I check the time on my phone and groan. “Six a.m.?” It should be a capital offense to wake anyone up this early on their one day off.
Declan is all about rules, so maybe it’s time I enforce a few of my own, starting with quiet hours between 11 and 7. I’m quick to take off my bonnet, fix my hair, and switch my PJ shorts for leggings before rushing out my door.
Declan’s house is a maze of long hallways and empty rooms without a purpose. The only reason I’m able to find him quickly is because I follow the sound of his voice into a man cave.
A massive television takes up the majority of one wall, set up to offer the perfect view from a deep couch I want to dive into. Declan paces the space between the TV playing some kind of sporting event and a coffee table covered in snacks.
“Is that a mimosa?” The horror in my voice can’t be tamed.
All I can do is gape at him. I can’t seem to find any other words to describe the scene in front of me besides otherworldly. Mimosas. Donuts. An unlit cigar next to a half-empty bottle of champagne.
What the hell is going on?
Declan halts his steps, and his eyes snap to mine. I bite down on my tongue to make sure I’m not dreaming. The pain is instant, making this moment incredibly real.
Whoever this man is, he must be a figment of my imagination. There’s no other explanation for the backward ball cap, athletic pants, and T-shirt speckled in powdered sugar.
I’ve never seen Declan in anything but a suit. Ever. Whether we have a twenty-hour flight or a late night at the office, he wouldn’t be caught dead in anything but Tom Ford. I’m tempted to cover my eyes because the man is practically naked with the amount of forearm he’s showing off.
“What are you wearing?” His gaze hardens as his eyes scan my body, making me feel inappropriate in a sweater and leggings.
Me? What about him?
“You’re one to talk. The donuts are supposed to go in your mouth, not on your shirt.”
The side of his lips lifts as he brushes the crumbs off his chest. I can’t help but focus on how his ridges of muscle shift from the movement. His arms flex, drawing my attention to the veins lining his forearms— Enough! What has gotten into you?
“You missed a spot.” I point to my mouth, showing him where some powder lingers.
Good job. Use your embarrassment to fuel his.
Except Declan doesn’t get ruffled. He merely walks up to me, leaving only a few inches between our faces. “Be a good fiancée and help me out.”
My lips press together. I could walk away and tell him to go find a mirror, but that would show him I’m ruffled in the first place by his presence.
Which would make things weird.
As if they aren’t already.
I lift my hand up to his face and use my thumb to clean the corner of his mouth. His eyes track my every move. Three seconds feels like three minutes with the way he stares at me. Despite my best effort to avoid his lips, my thumb brushes across his plump bottom one. He sharply inhales, and our eyes connect.
His eyes narrow.
He’s pissed.
Then he shouldn’t have asked for your help!
He probably didn’t expect you to grope him either.
Grope him?
Oh. I release Declan’s arm from my steel grip like he burned me.
You needed to use him for balance while you stood on the tips of your toes. That’s all.
“All good!” My voice comes out like a squeak.
Whatever expression Declan had a moment ago disappears, replaced by his pressed lips and empty gaze.
I distract myself by cleaning up the mess on the coffee table. “Why would you ever willingly wake up this early on a weekend?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“I don’t care if you’re Jesus himself, no one should be yelling at 6 a.m.”
Something on the TV screen captures his attention. He makes a disgusted noise as he throws his hands in the air. “Fuck you, Cruz. No one cares about your shitty start position.”
I struggle to reconcile this version of Declan with his usual cold, withdrawn self. “It’s like I don’t even recognize you right now.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.”
I laugh. “It’s a weird thing.”
There’s a tiny crack in Declan’s icy fa?ade as he unleashes the smallest smile. By the time I blink, it’s gone.
It’s as if putting on normal clothes and eating junk food reminded him that there’s an actual human being inside that needs to be let out every now and then.
“What are you watching?” I take a seat on the couch and grab a donut.
“Formula 1.”
“Don’t they have a race in Indiana or something?”
His heavy sigh of disappointment can be heard a mile away. “You’re right. This marriage will never work.”
“Shut up.”
“Mimosa?” he offers.
I do another slow blink before nodding my head. “Who knew a whiskey snob like yourself enjoys something so frilly?”
“My mom liked drinking them on race days.” He says it so casually like he didn’t just talk about his mom for the first time ever.
He drinks mimosas because they remind him of his mom. In all the years I’ve known Declan, he has never willingly spoken about his mother. The fact that he lost his at such a young age is devastating. I couldn’t imagine not having my mom around, scolding me or joking around with me about life.
My eyes betray me, and I repeatedly blink until the wetness disappears.
I swallow back the lump in my throat. “Was she the reason you got into racing?”
“No. Grandpa is—or rather was—to blame for that one.” His eyes dart away from me and back toward the TV.
“Let me guess, he roped your mother in with alcohol.”
“Welcome to the dark side—we have liquor.” He passes me a full glass.
My chest shakes from laughter. “So what exactly is happening that has you raging at the TV like a toddler.”
“I’m guessing you’ve never seen a race before.”
“No, but that guy makes me want to.” Whoever is being interviewed has my attention. Something about his brown eyes and red race suit has me definitely interested in learning all about Formula 1.
“He’s married.”
“You think he might be interested in polygamy? I’ve always been good at sharing.”
“I’ll be taking this back.” Declan tries to swipe my mimosa from my hand, but I hold it tightly to my chest.
“No!”
“Stop lusting after Alatorre. It’s disgusting.”
“Mm-hmm.” I pull out my phone and search Alatorre Formula 1. The results are promising.
Very promising.
“You’re googling him, aren’t you?”
I don’t need to look up to know Declan’s amused. I’m certain if I catch him in the act, his smile will disappear before I have a chance to truly acknowledge it.
Santiago Alatorre’s social media accounts are just as enticing as his Google search. “You know what? I think I have a sudden interest to learn everything there is to know about Formula 1.”
Declan rolls his eyes in the most un-Declan-like fashion. “Of course you do.”
I understood absolutely nothing about the race except the rush of adrenaline that hits me as Santiago Alatorre crosses the finish line first, much to Declan’s disappointment.
“You’re just mad my guy won.”