Page 47 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

“I’m such an idiot.” Declan dragged his hands down the sides of his face, tugging his skin so that he looked like he was melting from sheer stress as he watched me toss the napkin wad in the trash.

“Dude, that sucks,” Peter lamented, though whether it sucked that my jeans were ruined or it sucked that Declan was an idiot, I couldn’t have guessed.

“Do you need a ride back to the hotel to change?” Jo offered.

Renee was snapping her fingers and ordering someone to grab a dustpan and a mop while the shutter on Rory’s camera clicked in the background. If #winecrotch turned up in the trending section on Twitter tomorrow, I’d know who to point the finger at.

I tried to play it off, waving an airy hand. “No, it’s fine. I can just wear them like this.” But even as I said it, I could feel the wine seeping into my underwear—a comfy pair of boy shorts that Strawberries & Cream Intimate Apparel would likely not be replacing anytime in the near future, considering they’d terminated our partnership without warning.

“I’ll take her,” Declan offered. He turned to Jo and Peter. “You guys finish the cake tasting, and I can take her to get new jeans.” His gaze cut back to me, eyes searching my face for some sign of an argument. “It’s the least I could do.”

I wanted to argue. Not because I was opposed to buying a new pair of jeans, but because I was still on the defensive. Still reeling after last night. But instead, I found myself saying, “All right. As long as we’re not interrupting things here.”

“Please, don’t worry about us,” Jo said earnestly. “Take the golf cart. Peter and I can get back on our own. We’ll see you guys at dinner.” Dinner. I had completely forgotten that Jo booked a reservation at the Crab Shack for the wedding party tonight. “Right, Pete?”

Peter relinquished the keys, looking more than a little put out that he wouldn’t get to hop any more curbs on their way back to the hotel. “Right.”

CHAPTER17

An uncomfortable silence hovered between us, filled by the rumble of the golf cart as we drove back through the main square of town. Declan stopped at an intersection to let a gaggle of teen girls cross the road to the beach. “I’m sorry about your jeans,” he said after a long moment.

“You’re good. It’s not like I paid for them.” He turned to look at me, his eyebrows scrunched together. “I stole them out of Jo’s Salvation Army bag,” I rushed to explain. “Not one that was already donated or anything. It was sitting in our living room for like, a month.”

“Calm down, Swiper,” he laughed as he turned his attention back to the road. “I’m not worried about where you got your jeans from. I was just thinking about some of the stuff you said last night.”

I pretended to be interested in the hem of my tank top, which had managed to get a little wine on it, but not enough to really matter. I could’ve gone a little longer before having this conversation, but there was no avoiding it now. “Which part?”

“The part about the future?”

Considering a lot of last night was a blur for me, I had no idea what he was referring to. “What about it?”

We rounded a corner and the cart putted to a stop in front of a boutique store with a garish window display of secondhand jeans with bedazzled back pockets. He threw it into park. “You mentioned something about wanting to get more involved with music. Or art.”

Had I talked to him about that? Silly as it might have been, I still didn’t want to listen to him ragging on me for my useless major. “Oh, that. That’s just an idea for a side project. Not like it really matters.”

“It sounded like it mattered to you last night.”

“That was the alcohol talking,” I invented. In fact, just go ahead and chalk up the whole night to drunk talk, drunk thoughts, drunk actions. Easier than thinking through the specifics of my motivations.

He turned off the cart, but didn’t hop out just yet. I didn’t like the way he was looking at me: like he was remembering everything from last night, right down to the mortifying rejection at my hotel room door. “Maybe you don’t know this about me, but I’m not into dancing around things,” he said. “I like to talk. Be real with one another. Honest.”

I snorted, and avoided his eyes by watching a family of vacationers exiting the pharmacy. “Believe me when I say that I have never once doubted your capacity for raw honesty.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” When he didn’t say anything, I glanced over at him. His forehead was creased with worry, and I sighed, wishing it didn’t make me feel guilty for dancing around things, but it did. “Look, I’m not saying we can’t talk it out, but can we please find me some jeans first? This is getting kinda uncomfortable.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, realization lighting up his face as his gaze fell upon the wine stain. “Sorry.” He pulled the key from the ignition and we headed inside.

The boutique was filled, as I had anticipated, with the sort of clothing usually reserved for rhinestone cowgirls. Which was bizarre, considering we were nowhere near a rodeo. “There’s a changing room in the back if you need to try anything on,” the shopkeeper said, indicating something that was not an actual room, more just a wall of curtains. “No need to ask.”

I thanked her and began searching the racks for anything that wouldn’t make me look like I’d recently discovered the infomercial for a BeDazzler. Declan followed right behind me, like a freckly, redheaded shadow. “So, about last night,” he continued. “I know how it must have come across and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you or give you the wrong idea. I mean”—he lowered his voice to a husky whisper, and the way it dropped half an octave did things to me, no matter how much I tried to pretend I didn’t care—“of course I wanted to fuck you. Badly. I’m pretty sure you know that. It’s just …” He trailed off, and my stomach somersaulted, waiting for him to finish. “I’ve had a few one-night stands and they just don’t end well for me. I have a tendency to get attached. To want more.”

And just like that, my heart sank. To get attached. The exact opposite of my own inclinations. I knew exactly where he was going with this, and it was probably best to head things off at the pass. Save at least a shred of my dignity.

I put on a show of checking the price tag on a truly hideous pair of Daisy Dukes. “I get it. You don’t have to explain. We’re on the same page.”

He gave me an odd look. “Are we?”