Page 41 of Only For Him

Last night I cried over Declan Cross.

I don’t know that I can do this. It’s not just money and lust. I’m not okay and I keep crying every time I glance at the clock. With the shift of the red digital display, it turns to 4:00. I have two hours before I’m supposed to go back to him and my stomach is still in knots.

Rubbing my eyes, I splash cold water against my face and rub them again.

I’m so torn on what to do, I feel both drained and sick.

It’s been two weeks since I started working for him, but it feels like a lifetime. I swear a part of me feels as if I know him, but he doesn’t know me and really, what do I know about him?

Other than this compulsive need to be beside him. The only thing I’ve done today is stare at the expensive bottle of wine he had delivered this morning. My check came wrapped around it. Does he think that will make this better? More importantly, am I supposed to pretend yesterday didn’t happen? Am I supposed to be okay with this?

I collapse onto the sofa, peeking at the clock again and wishing I could pause time. Just enough to feel better, even a hint better. As every minute ticks by, it all feels heavier.

I’m still on the couch, wrapped in my blanket, when I get a text from Amy. She’s a friend from a lifetime ago, and the perfect kind to have. She checks up on me here and there since moving to California to start a better life, but there’s never any pressure between us. We always pick up right where we left off. It’s good, because sometimes my life goes through drastic changes. Like when I left Travis. It never shocked her; she only wanted to make sure I was okay. She was the first person I told when he hit me. We were young and dumb and only nineteen.

I’ll never forget that lonely feeling, like I couldn’t tell anyone. I could always tell Amy everything, though. And she could do the same for me.

Amy: How’s the new job going?

Honesty is not at the tip of my tongue. I tap out a text telling her it’s all fine, just getting up to speed still, and send it. Chewing the inside of my cheek, it feels like I’m back years ago. Hiding from the truth and unwilling to tell a soul. When deep inside I want to scream it.

Maybe I should show up drunk, thank him for the bottle that sits on the coffee table, and then quit. That’s what a very large piece of me wants to do.

Just as the thought crosses my mind, there’s a knock on the door. I abandon my blanket and pad over. I check the peephole first.

Fuck. My blood goes cold and a nervousness rattles through me.

“Braelynn.” His voice is calm as he looks directly at the peephole. “Open the door.”

At the sight of Declan standing outside the door, goosebumps cover my skin. I fumble for the knob and pull it open.

His strides are steady and firm. His frame is so large in the small foyer.

He walks in with no hesitation, as if he owns this place as much as he owns The Club. It’s so shocking to see him here, especially given last night, that I don’t notice the bags at first. He holds up takeout. Chinese food, from the scent. It only takes him one look around to find the kitchen. His worn jeans and gray Henley are a change from the norm. As is all of this.

By the time I’ve shut the door, he’s going through the cupboards and pulling out plates. He rummages through the drawers until he finds the forks and knives, then pulls paper napkins from a holder on the countertop and wraps two sets of utensils.

My arms crossed over my thin sleep shirt, I dare to ask, “What are you doing?” Tucking my hair behind my ears, I remember I look like hell. Not an ounce of makeup and my hair is a frizzy mess.

“Feeding you,” he says, matter-of-factly. I watch him put food on the plates, his hands capable on the boxes. He glances to his right, to what should be a dining room but the table itself is still absent. Then he glances to the left, the living room, which is small and still filled with boxes. “Where do you like to eat?” he asks casually.

I take a moment, watching him. There’s something different, calmer and more relaxed, but he also doesn’t look me in the eye.

“The couch, mostly,” I admit. “It’s not the classiest thing in the world, I guess, but I like to flip through the channels while I eat.”

He nods, “’Cause you’re alone …” he peers back at me, “when you eat.”

There’s a touch of sadness in his tone that catches me off guard. “Yeah.”

He nods and then carries both of the plates and silverware out to the living room, setting it all on the coffee table.

As I take the seat beside him on the sofa, the couch groans. It’s so cheap beneath him. My face feels hot with him seeing this part of my life, even though there’s nothing special about sitting on my own couch. He takes the seat next to me.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I whisper. I’m starving and my stomach growls in protest of my statement. I could devour this plate in an instant. Instead the fork teeters in my hand.

“Yes I did.” His answer is immediate.

“You could have called,” I suggest, staring at his profile and willing him to look back at me.

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