Page 9 of Make You Mine

Declan

“You don’t even see us anymore,” Amerie says, trailing after me. “You walk in and go straight for your private office.”

I grit my teeth, tugging loose the knot on my tie. “That’s because I can’t finish half of what I bloody need to during the day. You think launching a new division for Halberd is a walk in the park? I’m under pressure, Amerie. Real pressure. If it goes tits-up, it’s my head on the block.”

“I know you’re taking on a lot. But I guess it would be nice if you… just made some time for Willow and Emmett. You haven’t had dinner with us in almost two weeks, Declan.”

“Yeah, I’m aware. Thanks for the tally.” I toe out of my brogues and peel off the rest of my insufferable office clothes, pulling on a hoodie and jeans. I avoid looking at her as I move from the wardrobe and nab the car keys off the dresser. “You said the nanny needs a lift?”

“If you don’t mind. It’s pouring out and she has to bike almost ten miles.”

“Here’s a thought, love. You want me to spend more time at home? Maybe don’t send me back out the minute I walk through the door.”

That one cuts. I know it the second it’s out of my mouth, but I don’t take it back.

I just turn on my heel and walk out, jaw tight and heart thudding.

It’s been building, this tension between us. Two weeks of clipped conversations and missed dinners. We said this move was meant to be a fresh start. A calmer pace. But it’s starting to feel like New York all over again. Me buried under work. Her overwhelmed, exhausted, and quietly pissed off.

Part of me knows I’m being a bastard.

The other part—the one still buzzing from a twelve-hour slog at Halberd—feels bloody justified.

We’re on the brink of closing a major acquisition, and I’ve got pressure coming at me from every direction, investors breathing down my neck, the London office watching me like hawks.

I’m trying to keep this entire thing from going sideways.

Of course it’s following me home. It always does.

Downstairs, the TV’s on low and Willow’s sprawled on the floor with crayons, tongue poking out in concentration.

Emmett’s in his playpen, gumming away at one of those plastic rings like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.

And Chelsea—miracle that she is—is perched on the sofa, keeping it all running like clockwork.

She stands when she sees me, clutching her coat to her chest. “If the lift’s too much trouble, I’ll cycle. It’s not far. Only ten miles or so.”

“In this weather? What sort of heartless employer would I be letting you bike through a bloody monsoon?”

That earns me the faintest of smiles, one corner of her mouth twitching up as she follows me to the front door.

The rain’s really coming down now. Proper British weather.

We step out to the sound of it pattering against the drive.

I get in behind the wheel, flick on the wipers and headlights, and let the car hum to life.

Chelsea settles into the passenger seat, folding her coat neatly in her lap like she’s at a job interview.

Two weeks in and she still carries herself like she’s expecting to be graded on every move.

I’ve been told I can come off a bit stern—intimidating, even. And fair enough, I’m six foot four and built like a bloody rugby forward. Still, you’d think we’d have warmed up to each other by now.

Maybe Amerie’s right. I’ve been buried in work so long I barely know what’s happening in my own bloody house.

The roads are dark and slick as we pull off, the sort of winding country lanes that punish you for not paying attention. We ride in silence for a bit, the low growl of the engine filling the car. Then, as if she can’t stand it any longer, Chelsea speaks up.

“Thanks again for the lift,” she murmurs, fiddling with a loose thread on her cardigan. “When I asked for one, I thought Amerie would drive. I wouldn’t have asked if I knew it’d be you.”

“Amerie doesn’t drive here. Doesn’t trust herself with the left side of the road. And frankly, I don’t trust the roads at this hour either. She’s a New Yorker. Barely drove there, let alone here.”

Chelsea lets out a quiet laugh. “We could use more streetlights, that’s for sure.”

“You’re not wrong. So tell me, why wouldn’t you have asked if you knew it’d be me? Don’t tell me I’m that frightening.”

“Well…” She chews her lip and keeps fussing with that thread. “Maybe a little. You just… you seem really important. Always busy. I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s no bother,” I say, hands tightening on the wheel as we round a bend. “How’s the job treating you so far?”

She blinks. “Hmm?”

“Working for us. You can be honest. I can take it.”

She pushes her glasses up and thinks on it, then smiles. Genuine this time. “I’ve really enjoyed it.”

“Not just buttering me up for a raise, are you?”

She laughs again, the sound soft and bashful. “I wouldn’t lie about that, Mr. Keating. You’ve all made me feel so welcome. It’s meant a lot.”

