Page 32 of A Convenient Secret

“Seagull?” I chuckle.

“I wanted to say sailor, but that doesn’t fit you at all.”

“And a seagull does? They are like the rats of the ocean.” I wrinkle my nose, but a part of me loves that he gave me a nickname. Okay, he used it once, but still.

“Have you ever watched them glide through the air? They have grace and lightness. You could be a seagull.”

Has he just given me a compliment? A grin stretches across my face. “If you knew how many of your plates I broke this week, you would call me clumsy, not graceful.”

He snorts. “Believe me, I know.”

I gasp. “You do?”

He flinches but then shrugs. “I count my dishes; I’m a numbers man.”

What? And weirdly enough, I could totally see him doing that. “Are you teasing me?”

He smirks.

“Wow, I didn’t know you had it in you. Joking?”

He takes a sip. “I possess basic social skills.”

I chuckle. “Basic? Basic social skills are hello, please, and thank you. You usually have a stick up your ass.”

He gives me a mock gasp. “You break half of my dishes, and now you offend me?”

“I’m sorry.” I can’t stop grinning.

“It’s just dishes, but perhaps fewer sharp shards around my children will be welcome.” He hands me the whiskey.

I take a small sip, savoring the smooth heat of it. When I open my eyes, they meet with Declan’s. He’s been looking at me a lot tonight. It’s unnerving. But not all that bad. Not at all.

“Still, I can’t be called graceful.” It was my father’s second biggest regret.

First, that I wasn’t a son, and then that I turned out less than a perfect female heir. Not that his standards were ever fair.

“Okay, you are loud and chatty, so you still can be a seagull.”

I laugh. It doesn’t escape me how he skillfully avoided my questions about his ex-wife, but I don’t want to bring her up again. This lighter conversation is such a rare, unexpected occurrence, I want to revel in it longer.

“At least you didn’t say my hair is almost as bad as what A Flock of Seagulls used to sport.”

“A Flock of Seagulls?” He takes the glass, frowning.

“A band from the eighties.”

“How would you know a band from the eighties? What are you, like twenty-two?” He swirls the liquid but doesn’t drink.

I wonder how much he drank tonight. His breath is as intoxicating as the drink. Is that the reason he is more approachable tonight? Will he go back to being himself and pretend I don’t exist next time he sees me at Saar’s or Celeste’s?

“I’m twenty-five, and I don’t know the band, but you must remember theFriendsepisode.”

“I’ve never watched it.”

I pivot, not believing him. “You never watched that episode?” I scoot my legs under me, angling my body toward him.

His profile is exquisite. His jaw is veiled in dark stubble. Tonight he looks slightly older, with all the lines of exhaustion marring his forehead and the dark circles under his eyes. They make him look more alluring, too.