Page 9

eight

. . .

[India]

I had no idea what had gotten into my brother, other than a whole lot of alcohol. The melancholy tone in his voice was so unlike him. His rhetorical question, practically begging us to explain some mystery, was equally disconcerting.

When did it all fall apart? What happened to us?

I don’t think he meant our threesome of friendship—Isaiah, Declan, and me. His question felt weightier, deeper even, and like something is very wrong between my brother and his wife.

I adore Penn. As a sister-in-law, she’s the best, although I have no comparison. When Malakai and I separated, Penn was a huge support. She listened. She brought wine. She held my hand. And she was slightly instrumental in the changes I’d recently made to my life.

A move across the country. A new job with more possibilities. Even the estrangement between my father and me.

Penn hadn’t encouraged a distant relationship, but she softly suggested that for as much as I’d tried to forge a relationship with my father, at some point, maybe I needed to accept that distance was mentally better for me . Boundaries I defined could protect me from being disappointed in him.

“Do you think I should check on him?” I step closer to the shut door, knowing Declan’s bedroom is on the other side.

A bed I briefly wonder how often he sleeps in alone. Or worse, with others. Quickly, I shake away the thought that shouldn’t be my concern.

“Maybe we should let him be for a minute. He’ll come out when he’s off the phone.”

Declan is the voice of reason. I don’t want to interrupt my brother speaking with his wife. At least, I hope that’s whom he is talking to on the phone. Then again, this is my brother, and he’d never cheat on Penn. He adores her.

Declan purses his lips, his concern as evident as mine. Then he reaches for a bottle of wine in the corner of the counter.

“Still want a glass?” He holds up the black bottle with red foil at the top.

“Absolutely.”

Claiming a stool along the peninsula counter, I watch Declan uncork the bottle and smoothly pour me a glass of red wine. When he hands it to me, I don’t miss how our fingers brush. The crackle of something familiar once again ripples over my skin, similar to his light touch earlier.

He feels so close and yet so far away, and it’s been at my insistence. I’ve put the wall between us to protect myself. I didn’t want to risk my job. But what about my heart? The longing inside me to wonder . . . what if . . . one more time . . .

I bring the wineglass to my mouth and sip, wishing to drown my reckless thoughts.

Declan watches as I take that first gulp, his eyes trained on my throat. His gaze dips lower for the briefest second before he pulls the bottle of whiskey closer to him and pours another slim finger of the amber liquid into the glass Isaiah had been drinking from.

When the glass hits his lips, I’m envious of the rim. The way his lips wrap over it. The sense of liquid hitting his tongue. His mouth probably warm and wet, like when he went down?—

I lift my glass again, eager for another heavy glug of the tangy red blend, desperate to quench my sudden thirst and quash more memories. It’s been a long time since anyone’s mouth has been down there. Somehow, Declan’s appreciation sticks out in my head.

I recall how he kissed. His entire body in the experience.

He’d pull me close, squeeze my hips, or hold my ass.

We’d line up everywhere as our mouths met.

Sometimes I’d have my arms tucked between us, tugging at his shirt, like I couldn’t bring him close enough.

Other times, I’d be wrapped around his neck, holding on to him like I was afraid I’d never be kissed again the way he kissed me.

My assessment wasn’t far off the mark.

“I should probably get these steaks going.” Declan’s words interrupt my rollercoaster ride along memory lane. The one lined with stolen moments, lingering kisses, and longing.

Pining .

I hate that Isaiah was right.

“Need any help?” I ask, needing something to do with my hands before I do something reckless like reach across this counter and tug Declan toward me.

“Just the door in a minute. The grill is on the roof.”

Declan unwraps the brown butcher paper to reveal two thick steaks. He opens cabinets and pulls out spices, dousing each side of the meat with the collection he gathered. Turning for his fridge, he removes a few ears of corn, still covered by the husk.

“Want to shuck these?” He holds up one cob to emphasize all of them .

“Sure.” Sliding off the stool, I’m eager to have a task. Too many thoughts run through my head, and I’m starting to wonder how long Isaiah will be on the phone. Leaving Declan and I alone isn’t only awkward, it’s dangerous.

