Page 15

“No, it’s not.” Isaiah blows out a breath. “But it’s at least something. We’ve lost that . . . spark. That crackle.” He points between Declan and me while holding his glass in hand. “That I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off-right-now feeling.”

“Isaiah,” I warn, avoiding a glance at Declan who suddenly loosens his hold on my dress and removes his hand like my brother happened to notice Declan was holding onto me. Maybe it was by the threat of my outfit, but he still pinned me close to him .

“Do you need to rip her clothes off?” Declan inquires, his voice unsteady. “What about romance?”

I snort, whipping my head in Declan’s direction.

“What?” Declan twists his body toward me. His eyes sparkle in the dim light of the bar. One corner of his mouth ticks higher than the other. “You don’t believe in romance?”

It isn’t that I don’t believe in it, I’m just unfamiliar with it.

While I thought Malakai was romantic when we first started dating and in the early years of our marriage, in hindsight, I see the little ways he manipulated me.

The elaborate dinners as an apology for time apart.

The expensive jewelry as gifts after an argument.

The timely trips in which he’d disappear for hours, flipping his absence on me.

I was the one who needed to work in the offseason.

Still, I go on the defensive. “Don’t toss the romance card at me.” Like it’s an automatic input into my system as a female.

“I’m not tossing anything at you. I’m just suggesting that intimacy might overrule lust.” While his body faces mine, he shifts his head to glance back at Isaiah.

In this turned position, elbow on the high top table, Declan suddenly feels even closer to me.

His abs brush my arm. His belt buckle is near my elbow.

Intimacy and lust suddenly feel like the same thing to me. I’m turned on by his belt buckle touching me!

“Since when did you become so romantic?” I ask, and Declan swings his head back in my direction.

Isaiah chuckles, shaking his head while lifting his drink toward his lips again. He smiles like the Cheshire Cat. Like he knows something I don’t about his friend. After he takes another sip of his bourbon, he lowers the glass, and he focuses on my wrist.

The one wearing the charm bracelet with almost too many charms. The one I rarely wear because of the weight, but also because of the sentimental value.

Declan sent me the gift when I graduated from college.

A silver bangle with a rose-gold disc, like a coin, was attached and engraved with a graduation cap.

Then a disc with a Seattle needle arrived when I moved for my first job.

A microphone-stamped coin came after my first official report on the small-town college’s softball game.

Another charm arrived after I’d won an award for rookie reporting.

A single gold coin appeared when I moved to Vegas.

The charms represent my journey. For a long time, I assumed Declan sent the token discs because I was Isaiah’s little sister, and by default, I was important to Declan.

Sort of siblings by association. But as the years passed, and the charms became more intimate, more meaningful, my opinion changed, especially when he sent me a disc with a crown after my first field report in Vegas.

And the final coin held an engraved heart.

Do you love him?

He had no right to ask. And I’d never answered.

The gift arrived on my wedding day instead of Declan, despite his RSVP that he’d attend. A week later, a check came in the mail for the skipped dinner plate. I was enraged. Not about the one-hundred-dollar plate fee. Or even his absence. I wanted to know what that heart represented.

My marriage? Or his love?

To my surprise, Declan places his fingertips on the bracelet as my arm is on top of the table, and he thumbs over the coins, like a pianist marches his fingers over the keys.

His gaze flips up to my face, but just as quickly as he glances at me, he appears to remember Isaiah and turns his face toward my brother, horror etching his cheeks like my brother caught him touching me.

Declan shifts his body once again to stand upright beside me.

He clutches his drink glass as if to prevent his hand from reaching for me .

For my part, I shake any lovesick musing and drop my hand to my side.

“Romance,” Declan says, keeping his eyes forward, as if forcing his gaze away from me. He lifts his drink, but before he sips, he mutters, “comes in many forms.”

I glance back at the bracelet, reminded of all the gems and jewels given to me by Malakai, and yet nothing has been as special as this collection of charms.

“How about an anniversary trip?” Declan asks after a sip of his bourbon. He addresses Isaiah directly. “Aren’t you and Penn close to twenty years?”

