Page 18 of Make You Mine

Declan

These days, every morning’s a bloody circus at the Keating house.

Between Emmett’s wails for Amerie’s breastmilk, Chelsea gliding through the halls replacing every vase with fresh flowers, and Willow filling the air with fun facts about the solar system, I barely get a minute to think straight, let alone prepare for another day at Halberd.

“That’s downright fascinating, Widget,” I say, humoring her while fastening the buttons on my shirt.

She’s just finished explaining—rather dramatically, as only a five-year-old can—that Pluto used to be a planet but isn’t anymore.

Tragedy of the century, apparently.

“It’s too small, Daddy,” she adds, like she’s presenting at a bloody TED Talk.

Maybe it is. I wouldn’t know. Science was never my thing. I get paid to buy companies and gut them from the inside, not to memorize the galaxy.

“Daddy,” she presses again, tugging on my trouser leg. “Did you know the sun is a star? Daddy?”

“Yes, Widget, I’m listening.”

But I’m not. Not properly. I’m too busy tugging my shirt collar straight and eyeing the clock on the nightstand like it’s taunting me. If I don’t get a move on, I’ll be late. And Cormac might find me amusing and hardworking, but I’m not keen to test just how much he’s willing to forgive.

Still, the other night bought me some credit.

The dinner party was a bloody success, even if Amerie swore up and down it was a disaster.

She couldn’t stop fretting over the greens or the missing cobbler or how the whole thing wasn’t up to par.

Meanwhile, Cormac practically licked his plate clean and spent half the night raving about what a catch I was for Halberd.

He’s already asked when we’ll host again.

I’ve told Amerie that. I’ve reassured her she’d done brilliantly, but she’s always her own worst critic. She’s hard enough on herself as it is.

“Willow!” Amerie’s voice calls from the hall, sharp and full of movement. “Time to get dressed for school, baby!”

Willow gasps like it’s a crime to abandon me mid-sentence, but then bolts out of the room, arms flailing like she’s chasing the town bus. I’m finally alone, blessedly so, and reach for my tie.

That’s when I catch it.

A scent—floral and a touch too sweet—clings to my shirt. Not the usual perfume Amerie wears. This one’s unfamiliar. Stronger. Like something you’d get spritzed with in the women’s section at Harrods.

I bring the fabric up to my nose and sniff again. It’s no mistake.

Huh.

Maybe she picked up a new one. She’s got a whole damn tray of fragrances in the bathroom, and most of them smell nearly identical to me. I make a mental note to ask her about it later, but I already know I’ll forget. There’s too much on my plate.

As if summoned by my wandering thoughts, Chelsea’s voice pipes up from the hallway.

“Mr. Keating? Your phone’s buzzing. You left it on the kitchen table.” Her head pops around the door a second later, smile as polite as ever. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

I pause, blinking at her for a second longer than necessary. “Uh… yes. I would, actually. Thank you. I’ll be right down.”

She disappears just as quickly as she arrived, and I let out a long breath, running a hand down my face.

Of course it’s already started. Emails. Missed calls. Probably some urgent nonsense that can’t wait five minutes.

Halberd never sleeps. And apparently, neither do I.

“Declan Keating!” Lionel Truss’s voice barrels through the corridor before I’ve even rounded the corner.

He’s standing with Cormac, both of them grinning like foxes with bellies full of stolen hens. Lionel claps a hand on my shoulder before I can brace for it.

“Where’s my bloody dinner invite, eh?” he booms, shaking my hand with the kind of force that threatens to dislocate a joint. “Cormac here’s been bragging about your wife’s catfish for days. I had to ask Ginny if she binned our invite with the Waitrose leaflets.”

I let out a thin laugh, pocketing both hands just to keep him from wrenching my arm off again. “Doubt there’s enough catfish in the country to feed both you and Doyle. Man damn near cleared our fridge.”

They both erupt in laughter like it’s the best joke they’ve heard all year. This is how these lot bond, ribbing and bravado dressed up in business talks and deals being struck. I’ve learned to play along, even when I’m two steps behind, wondering what fresh chaos they’ve brought with them.

Lionel Truss doesn’t show up unannounced for small talk.

As we walk the corridor toward my office, Cormac’s got that unreadable smirk on his face while Lionel fills the air with stories about Scottish golf courses and how his youngest wants to study architecture now.

None of it lands. My gut’s already tightening.

The last time I saw both these men in the same room was the week they axed two senior directors in the Manhattan division.

When we step into my office, they take their seats across from me like they own the place. Which, technically, they do.

