Page 114 of Sinful Bride

I raise an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For being patient with me, and not making me feel like an idiot when I don't know what something is."

I thread my fingers through his, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine. "I love you," I tell him. "You know that, right?"

"I know. I love you too."

We leave the restaurant hand in hand, stepping back out into the cold November night. The city feels alive around us, and I breathe in the crisp air with a sense of contentment I haven't felt in years. Declan hails a cab, and I expect him to give the driver the address of our hotel. Instead, he rattles off an address in the East Village, and I turn to look at him with raised eyebrows. "Where are we going?"

"My turn to pick," he says, grinning. "You got your fancy restaurant. Now I get my dive bar."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Fair enough."

The cab drops us off in front of a narrow bar wedged between a bodega and a laundromat. The sign above the door is flickering, and the windows are fogged with condensation. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of beer and fried food, and a jukebox in the corner is playing something guitar-heavy. The bar is crowded, packed with people in jeans and leather jackets, and the energy is completely different from the refined elegance of the restaurant. This is the kind of place where no one cares who you are or where you came from.

Declan's entire demeanor shifts the moment we step inside. His shoulders relax fully, and the tension I noticed earlier disappears completely. He's in his element here, comfortable and confident, and he guides me through the crowd with a hand on my lower back, nodding to a few people who recognize him.

We find a spot at the bar, and Declan orders us both whiskey, neat. The bartender pours generous measures into heavy glasses, and Declan hands me mine with a grin. "To us," he says, raising his glass.

"To us," I echo, and we clink glasses before drinking.

The whiskey burns going down, smooth and smoky, and I feel the warmth of it spread through my chest. Declan watches me with amusement as I set my glass down, and I roll my eyes at him. "What?"

"Nothing," he says, but he's still grinning. "You just look good here. I wasn't sure you would."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because this isn't your world," he says simply. "But you fit anyway."

I look around the bar, taking in the mismatched stools, the neon beer signs on the walls, the pool table in the back where a group of men is playing. He's right, this isn't the world I grew up in. But it's his world, and that makes it mine too. "I fit because I'm with you," I tell him.

His expression softens, and he leans in to kiss me. It's brief but warm, his lips tasting of whiskey. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with affection. "Dance with me," he says.

"Here?"

"Why not?"

There's no real dance floor, just a small cleared space near the jukebox where a few couples are swaying to the music. Declan takes my hand and leads me there, pulling me close once we're in the middle of the space. His arms come around me, holding me against him. I rest my head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek, and let myself relax into him completely.

The song is slower now, and we sway together, moving in time with the music. I close my eyes and just feel the way his hand splays across my lower back, anchoring me to him. The way his breath stirs my hair. This moment, right here, feels perfect.

"I'm glad we came here," I murmur against his chest.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." I tilt my head back to look up at him. "I like seeing you like this. Relaxed. Happy."

"I'm always happy when I'm with you.” The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tighten.

We stay on the makeshift dance floor for two more songs, and then Declan buys us another round of whiskey. We drink and talk and laugh, and at some point, a man at the bar recognizes Declan and comes over to shake his hand. They talk for a few minutes about business, and I watch the way Declan handles the conversation with ease and authority. This is his world, and he commands it effortlessly.

When the man leaves, Declan turns back to me with a sheepish smile. "Sorry about that."

"Don't apologize," I say. "I like watching you work."

"Work?" He raises an eyebrow. "That wasn't work. That was just talking."

"Everything is work when you're in our position," I point out. "But you make it look easy."