“We just passed sixteen,” Isaiah admits.

“Sweet sixteen,” I remind him.

“That isn’t anything special,” Isaiah counters.

“Every anniversary is special,” I remind him, glowering at my brother, telling him with my glare that he needs to appreciate every year he gets with the love of his life because some of us have suffered through years of regret in a troubled marriage.

Isaiah sighs and runs his hand through his dark hair. “We’ve talked about a vacation. But something always gets in the way.”

Declan purses his lips and nods like he understands. Something always got in the way of a reunion between him and me, or maybe that was just fate speaking up.

Maybe Declan Wylde and I were never meant to be a thing.

“Can’t get past the wind,” Declan declares to Isaiah, making no sense to me.

Isaiah slowly stands upright again, glaring at his oldest friend.

“Bottom of the ninth. Up at bat,” Declan’s voice shifts. He’s no longer friend but mentor, and I hold my breath curious about what words of wisdom he’s about to impart .

“You’re a bastard,” Isaiah says a little too loudly, eyes wide as he stares at his best friend.

“Two outs. Man on first and third.”

“Declan,” Isaiah growls, rolling his eyes.

I’m clearly missing something.

“Down by one. Need both runs.”

“Wylde,” Isaiah grunts, shaking his head with a soft smile on his lips.

“And you . . .” Declan rolls his wrist, circling his hand for Isaiah to continue whatever memory or lesson this is.

“Aim for the flag.”

“What flag?” I innocently ask, wanting in on this tale.

“The one just off center from the scoreboard. The one pointing the direction of the wind.”

“Can’t go hard center,” Isaiah says.

“That’s rip-your-clothes-off,” Declan explains.

“What the hell?” I interject.

“Gotta go soft left.” Isaiah gestures with his hand, coasting it toward the right side of him.

“No one wants soft,” I mutter, as if I have a clue what we are discussing.

“Between second and third.” Declan smiles.

“Spread like a woman’s thighs.” Isaiah smiles as well.

“Hey!” I snap, turning my head from Isaiah to Declan.

“Right up the middle.” Declan forces his hand forward, away from his body. The motion is unexpectedly sexual, especially with Isaiah’s reference.

Isaiah chuckles. “Gets the job done.”

“Homerun,” Declan whispers.

The two of them high five and I glare at each of them. “Are we done with the baseball metaphors and sexual innuendo?”

“That wasn’t sex,” Isaiah clarifies. “That was romance. Aiming the ball in one direction, hope it sails in another. And bam! ” He claps his hands so fast and fiercely, I flinch. “Score. ”

“Sounds explicitly sexual to me.” I huff, then lift my wine glass taking my first sip, because I suddenly feel itchy all over. Anxious. Strangely turned on. Maybe it’s Declan’s prolonged nearness to me.

“Stop letting the wind dictate the direction of the ball and predict the wind. Use it. Play with it. Lean into it.” Declan explains, but I’m still not certain I understand.

“It’s all about the swing,” Isaiah says to his best friend.

“It’s all about the swing,” Declan repeats, offering him a warm smile, like they understand one another on some level.

Isaiah gulps down the last of his drink while pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’ve got a call to make.” He steps away from the table with urgency and a bit of swagger in his haste, and I follow his retreat a moment before turning back toward Declan.

“I don’t understand a thing that just happened.”

“Isaiah did, though. He can’t keep letting time be his excuse. Busy isn’t a reason. He needs to take charge of the wind, not let the wind take charge of the ball.”

“Ah,” I say, slowly coming to realize what my brother took from that silly metaphor. “Think it will work? He’ll get to rip her clothes off?”

Declan shrugs, then lifts his glass halfway to his mouth. “What do I know?” he says, staring down at the amber liquid. “Apparently, I don’t know anything about romance.”

He closes the distance—glass to lips—and gazes at me over the rim, finishing his bourbon in one swallow. His eyes never leave me, making me suddenly feel naked and raw, and aware I’ve misunderstood a simple gift over the years.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s always been reaching for me.