts of absent fathers and empty birthdays are forgotten. Declan runs his fingers over my hand, up my arm and the warm buzz from our earlier kissing resurfaces. I know this is not smart. I know that I should be stopping him, but his lips feel so good against my skin and he smells wonderful, like cedar and the rugby pitch. He pulls my face toward him, rubs his thumb against my jaw and I forget to breathe. “You remind me of home.”
I can’t help it, I laugh, and even in the darkness I see his scowl, which only makes my humor increase. “I’m sorry, but it’s not like I haven’t heard that from one horny Irishman or another in my life.”
He drops his hands from my face. “Fair enough. But I do mean it as a compliment.”
“Considering our history, I guess I should be flattered.”
“My being an arse had more to do with Morrison than with you.”
“You really don’t like Tucker, do you?”
Declan scratches his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been here since the summer, practicing with the squad, sorting out where things are in this town and then Morrison shows up like King Midas and everyone is falling over themselves for his attention. For whatever reason, that wanker decides he’s going to take me under his wing, going to show me the ropes, you see. Then he decides to start giving me advice on how to improve my game.” His eyes are bright, somewhat angry. “I’ve been playing since before that idiot was even born and he wants to give me advice on how to play?” Declan shakes his head. “He’s full of himself and I get the feeling he gets off on what playing here means rather than him having any love for the sport. He’s a rubbish captain, besides.” There’s a sliver of light peeking out from the window. It glints across Declan’s body and from the stretch of his thin shirt I can make out his wide shoulders and the toned arc of his back. He must feel my scrutiny because he faces me, a guilty smile on his face. “I know I’m going to sound like a jealous prick, but I don’t think you should see him.”
I laugh. “No need to warn me, Declan. I’ve already dated Tucker.”
“You…sorry?”
“Yep. For two years.”
“How did I not know that?”
“You must not listen to the gossip on the pitch.” I wait for his expression, and as expected, his eyes turn cool, his lips lower as though he’s disappointed. “You have to understand, I was a different person when we dated,” I say. “I was everything he loved. Or at least, I represented everything he loved.”
“How do you mean?”
At first, I don’t answer him. The dim light from my dying cell phone casts shadows over his face and I see that his worry is less pronounced. How do I explain myself to him? Why should I? Other than a long couple of kisses, I have no ties to Declan. He isn’t mine. But then his eyes lose that hard bearing, his features soften and I don’t feel his judgment anymore. “He used to call me his Cavanagh Badge of Honor.”
“Not a very clever pet name.”
“No.” I shake my head. “My grandfather brought rugby to the university. And my mother’s grandfather was one of the founders of the town. Tucker has these weird ideals about heritage and history. The roots of my family tree run deep and here I was this shy little idiot running after him, believing everything he said, thinking he was the end all, be all.”
“Hang on. You? Shy?”
“Ridiculous, right? But yes. I was a very different person a year ago.” Subconsciously I rub my leg and Declan catches the movement. His face relaxes from the confused wrinkle of moments before and I know that he understands. He inches closer and I like the way his arm rests against my shoulder.
“So, you broke it off with him?”
I try to understand why Declan wants to know, but the walls that I’ve built around my heart are structured firm, no fractures bleeding light through the cracks and though I can admit to myself that I like Declan, I think the disaster of my relationship with Tucker needs to remain locked tight behind my secure barriers.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“I’m glad that you’re rid of him, though the way he carries on and brags, makes me think he doesn’t like hearing ‘no.’ You may want to be careful.”
“Trust me, I know. He doesn’t like rejection. But I’m not interested in dating anyone.”
A thin fragment of weighted silence drifts between us. Declan’s face relaxes and as though it is visible on his face, his intentions become clear. “No? So kissing me was what, exactly?”
“You started it.”
“I was trying to calm you down, wasn’t I?” He moves up, coming to within inches of my face. “Do you reckon you need a bit more calming?” Just as his lips leave a soft breath of moisture against mine, the lights blink on and the sound of the door locks whiz open.
Sayo meets me at the door after she barrels down the stairs. “And we’re back,” she says, her lips wide, a smile breaking across her face. In her hands are two bottles of water which she serves to both Declan and I. My best friend walks to the table and sees the rows of sorted books. “Wow, you guys kept busy, didn’t you?”
I exchange a smile with Declan and offer Sayo a nod. “Yep. Just a little.”
