"I don't."
He scratches the dog behind the ears anyway, and Biscuit melts into a puddle of devotion at his feet.
"You could have fooled me," I say, giving him a raised brow. "Looks like he's growing on you. You're actually being nice to this little cutie."
As if on cue, Biscuit flops dramatically onto his back, all four paws in the air, exposing his belly to Declan with adorable puppy eyes. His tail thumps hopefully against the hardwood.
"Growing on me like a fungus," Declan grunts, snapping his fingers so Biscuit stands back up.
"You're a terrible liar."
"Go on, buddy." He nudges Biscuit gently back down the hall. "Go to bed. The grown-ups are talking."
He leads me into a living room that makes the foyer look modest.
"You want a drink?" Declan asks, already moving toward the kitchen before I can deflect.
"God, yes."
"Don't get too excited. The options are limited."
He trudges towards the kitchen, and I watch his perfectly toned backside all the way.Yum.
"Alright," he calls out. "Your choices are as follows. We've got Beck's pre-workout, which tastes like blue raspberry. We've got Mason's celery juice, which I wouldn't feed to my worst enemy. And we've got approximately nine hundred Gatorades in a color I can only describe asradioactive."
"Wow. Living the glamorous athlete lifestyle, I see." A real laugh slips out of me. "Maybe some water will do?"
"Smart girl. Oh, wait." I hear some more rustling and the clink of a glass. "Give me a second."
I hear him moving around, and sink onto the couch. It's the kind of couch you fall into and never want to climb out of.I tuck my legs up under me, still wearing his jersey, and let my eyes drift back to the view.
A few minutes later he crosses the room carrying two tall glasses, condensation already beading down the sides.
He hands me one, and I blink down at it.
It's pale and golden, fizzing gently, with a wedge of fresh lemon perched on the rim and a few cubes of ice clinking inside. The smell of citrus hits me, and something else bittersweet and clean.
"Lemon, lime and bitters," he says, dropping onto the couch beside me, close enough that his thigh presses warm against my knee. "No alcohol. Figured we'd both had enough tonight."
I take a sip, and it'sperfect.
"This is exactly what I needed." I lower the glass, genuinely stunned. "Thank you."
"Anytime." He grins and takes a sip of his own drink. "Diego trained me, actually. Apparently serving someone a drink without a garnish is, and I quote,'an act of violence.'" He shrugs those massive shoulders. "Hence the lemon wedge."
"Diego's a gift."
"Diego's a thirty-one-year-old gay man who knows where I sleep." He chuckles a sound so deep, my skin prickles. God, even hislaughis sexy. "But yeah. He's a gift."
We settle into the quiet for a moment, both of us looking out at the water. The waves hush against the shore beyond the deck, steady and forever endless. The whole house feels suspended in this golden-blue glow, like the rest of the world packed up and left, and it's just us.
"It's beautiful here," I say softly. "At night. With all the lights."
"Yeah." He doesn't look at the view. He looks at me. "It is."
My cheeks warm. I take another sip of my drink to cover it.
"You know," he says, settling deeper into the couch, his arm stretching along the back of it behind me. "Last time you were here, we ended up out there."