The sound of her unguarded voice throws me for a beat. I’d braced for the usual pleasantries—cheerful, polite, transactional—but she sounds like she means it. Like we’re more than just her employer. Like she already feels part of the family.

Eyes on the road, I give a small nod. “Glad to hear it, Chelsea. And really, it’s Declan. No need for the formalities.”

The sign for Ashwick flashes by. Rain’s still hammering down with no sign of letting up.

I ease to a stop in front of the address Chelsea gave me: a run-down stone cottage with dark windows and a lawn that’s clearly lost the war to the weeds. The whole place looks like it’s been forgotten by time or. at the very least, by a gardener.

I’m half a second from asking if we’ve got the wrong spot when she unclips her seatbelt and starts gathering her things.

“This is me,” she says, clutching her coat to her chest. “I really appreciate you going out of your way to drive me.”

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact you bike ten miles each way,” I say, flicking the hazards on.

She shrugs, pushing damp hair behind her ear. “It’s not so bad. When it’s not chucking it down sideways.”

“I’ll get your bike.”

We meet at the back of the car. I unhook the thing from the rack while the downpour soaks through both our hoods. It doesn’t matter because we’re drenched regardless. Chelsea gives a grateful sort of smile as she takes the handlebars from me, her fingers brushing mine.

“You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve managed.”

“It’s within reach when you’re built like a bloody scaffolding pole.”

She laughs, the sound soft and breathy, and then looks up at me through rain-spattered glasses. “Thanks, Declan. You’re a really great man. Amerie and the kids are lucky.”

She reaches out with her left hand, fingers gripping my forearm in a quick squeeze. The contact is quick and cushioned by the gratitude of her words, but it sets something off.

My whole body stiffens. I shift my arm away, tucking both hands into my pockets, and step back a pace.

“Right… well. Good night.”

I don’t wait for a reply. I circle round the back of the car, water splashing beneath my steps. By the time I slide behind the wheel, she’s still standing there on the curb, her silhouette blurred by the heavy downpour. It’s not until the headlights blink on that she finally seems to take the hint.

I’m pulling away as she reaches her front door. Her figure slips inside, swallowed by the darkness and whatever’s lurking behind it.

“It’s one Saturday, Declan. She’ll notice if you’re not there.”

“You sure about that?” I ask without looking up from my laptop. I’m sat in my home office, fingers flying over the keys. “Pretty sure all Widget’ll care about is the cake and bouncy castle.”

“You’ve missed dinner every night this week. Can’t you give us two hours?”

“It’s a five-year-old’s party, not the ruddy Olympics. I doubt anyone’s keeping attendance.”

Amerie folds her arms and shakes her head. She falls silent, but that’s all she needs to express her deep disappointment.

Truth be told, we’ve still been at each other’s throats lately. It’s back to New York bad habits. I throw myself into work, she disappears into her book deadline, and somehow we’re left out of sync with each other, forgetting how to communicate.

Chelsea’s made things easier on the home front, but maybe that’s part of the problem. Easier doesn’t always mean better.

I sigh, picturing Willow’s face if she looks around the party and I’m not there. If she’s waiting for me to show and then I never turn up.

“Alright,” I say, snapping the laptop shut. “I’ll come. But if I send a couple emails from my phone, we’re calling that a compromise.”

Amerie fights back a smile. “I suppose that’s better than nothing. I’ll get little man ready.”

“So Chelsea and Widget are already at the park?”

“They left half an hour ago,” she calls out from the hall. “Willow wanted to help with the cupcakes. Thankfully, the café took our order last minute. They picked them up on the way.”

“And whose birthday is it again?” I ask, following her into the hall. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and rake a hand through my hair. If I’m making a public appearance, I may as well look somewhat civilized.

“Willow’s classmate Arlo. He’s six today.”

“Six, is he? Practically a pensioner. He’ll have a chin hair and existential crisis by next Tuesday.”

Amerie smirks as she returns from upstairs with Emmett. I open my arms to take him and she hands him over. Our boy’s kitted out in soft jersey dungarees and the kind of bootie socks that make his feet look edible. I kiss the top of his curly head, then Amerie’s lips, a gesture I feel her linger in.

Even with our rows, even when she’s furious with me, there’s never been a second I’ve doubted how much I love this woman. She’s it for me, my partner in life and the mother of our children. Always has been and always will be.

We decide to walk rather than take the car. It’s a crisp spring afternoon, no rainclouds in sight, and it’d be daft to waste the weather.