We follow her up the stairs and into the Reference Department to find janitors packing away equipment. “I had to get rid of Mollie and Layla. They were driving me crazy.”
I smile at Sayo, but the grin vanishes as Declan pulls on his button up and a quick flash of her eyes shifts in my direction. I silently warn my best friend not to meddle with a shake of my head.
“So, if you’re done keeping us hostage, can we go?” I ask. She rolls her eyes, answering my question with a flip of her hand.
“Oh wait, Declan, can I get you to carry this out to my car please?” Sayo kicks her foot at a box of non-circulating heavy books in front of the Reference desk. He shrugs and we follow Sayo out to her car. I’m about to bid them both a good night, but stop short when Tucker walks up behind me.
“Autumn?”
From the corner of my eye I see Sayo rearranging the contents of her trunk to make room for the box Declan carried to her car, but his eyes are on me. “What are you doing here?”
Tucker looks past me and I notice the mirrored glares on he and Declan’s faces. “Was he rude to you?”
“What? Oh, yes, at first, but he warmed up.”
“Did he? How warm did he get?”
“Excuse me?” I don’t like the expression in Tucker’s eyes or what he subtly insinuates.
“If he’s being inappropriate, Autumn, just say the word and I’ll pull him off this project. We can find something more suitable for him to do.”
“He’s fine, Tucker. He’s a hard worker.”
“I’m sure he is.” He moves toward me, but his attention is still directed at the car. Being in the middle of a macho chest thumping contest is not my idea of a pleasant night.
“What are you trying to say?”
Finally, Tucker looks at me and the hard edge of his features soften. “Autumn, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just don’t trust him.”
“Yes, well, I think the feeling is mutual.”
“He just wants back as wing. He can be pissed at me all he wants.”
Bored already of this discussion, I try another tactic. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”
“I’m just coming back from the Athletic Center. They’ve got the signup sheet posted for the Dash.”
Suddenly, I don’t care why Tucker is here. The Dash signup reminds me of my pledge with my friends, of the goal I’d set for myself just a few days ago. “Already?” Tucker nods. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”
There is a curious expression on his face, equal parts worried, perhaps probing, and I know I can’t avoid the question that comes next. He’s going to ask, I’m going to have to answer him. “Why? You’re not—Autumn, you can’t run it. Your leg—”
“What about my leg?” And there it is. The pathetic pacifying glower on his face, the one that tells me Tucker thinks I’m helpless. I refrain from yelling at him, but only just.
“I’m just saying, you were limping the other day and I’m sure you aren’t training like normal since the accident.” He steps forward and places his hand on my shoulder as though I need him to spell things out for me. “The Dash is ten miles. I can’t let you do it.”
I jerk his hand off my shoulder. “Thanks for your concern, but I got it covered.” When he laughs at me, hiding his wide smile behind his hand, I have to cross my arms to keep from slapping him silly. “What?”
“Nothing.” The harder I stare, the deeper the lines pulling my mouth down, the louder Tucker’s laughter becomes. When he sees I’m not faintly amused, he tries to collect himself, but it is a half-hearted effort. “Come on, Autumn, last time you and the girls were practically carrying each other across the finish line.”
“What’s your point?”
“Nothing, sweetness. It’s nothing.”
“Don’t you ‘sweetness’ me, Tucker. You don’t think I’m up for it?” He doesn’t answer.
I’m distracted from my anger when I hear Sayo’s trunk slams shut and I turn to wave at her. She hesitates for a moment, nodding toward Tucker as if to silently ask me if she should stick around, but quick shake of my head and she gets in her car. When Sayo pulls away, Declan walks toward us. Tucker reaches for my hand and I immediately pull it back. I can hear Declan behind me as he runs up the steps of the library to open the door for the maintenance men.
“What are you doing tonight? I thought maybe we could catch a movie.” Tucker’s voice is loud, louder than necessary and I know it must be for Declan’s benefit.
“I told you that isn’t going to happen. And don’t change the subject.” Tucker watches Declan on the steps as though the conversation we’re having isn’t remotely interesting to him. He doesn’t take me seriously, but then, he never has. I step in front of him, forcing his attention back onto me. “You don’t think I can handle the Dash. You want to bet on it?”
For a moment his eyelids narrow and a smile flirts on and off his lips. I hate that look, I hate that he thinks he still knows me, that I’m still the same girl he left a year ago.
Disbelief, surprise, both skim across his face, but when my eyes narrow, Tucker’s face becomes a mask. “You want to bet me that you can finish the Dash?”