Because as much as I hate to admit it, Declan Wylde still stirs me up. As soon as I step closer to him, in the cramped proximity of his kitchen, my body goes haywire.

Nipples tighten. Clit pulses. Heart rate accelerates. My body recognizes something powerful is nearby and wants access to whatever that energy will provide.

Standing in the unsexy position of pulling corn husks off the cob, I’m leaning over the trash can, when Declan brushes his hand against my hip as he passes behind me.

This is the third slip-of-the-touch, and I should be offended. I should ask him not to touch me, but something has me holding my tongue.

A memory hits me again. The way he couldn’t keep his hands off me once we started what we’d started.

Little things like a brush of his pinky against mine.

The brief placement of his palm on my lower back.

Or his hand on my hip, like he needed to move me out of his way, when it was just a ploy to touch me.

When Declan turns back toward me, he says, “What?”

“What what ?” I blink, pulled from the simple memory catalogued in my brain as insignificant but something still stuffed in the file labeled Declan Wylde as important.

“You have a strange look on your face.”

You touched me , I should defend. But the sound of my retort softens in my head. You touched me. Spoken with tender surprise and passionate yearning.

I want him to touch me again.

The thought is misguided. Declan and I are not the same two people we were more than a decade ago. He’s a single father. I’m a new divorcée.

Life has . . . happened .

I don’t know this new version of Declan. A year ago I didn’t recognize myself. And the last thing I need is the distraction of a lingering attraction to someone from my past.

Because that’s the best place for Declan Wylde and his soft touches. The past.

But after Declan clears his throat and we silently finish prepping food, he leads me to the stairwell and then allows me to go in front of him, like the gentleman he is.

Yet I feel his eyes on my backside, forcing me to take one slow step in front of the other, like I’m pulling him behind me, leading us toward the future.

Eyes on the ball. Aiming for the outfield.

Once we reach the rooftop, the view is stunning. The setting sun. The glistening river. A city alive with bright neon lights and the hint of music.

I love Nashville.

“It will take a few minutes for the steaks to cook,” Declan says after setting the steaks on the grill. “Let me pop back downstairs for our drinks, and we can sit up here while we wait.”

After a nod from me, Declan exits the roof but quickly returns. My wine glass is refilled. He holds a glass of water filled to the rim with ice for himself.

Taking a seat on a wooden bench that squares off a section of the roof, we remain quiet while I sip my wine, and he drinks his water. A steady breeze blows over the rooftop, hot and heavy, like the distance between Declan and me. Or maybe that’s this nervous energy suddenly heating my insides.

I should say something, but I don’t know what to say. I’m never at a loss for words, which is what makes me so good at my job. I’m quick on my feet, fast with a question. But now, my tongue is completely tied as I sit across from Declan.

Thankfully, he saves me from my rising anxiety when his brows cinch and he speaks. “So, Isaiah mentioned your health earlier . . .”

I raise a hand to stop him. “I’m good?—”

“But I feel like an asshole. I should have checked in with you.” He eyes me sheepishly a second before lowering his head, glaring at the glass of ice water in his hands.

“And I don’t feel like . . . discussing how I keep up with routine checkups and the latest research on A.L.L.” I offer a hesitant smile to soften the blow of my words. I don’t like to feel pitied about my childhood health history, so I hope my response assures him I take care of myself.

The comment seems to pacify him as he gives a sharp nod. Subject closed.

“Tell me more about your daughter,” I ask next, shifting the focus off me.

Declan hooks his brow. “Off the record?”

I tilt my head. “Does something about me imply this might be recorded?”

For some reason, Declan glances down at my feet. I tap my high-heeled toes under his inspection. He scowls.

“As I told you, Montgomery is almost fifteen. She’s my entire world.” The smile on his face matches the love in his tone. “Her mother and I have a co-parenting relationship.”

“Which means?”

“We never married, as you know.” The implication is that I remember this fact. When he eventually offered more details, explaining how he’d gotten a friend pregnant, and they agreed to an amicable relationship which included sharing the responsibility of parenting.

“Every other weekend was never our thing. Michelle honored my crazy schedule when I coached for Louisville.”

I nod. “Remind me how you ended up there.” A reminder of how he went from playing professionally for the Chicago Anchors to coaching a collegiate team outside of Nashville.