Page 41 of His to Love
“You made it,” Tyson said, his deep voice pulling my gaze away from the man behind him.
I stood from the booth and worried my bottom lip with my teeth. “I did.”
He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me to him. I melted into his embrace when his lips brushed against my temple before he set me back. I was still a bit woozy from the kiss and his touch and the smell of him when he gestured to the big man behind him.
“Blue, I’d like you meet Declan. He was on the football team with me at Central U.”
I caught a glint of something in his eyes. Then the dark look quickly disappeared and Declan stepped forward with one hand held toward me.
“Declan James. Nice to meet you.”
I shook his large hand and returned his smile. “Blue Galecki.”
“Declan owns Fireside,” Tyson reminded me. “Opened it just over three years ago.”
“I love it. It’s beautiful and perfect.”
Declan’s expression dimmed at my review, and I wondered if I’d said the wrong thing. Perhaps men who looked like they could lift cars with their bare hands and eat bolts for breakfast didn’t appreciate the word beautiful being used to describe something.
“I should get back to it,” he said, his voice now abrupt. “It was nice to meet you, Blue. Dinner tonight is on the house.”
“Dec—,” Tyson started, but Declan interrupted him.
“Shut the hell up, Ty. What good is owning a place if I can’t do a favor for friends?”
A silent conversation flashed in their eyes before I stepped in. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
Next to me, Tyson relaxed and gave in, ending an unspoken argument from becoming a spoken one.
Declan grinned, a mouth full of perfectly straight teeth flashed as he nodded and began to turn away. “Like this one, Ty. She listens.”
I snorted. Hardly. I didn’t have time to debunk that myth before his back was to us, and instead of the slow jaunt he’d made into the restaurant, he hurried back to the kitchen.
“He’s having a hard time,” Tyson said, tugging my hand and refocusing my attention on him.
“With what?”
He shook his head and gestured for me to sit. I slid into the booth and instead of sitting across from me, Tyson followed me.
“Expecting company?” I asked, gesturing with a nod toward the other side.
“No. But I missed you and want to be close to you.”
Warmth suffused my insides at his direct and honest admission.
“Well then,” I huffed lightly, and slid both menus in front of us, “who am I to argue with that?”
Tyson chuckled and scanned his own menu.
When the server, Tara, appeared, we quickly placed our order, me ordering a steak quesadilla and margarita because Tara promised me it was the best in the state. Tyson ordered a buffalo cheeseburger that sounded incredible, but how could it not when the first thing in the description was “piled high with massive amounts of bacon and fried onions.”
Once our orders were placed, and I was served a margarita almost the size of my head, I found Tara had been truthful. The margarita was delicious. The perfect balance of sour and sweet.
Tyson took a sip of his Shock Top ale and put it back on the table before turning to me in the booth.
“I did miss you,” he repeated, his voice soft and husky.
I swallowed slowly, emotion quickly clogging my throat. I couldn’t tell by his soft expression if he meant the last decade, or the last week. I decided not to ask and leaned in when the backs of his fingers dragged seductively across my cheekbone. He turned his hand, cupping my jaw in his large and warm palm.
