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She wiped her hands on the dreary grey pinafore before receiving the bowl. “Ava… I possibly could not,” she rejected strongly with her Irish accent.
I walked to the wardrobe with a triumphant smirk. “You already did. Now, come. Help me pick out something classy but sweet.”
Arielle blushed. “Thank you, Ava.”
She helped me pick out a short white dress with spaghetti straps and brushed out the tangles in my curls until the hair bounced below my shoulders. After touching up my lips, we moved to the door, she paused quietly beside me, head bowed, and fingers fidgeting when she asked, “Ava?”
I smiled. “Yes, Arielle?”
“I have... I was meaning to ask you about your health.”
My smile dropped. She was there in the room that night. She witnessed the fainting and nursed me through the headaches. But I didn’t want to talk about it now. If Dad found out I was sick, I dreaded thinking about how overboard he was willing to go. Besides, nothing had been confirmed yet by the doctor.
“I’m fine, Arielle. Thanks for worrying about me.”
Her shoulders stiffened. She wasn’t convinced but I was glad that she didn’t press further.
We went downstairs and I was stunned to see both Declan and Dad seated on the couch. Arielle excused herself, leaving me alone in the presence of the two men. What was most surprising was seeing Declan seated, not standing. In the living room.
That was unusual.
Dad conducted all of his businesses in his offices scattered across the city or in the basement of the house. Having Declan seated in the sitting room meant family business, and I wondered what kind of family business made the younger man look so comfortable in a pair of black sweatpants and a matching T-shirt.
His hair was damp, and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Knowing Declan, he’d been out on a run.
Before I sat beside him, I felt the heat of his gaze on my body. It made me self-aware and conscious of my exposed skin. He cleared his throat, rubbed his thigh, and then...
“I like your dress.”
Boom!
Completely out of nowhere, his comment dropped louder than he intended. I detected the shift in my father's eyes. Getting compliments was not a problem, but it had never come from Declan in the presence of my father. I shot him a stink eye. Was he drunk or just trying to get us in trouble?
“Thanks.” I shifted. It was awkward. Cute, but awkward. I was eager to know why my father assembled us. It was only natural to believe Declan already had an idea.
Slotting my phone out from the pocket of my dress, I texted him.
Me: Why are we here?
His phone buzzed in his pockets, and he took it out. I almost burst out laughing when he noticed I was the sender of the message. Sparing Dad a cautious glance, he began typing.
Declan: I have no fucking clue. Shit is awkward.
I dropped my phone on my lap. Then, I picked it up again.
Me: Are you sure you can't make a wild guess?
Declan: Ava, if I knew what was going on, I would have told you by now.
Holding my breath, I scrolled through the chain of messages we’d sent back and forth. This was the most we’d texted each other in a year. It was exciting and left a foreign feeling hanging in the air. In real life, he carried himself like a man with an impenetrable armor. But texting him felt different; like communicating with a long-time friend.
Me: What was that with the dress, though? Are you trying to get us cooked?
Declan: Sorry. I was nervous. But the dress really is pretty.
Me: Thanks. :) Dad’s looking up now.
We fixed our phones back into our pockets—with me feeling like a naughty teenager caught texting her crush— and paid attention when my father combed the greying strands of his red hair. “Now I called the two of you here to discuss something of utmost importance.”
