A glass in, Emmett falls asleep in his play swing and Willow turns her attention to her favorite cartoon on TV. The topicof discussion between me and Chelsea changes to men and relationships.
“So how did you two meet then?” she asks, flashing a small smile. “Dashing Irishman and gorgeous American like yourself? I’m a sucker for hearing how couples find each other.”
“It was at a beachside bar,” I answer with a laugh. “He saw me drinking with a friend and decided to approach. I’m normally not the type to give out my number—or accept dinner invites from random Irishmen—but I got good vibes from him. We went on a few dinner dates, and what can I say? We clicked.”
My stomach ripples with butterflies as I think back to that time.
It seems like so long ago, but it’s only been seven years. Things between us felt so fresh and explosive; we were still so young and open to the future. We had no clue that our future would even include each other, much less marriage and two kids…
Chelsea sighs dreamily. “Sounds romantic.”
“It really wasn’t,” I laugh. “He bought me a piña colada.”
“Sunburns and coconuts—what more can you want?” She laughs with me, downing the last of her second glass.
I grab the bottle of merlot and top off her glass, emptying the rest into my own. “The chemistry between us was insane. But I made him wait for it. Two whole months. It was torture, but when we finally slept together?” I let out a breathy noise of satisfaction. “There are no words.”
Her eyes widen. “That good, was it?”
“You know how it is when there’s all that pent-up tension with someone,” I giggle, the wine making me looser and tipsier than I probably should be. “What about you? Anyone special right now?”
Chelsea’s cheeks tint a rosy pink. She blinks, looking away bashfully. “I’ve got a bit of a crush, but it’s more wishful thinking than anything else.”
“You never know. Stranger things have happened. He might feel the same.”
“You could be right,” she says, a hint of hope in her voice. “He might just need a little convincing…”
Chapter 7
Declan
“You don’t even see us anymore,” Amerie says, trailing after me. “You walk in and go straight for your private office.”
I grit my teeth, tugging loose the knot on my tie. “That’s because I can’t finish half of what I bloody need to during the day. You think launching a new division for Halberd is a walk in the park? I’m under pressure, Amerie. Real pressure. If it goes tits-up, it’s my head on the block.”
“I know you’re taking on a lot. But I guess it would be nice if you… just made some time for Willow and Emmett. You haven’t had dinner with us in almost two weeks, Declan.”
“Yeah, I’m aware. Thanks for the tally.” I toe out of my brogues and peel off the rest of my insufferable office clothes, pulling on a hoodie and jeans. I avoid looking at her as I move from the wardrobe and nab the car keys off the dresser. “You said the nanny needs a lift?”
“If you don’t mind. It’s pouring out and she has to bike almost ten miles.”
“Here’s a thought, love. You want me to spend more time at home? Maybe don’t send me back out the minute I walk through the door.”
That one cuts. I know it the second it’s out of my mouth, but I don’t take it back.
I just turn on my heel and walk out, jaw tight and heart thudding.
It’s been building, this tension between us. Two weeks of clipped conversations and missed dinners. We said this move was meant to be a fresh start. A calmer pace. But it’s starting to feel like New York all over again. Me buried under work. Her overwhelmed, exhausted, and quietly pissed off.
Part of me knows I’m being a bastard.
The other part—the one still buzzing from a twelve-hour slog at Halberd—feels bloody justified. We’re on the brink of closing a major acquisition, and I’ve got pressure coming at me from every direction, investors breathing down my neck, the London office watching me like hawks. I’m trying to keep this entire thing from going sideways.
Of course it’s following me home. It always does.
Downstairs, the TV’s on low and Willow’s sprawled on the floor with crayons, tongue poking out in concentration. Emmett’s in his playpen, gumming away at one of those plastic rings like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. And Chelsea—miracle that she is—is perched on the sofa, keeping it all running like clockwork.
She stands when she sees me, clutching her coat to her chest. “If the lift’s too much trouble, I’ll cycle. It’s not far. Only ten miles or so.”