Lionel leans forward, his hands clasped, expression turning serious in the blink of an eye. “Declan, you’ve done more for Halberd’s UK expansion than any of us expected. The board is thrilled. Profits are up, operations are clean, morale’s stable.”

I nod, cautiously. “Appreciate that.”

“We’re not just focusing on England anymore,” he says. “We’ve already greenlit an exploratory team for Scotland. Glasgow’s on the docket.”

Cormac picks it up from there. “And we’ve been talking, Lionel and me—and a few of the other lads—and we reckon you’re the best bloke to lead the Glasgow visit. Boots on the ground, so to speak.”

The words hang in the air.

I blink once. Then twice. “Wait, you want me to… move to Glasgow?”

Lionel chuckles. “Not move. Not yet, anyway. Just an inquiry trip. Talk to local partners. Vet the talent. Walk the floor. We need someone polished. Charming. Smart. Speaks well. You.”

I exhale, not quite sure if that’s relief or something else clawing up my ribs. “And how long would this inquiry trip be?”

“Three weeks,” Cormac answers.

Three weeks.

Away from Amerie. Away from the kids. After everything that’s been happening lately.

I try not to let it show on my face. “That’s… a long stretch.”

Lionel waves a hand. “Come on, I’d give anything for three weeks away from my family. You’ll be begging us to extend it.”

I manage the ghost of a smile, but on the inside, my stomach twists. It’s not funny. Not to me. Not after all the late nights I’ve pulled. Not after how distant Amerie and I have been the past couple months. She’s just started coming around again. We’ve only just caught our footing.

I don’t want to lose that.

But I also know how this game works. You don’t climb the ladder at Halberd by staying home and tucking your daughter into bed. You get ahead by saying yes when the men in suits come knocking. You get ahead by being the one who makes sacrifices.

Even if it costs you something you can't put on a balance sheet.

I give a stiff nod. “Alright. Let me talk to my wife. But… yes. I’ll think about it.”

“We’ll need an answer by tomorrow,” Lionel says, already rising to his feet. “No pressure, eh?”

Cormac lingers a second after Lionel exits. “It’s just three weeks. Not forever, mate.”

But it bloody well feels like forever.

As the door clicks shut behind them, I slump back in my chair, gaze fixed on the framed photo of Amerie and the kids on my desk. Willow’s laughing in it, her curls a fluffy cloud. Amerie’s at her side with a wide smile as she cradles a newborn Emmett in her arms.

Three weeks.

I drag a hand down my face and mutter under my breath, “Feels like forever to me.”

I manage to wrangle an early escape from Cormac under the guise of tying up loose ends, though the truth is, I just need a breather. A chance to speak with Amerie about the Scotland trip before the weekend swallows us whole.

When I pull into the drive, I spot Widget and Chelsea in the back garden, crouched in the grass, laughing as they weave wildflower crowns like a pair of fairies from a woodland tale.

The two of them have become damn near inseparable.

It’s more than I expected, honestly, when we first hired the bespectacled brunette.

To be fair, Chelsea’s proven herself useful in several ways.

She’s been reliable, even though lately I’ve caught wind of a strange sort of tension when she and Amerie share the same room.

Not overt, nothing dramatic. Just a flicker in Amerie’s expression, a quiet sharpness in her tone.

Like she’s measuring herself and coming up short.

And I don’t think it’s even Chelsea’s fault.

If anything, her presence seems to dredge up something in Amerie’s own self-perception.

I leave Widget to her garden mischief and make my way upstairs. My first stop is Emmett’s nursery. I ease the door open and peer in to find him dead asleep, limbs splayed, mouth slack. The boy’s like a bloody cat. Sleeps sixteen hours a day and misses most of my time at home.

He’ll be up soon enough, demanding food and launching a siege on my nose with a stinky nappy.

I head toward Amerie’s office, hesitating at the door. These are her sacred writing hours and her deadline’s been creeping closer every day. No one takes her writing more seriously than I do. I’ve read every single book she’s written, and I’m not even a thriller man.

But there’s something about the way Amerie writes that pulls me in. Every sentence addictive, every chapter a spell. Call it bias if you want—I won’t deny it—but the woman’s a bloody force. A gem in the literary world. And she bleeds for every page she writes.

I’ve watched her spiral over a single scene, disappear for hours, tears threatening to spill because a plot thread won’t line up.

It wrecks her some days, this process. Which is why part of me was relieved when she took a few years off.

But I knew—sooner or later—that creative fire inside her would start up again.

And here we are.