Sounds from a football game drift into the tiny foyer of the dim room, as does the steady beep of a heart monitor. My own heart beats a staccato rhythm as I grip Declan’s hand.
I hope for his sake that tonight goes well, but everything I know about his dad indicates that might not be a realistic expectation. And as much as it breaks my heart, I hope Declan’s preparing himself for the possibility of a less-than-happy reunion.
Rounding the corner of the bathroom, we come face-to-face with a frail man propped up in a hospital bed, with the same shade of dark hair and eerily similar facial features as the two men standing next to me. The only difference is about twenty-five more years and forty less pounds.
It’s like a freaky glimpse into the future, should Declan ever get really sick.
My skin pricks at the horrible thought, and I do my best to shake it off.
Do not go down that road.
Their dad lifts the TV remote and turns down the volume, then pushes a button on the rail of the hospital bed, making the back sit up straighter. “Blake didn’t tell me such a fine lookin’ lady would be gracin’ me with her presence, otherwise I’da put on a nicer hospital gown.” He winks at me, giving me a bit of that signature Whitmore charisma.
“Now I see where you two get your charm,” I say, glancing at Blake and an unamused Declan.
“I like this one.”
“This one? Just how many were there?” I ask, jokingly narrowing my eyes at Declan.
Blake snorts and quickly tries to cover it up with a cough when Declan glares daggers at him.
Their dad looks absolutely tickled pink. “I really like this one,” he says. Adjusting the pillows behind him, he gestures to the area next to his bed. “Come on over here and visit with me for a bit. Make a dying man’s day a little brighter.”
Declan reluctantly lets go of my hand to move a heavy-looking chair close to his father’s bedside. “Thank you,” I murmur as I sit down. Declan gives my shoulder a light squeeze in response and—like any time he touches me—my body instantly melts a little.
His dad carefully watches our nearly silent exchange, and it dawns on me how weird this must be for him.
The last time he saw Declan was as a twelve-year-old boy, and now he’s a grown man in love. That’s quite a journey, and his dad missed every single step along the way.
I both hate him and pity him for it.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
The raspy voice of Declan’s father interrupts my thoughts, and I glance up at him. “Savannah.”
“Savannah.” The side of his mouth hitches up as he draws out my name. It reminds me so much of Declan and his sly, ghost of a smile. I wonder if Declan’s even aware they have that in common.
I glance over my shoulder to see him standing at the edge of the room. His arms are crossed and his jaw is a tense stretch of solid muscle.
He looks like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.
“That’s a beautiful name,” his dad continues, bringing my attention to him once again. “I’m John.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “It ain’t as pretty as yours, but try not to hold that against me.”
I laugh as I slip my hand in his callused palm. “I’ll try.”
John’s brows wrinkle as he inspects my hand. “I don’t see a ring on your finger. Does that mean you’re not a Whitmore yet?”
I glance at Declan again, giving him a playful, pointed look. “Not quite.”
Declan’s decided, much to his amusement and my frustration, to make a game out of proposing. Since I know it’s coming, it kind of takes the element of surprise away, but the sneaky bastard’s managed to find a way to keep me on my toes.
For example, the other night when I was cooking dinner and couldn’t find the big mixing bowl, Declan said, “I think it’s down here.”
I stopped searching the cabinets in front of me and turned to face him, only to find him down on one knee—and not in an “I’m down here looking for something” kind of way. This was some Boyz II Men, “On Bended Knee” shit.
My heart slammed to a halt as he took my left hand in his, and the way he looked up at me with such joy nearly stole my breath.
His thumb traced the back of my hand as he said, “Savannah, baby. . .”
That’s when I lost the ability to breathe.
This was it! He was finally going to—
“You’re in the way,” he finished, tugging me aside by my hand so he could open the cabinet behind me.
Declan snickered as I yanked my hand out of his and stormed off. “If you keep doing this, then I’m gonna say no when you finally do ask. And it’ll serve you right, you jackass.”
We ended up ordering in that night, because he didn’t trust me around his food after that little stunt he pulled. He may be an ass, but he’s a smart ass. I would’ve definitely butchered that meal on purpose.
John releases my hand, bringing me back to the present. “Well don’t you think we ought to rectify that?” he asks, looking from me to Declan. “Seems to me if my son was smart enough to land you, then he’d be smart enough to keep you.”
When my eyes land on Declan once more, I can’t help but feel a smidge of residual anger. That really was a dick move. “You’d think so,” I mutter.
“And on that note. . .” Blake puffs out his cheeks, looking entirely uncomfortable. “I’m gonna run down to the cafeteria and find something to eat. Anybody want anything?”
