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I shift in surprise. I’d almost forgotten my question. “You? You believe in love at first sight?”
“Why not?” he asks, and he sounds affronted.
“Well, forgive me if I’m wrong, but you seem a little cynical for that sort of thing.”
“We all have flaws,” he says sardonically.
I give a short laugh. “Yeah. I guess so.”
I grin and lean closer into him. I’m warming up again. We settle into a comfortable silence, listening to the rain, the thunder, and the wind.
Finally, I say, “I don’t really think love at first sight exists. I’m more practical. Has it ever happened for you?” Then I get all prickly and embarrassed although I’m not sure why. I try not to squirm in his arms and instead stay still and wait for his answer.
His muscles tense beneath me, and I wonder why I even thought to ask such a personal question.
“Never mi—”
“Once,” he says.
We speak at the same time. I bite my lip and wait for him to say more but he doesn’t.
“Didn’t work out?” I finally ask, because even though I only work at the local paper, I still have that natural curiosity peculiar to journalists.
After a moment Declan lets out a sigh and his muscles relax.
“I don’t know,” he says. “She wasn’t who I thought she was. It made me act…” He pauses then says, “Cynically.”
I hear the smile in his voice when he calls himself cynical.
I think back to the first day I saw Declan. He and Percy were talking about how Declan needed to forget a woman.
“You’re talking about Vicky?”
He grunts in surprise and then looks down at me. “What do you know about Vicky?”
I can barely make out the narrowing of his eyes and the tightening of his jaw.
I really put my foot in my mouth with that one. Embarrassment prickles over my skin.
“What sounds better? That I’m obsessed with you and stalk you and all your paramours online? Or, the truth, that I accidentally overheard you and Percy at the Valentine’s Day brunch? And I actually have no idea who Vicky is. Which one?”
He lets out a short laugh and I get the feeling that maybe Declan Fox (finally) doesn’t think I’m after him and his mountains of money.
“I know you’re a stalker,” he says with humor. “Your machinations are so blatant as to be beyond obvious.”
“True,” I say. “Too, too true.”
I smile out at the darkness. Declan is pompous, sometimes jerky, stiff and judgmental. But maybe he’s also kind of alright once you get to know him.
Finally, I ask, “What time is it?”
He looks at his watch, the hour and minute hand glowing dimly in the dark. “Nearly midnight.”
No wonder I’m getting sore. Sitting on a wet stone bench for hours isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world. Even when you’re held by an accommodating, warm man.
“It’s not going to stop,” I say, and I can’t keep the disappointment out of my voice. I really was looking forward to a bed.
“No,” he agrees simply.
“What do you think about sleeping? We could try under the table for a little more shelter.”
I drag my foot across the ground, the stone is wet with shallow puddles.
Declan takes a moment to consider, then says, “Alright.”
We pull out the bench and climb under the table. It is slightly drier, but the space is tight.
I’m not quite sure what to do now that we’re down here. There’s only a few feet of room to spread out.
Declan clears his throat. I’m guessing he feels about as awkward as I do. Then he says, “You’ll stay dry if you lie on top of me.”
I can’t help it, my whole body flushes and I know my cheeks are as red as the flowers of the flame tree. Luckily it’s pitch black and he can’t see me.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he says stiffly. “I know you’re cold. Getting wetter doesn’t help.”
I let out a long breath and wait for my body to stop overreacting. It’s Declan Fox, for crying out loud. Not my dream man. Just because I haven’t sprawled on top of a man for years doesn’t mean I have to start getting excited.
Jeez.
“Thanks,” I say, and my voice comes out tight and strained. I try again, “Thank you.”
He lies down, and I awkwardly, with a lot of elbow jabs and knees to his stomach and thighs, finally settle on top of him. He’s as stiff as a board, and I’m not much better. In fact, it’s so bad it might be better sleeping on the stone floor.
“Declan?”
“What?” he says, and his voice is harsher than usual.
“You can relax.”
“I am relaxed,” he says. And he says it in such a tense way that a laugh escapes me.
“Aren’t,” I say. “You really aren’t.”
He scoffs, and slowly I feel his muscles loosening.
I settle into him and rest my head more comfortably on his chest.
“Thank you again,” I say. My eyes start to drift shut. I really am tired. The heat, the rain, the stress of the day has all added up and I’m about to succumb to the inevitability of sleep.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he reiterates. “Don’t let it go to your head. I’m not interested.”
Ah, yes. His obsession with avoiding gold diggers flares its head again. I yawn and then say, “Don’t worry, I couldn’t care less about your money. I only want you because you’re hot.”
He snorts.
“Warm,” I correct.
“Right.”
He rests his arms across my back and the sound of his heartbeat and the rain drumming on the palm leaves lulls me to sleep.