A few minutes from the park, Amerie’s glucose monitor lets out a sharp beep. It’s synced to my phone too, in case of emergencies. I glance sideways at her, both brows raised.

“Amerie, love…” I say in warning, pushing the stroller forward.

She grimaces. “I’ll eat at the party! I promise. I’ve been doing better lately. You know I have. Especially since Chelsea’s been around. It’s freed up time. And guess what we got from the café?”

“This isn’t going to be about those damn bacon-wrapped scones again, is it? Bloody American nonsense.”

“No,” she laughs. “Sugar-free, diabetic-friendly cupcakes. We got four for today’s party. One for me and three for any other insulin-challenged guests.”

“Insulin-challenged? Christ, start a club. You can all compare monitors and grumble about icing.”

We carry on teasing like that the rest of the walk.

The park’s buzzing when we arrive. Kids dashing about in party hats, high on sugar and chaos. I spot Widget immediately. She’s painted like a glittery sea monster with blue sequins and a tail drawn across her cheek. She’s smack in the middle of face-painting glory.

Chelsea clocks us and waves. Amerie and Emmett head off toward her, so I make for the Dad’s Corner—otherwise known as the area for men pretending to be present while secretly texting colleagues and checking football scores.

I’m not alone. There’s a bloke on his phone barking orders like he’s still in the boardroom and another typing like he’s chewing someone out via email.

Honestly, it’s enough to make me rethink the whole thing. Maybe I should actually be here.

Willow spots me, her face lighting up. She hops down from the table and runs over, mermaid scales shimmering under the sun. She’s beaming, proud as anything, just to show me her latest masterpiece.

And in that moment, I’m bloody glad I came.

The party’s not half as bad as I figured it’d be.

The little ones charge about like they’ve had straight sugar for breakfast, and then everyone gathers around the main picnic table to butcher “Happy Birthday” while the lad of the hour blows out his candles.

Cake’s handed out, along with the usual spread—pizza slices, triangle sandwiches, chicken nuggets gone lukewarm, and a few homemade offerings from overzealous parents.

I let myself enjoy a slice with Willow, right up until she decides I’m no longer fit company and bolts for the bouncy castle with one of her mates. Amerie and Chelsea both witness the moment and chuckle like it’s the most charming thing they’ve seen.

“Sorry, Dad,” Amerie teases. “Her friends are more fun.”

“Yeah, that tracks,” I mutter, licking icing off my thumb. “How was the cupcake?”

Amerie holds it up like a trophy, all fluffy frosting and diabetic hope. “About to take a bite.”

“All that’s sugar-free?”

“It’s what we call a modern miracle.”

Chelsea laughs beside her. “Willow’s teacher had one and said they’re delicious.”

The next half hour passes with the usual birthday madness—kids screaming over musical chairs or queuing up to bounce themselves into early spinal damage. Arlo’s mum swings by to thank Amerie for bringing the special cupcakes, going on about how thoughtful it was.

That leaves me and Chelsea sat alone at the picnic bench, just the two of us and an awkward silence thicker than clotted cream.

It feels like déjà vu after that drive nights ago.

Only difference is, we’ve now got a soundtrack of screeching five and six-year-olds and someone’s Bluetooth speaker blaring “Baby Shark” in the distance.

Chelsea clears her throat. “I better check on Willow. See if she’s thirsty or needs the toilet.”

I nod as she gets up and walks toward the crowd of party-goers.

It’s fine by me either way. It’s the first chance I’ve had to glance at my phone and notice Cormac’s called and left a voice message.

Bloody hell. What the fuck could he want on a Saturday?

Releasing a deep sigh, I press my phone to my ear and listen to the recording.

“Keating, ring me back when you have the chance. It’s important. It’s about the Atelier acquisition. The bloody fucking deal’s falling apart. Their board is pulling out.”

I let out a sharp breath through my nose. “For fuck’s sake!”

I’ve forgotten where I am for a second… until a few pint-sized humans scurry by in front of me.

But I don’t have time to give a damn about offended parents or dirty looks. Because just then, a shriek cuts through the air and startles everyone on the park grounds.

It’s Chelsea, bolting across the grass with wide eyes and panic written all over her.

“Declan! Amerie!”

We’re both on our feet before she reaches us.

“It’s Willow!” she gasps, out of breath. “I can’t find her anywhere—and no one else has seen her. I think she’s wandered off. She’s… she’s gone!”