Page 9

NATALIE

I’m not prepared for how fast it happens, the shift from bedroom to battlefield, from intimate to intimidating.

Declan, for once, is in an outfit that doesn’t look like it belongs in a boardroom.

The aqua blue polo shirt he’s wearing makes his eyes glow, and his faded jeans scream “designer” from a mile away.

He orders me to drive his Corvette, claiming he wants to relax, but I think he really just wants to give me a chance to drive my dream car.

The city bleeds into bland suburbia in twenty minutes.

The further we get from steel and glass, the more Declan seems to decompress.

His hands relax, his shoulders drop, and he lets himself smile for no reason.

I get the feeling that, for him, home is a place you protect by pretending not to care about it.

I park in front of an adorable, white-brick bungalow with geraniums in the planters and a miniature Irish flag flapping on the porch. The lawn is aggressively green and trimmed within an inch of its life. The house is small but radiates a kind of stubborn, permanent coziness.

Declan unbuckles, leans over, and kisses me. “Ready?”

“No,” I admit, “but let’s get it over with before I chicken out.”

“I can’t see you ever chickening out.” He laughs, for real, and grabs my hand, pulling me up the walk. The front door swings open before we even hit the first step.

“Declan McDaid, if you don’t wipe those boots, I’ll have your arse,” comes the voice, thick with Irish vowels and sharper than a shot of whiskey.

I fall in love with her on the spot.

A tiny woman stands in the doorway, maybe five feet nothing, with hair the color of snowdrifts and eyes the same deep green as rolling Kentucky hills.

She’s wearing a pastel pink sweater and what looks like very expensive pearls, but the way she sizes us up makes me think she could still take out a burglar with a frying pan.

She hugs Declan first, standing on her tip-toes to slap the back of his head. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I haven’t seen you in three weeks, you ungrateful wretch.”

“Hi, Gram,” he says with a look that’s equal parts affection and abject fear.

Then she turns to me, and her face softens into a wide, genuine smile. “And you must be the girl who’s been keeping my boy busy.” Before I can say my own name, she’s got me in a bear hug that smells like lavender and home.

I hug back, slightly dazed. “I’m Natalie.”

She pulls back to arm’s length and inspects me.

“You’re a strong one. I can tell from your grip.

” Then, turning to Declan, she says, “Well, you finally brought home someone with a proper arse. God love you, but I was beginning to think you were practicing for the priesthood or batting for the other team.”

Declan actually blushes.

Gram ushers us in, bustling around like a cruise missile of maternal energy. There are doilies and tea cozies and about a thousand framed photos on every wall, all of them featuring a much younger Declan.

“Sit, sit,” she orders, pointing at a couch that’s so overstuffed it practically swallows me whole. Declan sits next to me, his hand dropping to my thigh automatically, like we’ve done this a hundred times.

Gram brings tea and biscuits, sets them down, and plants herself in the armchair like a queen on her throne. She doesn’t waste time.

“So, Natalie, how did you meet my grandson? He’s a pain in the arse to get to know.” The way she says it, I know she means it as a compliment.

I look at Declan, who is definitely not going to save me.

“At work,” I say. “First day, he tried to scare me off, but I held my ground.”

“Ha!” Gram crows, clapping her hands. “That’s the way to do it. Never let a McDaid push you around, dear. It only encourages them.” She sips her tea, then fixes me with a piercing stare. “Do you like it? The work?”

I think about this. “It’s growing on me,” I say finally. “Kinda like a fungus.”

“I like her spirit.” She glances at Declan. “She’s able to hold her own with you. Don’t screw it up.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Declan mutters.

Gram leans forward, not bothering to pretend she’s not interrogating me. “And your family? Where do they live?”

I hesitate. This is always the part where people get awkward, apologize, or completely withdraw. “I don’t have one,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I grew up in the foster system. Moved around a lot.”

Gram just nods, not missing a beat. “Makes you tough, that does. Good. You’ll need it.” She looks at Declan again, and there’s something in her eyes, some secret message only grandmothers can transmit. He holds her gaze, jaw flexing, but doesn’t say a word.

She turns back to me, softer now. “You’ve got a family here now. If you want it.”

Something in my chest squeezes tight. I wasn’t expecting to be welcomed this fast, or this completely. I try to say thank you, but the words stick, so I just smile and eat a biscuit, which might actually be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Declan squeezes my hand tightly, and I feel it all the way to my bones.

* * *

We have brunch at a little place called The Revolving Blue Door, which is exactly as homey and over-the-top as it sounds. Everyone knows Gram; the hostess greets her by name, and the server hugs her before taking our order.

We get the “Sunday Special,” which is a tower of pancakes, eggs, and at least three varieties of sausage. I try to keep up, but Gram and Declan are both Olympic-caliber eaters, demolishing plates like it’s a competitive sport.

Gram is relentless with the questions. “Natalie, where did you go to school?”

“I went to the University of Houston for my Bachelor’s and Rice for my Master’s.” Her eyebrows shoot up, and I can tell I’ve managed to impress her.

“Do you like dogs?” She jumps to the next question.

“I love them.” I give a little smile. “I’ve always promised myself I’d get a cute little fuzzball as soon as I get settled.”

“Every girl should have a fuzzball in her life,” Gram agrees before turning to Declan. “Have you told her about the summer you set fire to the neighbor’s shed?”

“It’s on my to-do list,” he teases. “Right after I tell her about that bad case of jock itch I had in ninth grade.”

Gram turns to me and rolls her eyes. ”It was a particularly bad jock itch.”

The silly expression on her face causes me to choke on my orange juice, and Declan gently pats me on my back until the coughing subsides.

He teases Gram about her reality TV obsession, and she retaliates by telling embarrassing childhood stories. There’s a rhythm to their banter, an ease I’ve never seen in him before.

Eventually, Gram leans in, voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “So, are you two serious?”

I nearly choke on my orange juice again. Declan says, “Deadly serious,” and looks at me, an eyebrow raised like he’s daring me to disagree.

I want to tell Gram the truth, that I’ve never felt like this about anyone, that Declan terrifies and excites me in equal measure, that I’d follow him into a burning building or, worse, a city council meeting. But instead, I just nod, unable to find the words.

Gram beams, satisfied. “Good. He needs someone who can keep him in line.”

Declan rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there. For a second, I think I see what he might have been like before all the scars and discipline, before the world started needing him to be so hard.

When the bill comes, Gram refuses to let anyone else pay. “You two are young. Save your money for something stupid.” She winks at me, and I can’t help but laugh.

Outside, the sky is clear and blue, and I can smell honeysuckle on the breeze. Gram hugs us both tight, then whacks Declan on the arm. “Bring her by again. Sooner this time, or I’ll come find you.”

He promises, and I believe him.

On the drive back, Declan’s hand never leaves my thigh. The silence is warm, companionable. For the first time in my life, I feel like maybe I belong somewhere.

Maybe even here.