“No,” I say, taking a step toward him, my chin lifted and my voice low. “I’m going to win it. Me and the girls. We’re going to win the whole damn thing.”
Tucker’s mouth drops open and for a second I believe that I have finally shocked him, but then he worries his top lip, biting in a thought as though I’ve said the most ridiculous thing imaginable. “Autumn, don’t do this to yourself. I’d hate for you to be humiliated.”
Unperturbed by his slight, I don’t react. “What’s the matter, Tucker? Worried that you’ll be beat by a bunch of girls?”
There is a flash of anger in his eyes. He’s never liked being called out, but he doesn’t lose his temper, not completely. “Fine. If you’re going to be stubborn about it, we’ll bet on it. What’s the wager?”
I try to think of something annoying enough to get a rise out of Tucker. That really is my only agenda, but other than seeing me with another guy, I draw a blank. Then Declan comes back down the steps and the condescending leer stretching Tucker’s lips returns to a glare.
Declan steps behind the maintenance workers carrying their tools to the van in front of the library and both he and Tucker share mutually disdainful scowls. “If you two would like to be alone, I can always leave,” I say, unsurprised at how easily Tucker’s expressions shift with the slightest provocation.
“Nah, McShane, he’s not my type,” Declan says, touching my elbow as he passes us. He doesn’t even bother returning Tucker’s expression and then he walks backward, winking at me. “I’m fond of gingers.”
At Declan’s mild flirting an idea comes to me. Nothing would piss Tucker off more than if I involved the tattooed smart ass.
“If I win,” I say, watching Tucker scowl after Declan, “you have to convince Mullens to set Declan back as wing.” Behind him, Declan looks over his shoulder, his eyes wide.
Tucker jerks his head around. “What? No way.”
“That’s the deal. We beat you—”
“Why do you care about Declan playing wing?” Tucker interrupts. When he steps into my personal space, I don’t retreat.
The light from the street lamp above makes Tucker’s anger pronounced and sets the fine highlights of his hair to a blonde hue. “That’s none of your business. When we beat you—”
“And the squad.” The harsh light does nothing but amplify his heavy pout. “Me and the squad against you and your little hens.”
I ignore his insult. He’s not worthy of my anger at the moment. “Fine. The squad against us and if we win, Declan gets back his position.”
I can see the cogs working behind his blue eyes and for the first time I notice tiny lines crinkling around his eyelids. He’s clearly annoyed, likely suspicious, but at the moment I don’t care how badly my wager has unsettled him. “When we win, you have to volunteer for the Biddy Auction.”
A heavy weight lowers into my chest and a quick flash of heat flames across my face. He did this on purpose, fully aware how insulting I find that auction. “You can’t be serious.”
“That’s my wager.” Tucker’s smile is wide, a sneer and it takes epic control not to throttle him. “We beat you guys and you and your girls volunteer for the auction.”
“Ava would kill us. You know she’s been trying to have that auction shut down for years.” He doesn’t care, isn’t affected by my outrage. “It’s disgusting, Tucker. Degrading.”
“Maybe so, but it raises a lot of money for the squad and you know the boosters love it.”
“That’s because they’re perverted old men who like seeing women prance around in very little.”
He fakes boredom, gives his shoulders a lazy lift as though he’s certain I’d never agree. “Say what you want, sweetness, but that’s my offer.” Referring to me as ‘sweetness’ is just his way of further insulting me. He knows I hate pet names, especially that one. “Unless you’re not so convinced that you guys can pull it off.”
Ava wouldn’t be the only one I’d have to make peace with once she learned of the bet. She has always called the auction “a slight on feminism.” Sayo, Mollie and Layla would never agree to participate, but if I tell them how smug Tucker is, how convinced he is that we will lose, maybe that innate female pride they are so eager to display at any baiting will have them rallying. At least, I hope so.
Tucker has a stupid little grin on his face, is likely confident that I’ll recoil from his wager. Then an image flashes to me, the last time we ran the Dash. Tucker zoomed ahead of us, his superior laughter echoing past the trees as we struggled for breath, for control through the wet, murky course. He hadn’t waited for me, too consumed with minimizing his time, completely indifferent to his girlfriend miles behind him. I may live to regret it, but I am determined to wipe that stupid grin off Tucker’s face. Consequences be damned.
“Fine, Tucker. It’s a bet.”