I grab my purse and hop up. “I’ll go with you. I could use a drink.”
“Awesome. You two get started on those wedding plans while we’re gone,” Blake says to Declan and John. “I want a date and a color scheme by the time we get back.” He points to his brother, saying in all seriousness, “And Declan, no black.”
I laugh and start to follow Blake out of the room when Declan grabs my hand. He leans down to whisper in my ear, “You guys suck,” before kissing my cheek.
“Sorry,” I whisper, then nod to my empty chair. “Talk to him,” I mouth, doing my best to mirror Blake’s stern demeanor.
Declan simply rolls his eyes.
I ease the door open, surprised to see Blake lingering in the hallway. I kind of expected him to have gone on without me.
He must notice my surprise, because he says, “I’m not really hungry. I just said that to give them some privacy.”
Ah. I nod slowly and take a seat on the bench beside me. “I’m not really thirsty.”
Blake pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans and packs it on the palm of his hand. After he flips the top and takes one, he holds the box out to me and lifts his brows.
I shake my head. “I don’t smoke.”
Shrugging, he puts the cigarette between his lips and pockets the box. Things turn awkward and quiet as he leans his hip against the oak-colored rail lining the stark white wall.
Why isn’t he going outside to smoke? He just continues to stare at me, moving the cigarette back and forth between his teeth with the flick of his tongue.
I swallow and look away, wondering if I have a giant booger hanging out of my nose or something when he says, “Every time I see you, I can’t help but picture you naked.”
My mouth flops open as I whip my head back in Blake’s direction, watching him laugh as he crosses the hall and sits next to me.
I can’t believe he’s bringing that up! And I wasn’t naked, naked. I had a shower curtain wrapped around me.
Granted, it was a clear shower curtain, but still.
He’s making it sound like I let him see me naked, which definitely wasn’t the case. Blake’s dumb ass walked in on me.
“I don’t want to,” he offers, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Rolling the unlit cigarette between his fingers, he looks back at me over his shoulder. “I mean, you’re gonna be my sister someday. Isn’t that, like, incest or some shit?”
“No, but it is icky,” I say, trying not to make a face. Almost immediately, I go from grossed out to smug as I remember what a little birdy told me. “You know, it’s funny. Every time I see you, I can’t help but picture you gettin’ it on with Macy.”
He winces and puts the cigarette behind his ear. “She told you about that, huh?”
“Oh, yeah.” She told me things I wish she hadn’t. Like how he kisses with the cocky, yet easy confidence of a man who knows his tongue won’t be the only part of his anatomy to sink inside you. Or how his already deep voice goes down another octave when he’s all sexed up, so it’s like you’re fucking Batman, but in a good way—Macy’s words, not mine. Oh, and I should never, under any circumstances, ever know how my future brother-in-law grooms his pubic hair.
Blake stiffens at my tone. “What exactly did she tell you?”
If you only knew. . .
I bite my lip to keep from teasing him—and to keep myself from asking him to say, “I’m Batman.” I shake my head slightly, grinning like the Cheshire Cat as I try to keep it all in. “Don’t worry. You got a, uh, glowing review.”
Blake frowns. “Hmm.”
His reaction confuses the hell out of me. “Did she not seem. . .into it?” Macy was completely embarrassed by how “into it” she’d been, so why is Blake acting like that’s news to him?
He scratches his jaw and looks off down the long hallway. “She seemed into it.” A smug smile curves his lips. “Shit, she seemed really—”
His eyes cut to mine, and the look on my face wipes the look off his. “Sorry.” Blake smiles almost sheepishly. “Forgot who I was talking to.” He clears his throat and says, “I thought we had a good time, but she left as soon as it was over. Wouldn’t even stop when I called after her. No number, no goodbye. Nothin’.”
I study his profile as he stares at something down the hall. His jaw is so square it looks like it was chiseled by God himself, and it makes me appreciate the Whitmore family gene pool that much more. Those are some damn fine genes, and I’m happy to be able to pass them on to my kid. I also can’t fault Macy in the slightest for wanting a piece of Blake. Girl has good taste, that’s for sure. “Would you have called her if she did?”
Blake looks at me with a cocky tilt to his mouth. “If it meant I’d get to nail her again, then abso-fuckin’-lutely.”
Yep, my kid definitely won the genetic lottery.
I roll my eyes. “You’re a pig.”
He shrugs and stands, taking the cigarette out from behind his ear. Blake places it between his lips and opens the door to the stairwell, saying over his shoulder, “You never asked if I had honorable intentions, just whether or not I’d call.”