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After dinner, Saoirse is doing a trial run. The guests will stay the night in assigned rooms, but she has hotel staff to oversee that. I’ll head home soon now that dinner is over and return in the morning to clean up the conference room. One more hour and I’m free of the brick wall that I can’t seem to shake myself free from.
“You’re leaving?” Declan asks from behind me.
I nod, without turning to acknowledge him.
“Of course, Declan. She’s got other things to do,” Saoirse cuts in, her tone clipped as she rolls her eyes at her brother.
It elicits a growl from him. I’m an only child, so I’m not sure exactly what this is about. Do most siblings argue like this? Here I thought my children were the only ones who argued like that. I’m constantly getting on them about loving each other more, but maybe this is a natural reaction for them.
“Anyway,” I say. “I’m so happy for you. Congrats on the opening. This was a great turnout.”
Saoirse’s scowl slips away, and her face splits into a wide grin. “You’re a lifesaver. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
I dip my chin in acknowledgment. “Of course.” Letting out a yawn, I force myself to ignore the swirling nervousness in my gut. Declan’s presence unsettles me, and as much as I don’t want to unpack exactly what that means, I know I probably should. Otherwise, it will turn into a gnawing sensation and a desperate need to scratch an itch I don’t want.
I need to get out of here. “Is there anything else you need from me before I head out?”
Saoirse shakes her head no. “You’re free to go. Thanks again, Sammy. See you tomorrow.”
I head back toward the kitchen, trying to free myself from the grumpy force. But he follows me. When I’m in a closed-off hallway, he crowds me, pushing into my back. “Sammy,” he whispers against my ear.
“Declan,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Don’t leave. Come up to my room.”
I shake my head, and his hand pins my wrist to the small of my back. His chest presses into me from behind, and my cheek squishes against the soft-green wallpaper. I wiggle, trying to free myself, but all it does is rub my ass against his groin. A gasp escapes at the feel of a thick, hard cock pressing into me. He groans, clearly liking the compromising position. I try to think of how I can break free from his hold, but I come up short. This is one of those moments in my life where all the self-defense training I’ve taken leaves my mushed-up brain. I need to start the classes again.
“I can’t,” I manage to say, ignoring the way his thumb strokes along the inside of my wrist, all soft and contradictory to the suggestive way he pins me to the wall.
“Why can’t you?” His breath tickles the back of my neck.
I close my eyes, channeling any ounce of inner strength I may have. “Declan. Please don’t make this any more uncomfortable for me than it already is.”
“Uncomfortable?” He releases my wrist but doesn’t move his chest from my back. “Is that what I do to you, Samira?”
I gulp, my throat suddenly so thick.Yes. Yes, you make me uncomfortable.I want to scream it at him, but nothing comes out. Instead, I nod my head against the cool material on the wall.
He lets out a dark chuckle. “Good.”
The weight pressing against me is gone, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” I say in a breathy whisper. But when I turn around, Declan is gone, and I’m left alone in the hall.
Chapter Eight
“I’mhome,”Ising,coming into the kitchen from the back entrance, brown paper bag in hand. Dad sits at the island, reading glasses snug against the bridge of his nose as he swipes through the iPad he holds.
Vee plops into the bar stool at the kitchen island. She reaches for the bottle of wine in front of her, then pours herself a glass. Dad taps his finger against his now empty one, and she tops him off. “Finally,” she mumbles. “I’m starving!”
I drop the bags on the counter, digging through takeout containers. She swipes the bag of fresh garlic naan from my hand.
“Hey,” I say. “That was rude!”
Vee shrugs, opening the bag and pulling one out. She takes a bite, then tosses the rest on the island.
“Smells great,” Dad says.
“Best takeout in Boston,” Vee agrees.
“Can’t be better than your mother's cooking,” Dad argues. “She makes the best butter chicken. Don’t you miss it, Sammy? Having a home-cooked meal from your momma?”
