When he doesn’t move right away, I fist my hands, and flip the switch on him, weakly slamming them against his chest, allowing the look of guilt to wash over my face. “Get off of me now, Declan.”
He moves back and sits on his heels as I rise off of my back and scoot away from him, muttering, “Please, just go. Just leave me alone.”
“Nina . . .”
“You can’t do this to me. I’m not that person.”
He reaches out for me, saying, with apology in his voice, “I don’t want to upset you; you just make it hard for me to control myself when I’m around you.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I like you. Because I know you’re not happy. I can see you hiding, and I don’t want you to do that around me.”
“I’m not hiding,” I affirm sternly.
“Okay then,” he releases in frustration. “You want me to accept that when we both know it’s a lie?”
“I’m not hiding,” I repeat, and with that, he stands and walks away and out the door.
Fucking, Christ!
A part of me wants to squeal in victory, knowing I’ve got this guy by the balls, and the other part feels like it needs a drink because he’s so goddamn deluged with intensity. I’ve come across a few guys in the past year, but none have shown this level of interest. They all fizzled before anything could ever get started, so the elation that I feel with Declan gives me the power I need to move forward.
I NOW FIND myself tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep because my mind won’t seem to quiet down. It’s past one in the morning when I decide the night with Declan isn’t over just yet. He wants to believe that I’m lying to him about my contentment with Bennett, so I’ll give him reason enough to confirm his assumption. Throwing the covers off of me, I walk through the room and out the door. This floor is private, so I go ahead and walk past the elevator bank and down to Declan’s room. Standing in front of his door, I take a deep breath, and allow my mind to go to a place that’ll put me in the state I need to be in when he opens the door and looks at me. He needs to believe I’m harboring a deep pain inside, so I drift back twenty-three years. I’m being ripped out of my father’s arms, watching him fall to his knees as he’s cuffed. I can see the tears falling down his face, and when I feel my cheeks heat in the pain, the tears puddle in my eyes. I knock.
Lights.
Camera.
Action.
The door opens, and I look up to see Declan standing in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms that hang on his narrow hips that angle down from his broad, sculpted chest. My tears are heavy, but they don’t spill over. He takes one step towards me and pulls me into his arms, his cheek pressed to the top of my head, holding me tight. No words are spoken when he brings me inside his room and shuts the door.
I keep my arms around his waist as he walks me back to his room and over to his bed. Cradling my face in his hands, I look up at him, and his eyes are noticeably worried.
“Stay.”
With a nod of my head, he pulls the sheets back, and I crawl into his warm bed. He follows, scooping me into his arms. His body pressed against mine, my head resting on his chest, I take the comfort I need in this moment. My mind isn’t with Declan or Bennett or this whole fucked up scenario, it’s with my dad. I opened that gate for one second to trick Declan and now I’m five years old—scared and lost.
The first tear drops, and I fucking hate that I’m exposing this weakness. It’s one thing to manufacture pain for the sake of deception, but my father is very much real, and it hurts. I don’t want to think too much, so as Declan comforts me from what he believes is Bennett, I take the consoling for my father.
Neither of us says a word as I silently fight to contain the few weeps that break free, all the while Declan’s hold is firm and strong around me. I weave my legs with his and eventually allow myself to drift to sleep.
STANDING IN FRONT of the windows, I look down and watch as the snowplows make their way through the city, clearing the streets. I left Declan’s room early this morning while he was still sleeping. I wanted to build the mystery and chase, and waking up in his arms would make it too easy for him, and from what I’ve learned about men, easy leads to a shallow investment. I need Declan to be fully immerged if I have any chance at this working out, so I quietly slipped out of his room.
I laugh when I hear the knock on my door since last night he took it upon himself to just barge in on me with no warning. But it isn’t Declan standing on the other side; it’s room service.
“Mr. McKinnon ordered breakfast for you this morning,” he says as he wheels in a white-clothed cart with a French press and a platter of fresh fruit and crullers.
“When was this request made?” I ask.
“Maybe an hour or so ago, Mrs. Vanderwal,” he says. “May I pour you a cup?”
“No, thanks.”