Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Amy: How’s the new job going?
Honesty is not at the tip of my tongue. I tap out a text telling her it’s all fine, just getting up to speed still, and send it. Chewing the inside of my cheek, it feels like I’m back years ago. Hiding from the truth and unwilling to tell a soul. When deep inside I want to scream it.
Maybe I should show up drunk, thank him for the bottle that sits on the coffee table, and then quit. That’s what a very large piece of me wants to do.
Just as the thought crosses my mind, there’s a knock on the door. I abandon my blanket and pad over. I check the peephole first.
Fuck. My blood goes cold and a nervousness rattles through me.
“Braelynn.” His voice is calm as he looks directly at the peephole. “Open the door.”
At the sight of Declan standing outside the door, goosebumps cover my skin. I fumble for the knob and pull it open.
His strides are steady and firm. His frame is so large in the small foyer.
He walks in with no hesitation, as if he owns this place as much as he owns The Club. It’s shocking to see him here, especially given last night, that I don’t notice the bags at first. He holds up takeout. Chinese food, from the scent. It only takes him one look around to find the kitchen. His worn jeans and gray Henley are a change from the norm. As is all of this.
By the time I’ve shut the door, he’s going through the cupboards and pulling out plates. He rummages through the drawers until he finds the forks and knives, then pulls paper napkins from a holder on the countertop and wraps two sets of utensils.
My arms crossed over my thin sleep shirt, I dare to ask, “What are you doing?” Tucking my hair behind my ears, I remember I look like hell. Not an ounce of makeup and my hair is a frizzy mess.
“Feeding you,” he says, matter-of-factly. I watch him put food on the plates, his hands capable on the boxes. He glances to his right, to what should be a dining room but the table itself is still absent. Then he glances to the left, the living room, which is small and still filled with boxes. “Where do you like to eat?” he asks casually.
I take a moment, watching him. There’s something different, calmer and more relaxed, but he also doesn’t look me in the eye.
“The couch, mostly,” I admit. “It’s not the classiest thing in the world, I guess, but I like to flip through the channels while I eat.”
He nods, “’Cause you’re alone …” he peers back at me, “when you eat.”
There’s a touch of sadness in his tone that catches me off guard. “Yeah.”
He nods and then carries both of the plates and silverware out to the living room, setting it all on the coffee table.
As I take the seat beside him on the sofa, the couch groans. It’s so cheap beneath him. My face feels hot with him seeing this part of my life, even though there’s nothing special about sitting on my own couch. He places the plate in front of me on the coffee table and takes the seat next to me.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I whisper. I’m starving and my stomach growls in protest of my statement. I could devour this plate in an instant. Instead the fork teeters in my hand.
“Yes I did.” His answer is immediate.
“You could have called,” I suggest, staring at his profile and willing him to look back at me.
“I was afraid you would tell me,” he starts, taking in a deep breath, and staring ahead before he falls silent. A car honks its horn outside, sounding like it’s coming from the parking lot of the yoga studio across the street.
“I can be … a lot,” he says, after a minute. The sound of him swallowing is the loudest thing in the room. “It’s been a while and I forget sometimes …” He seems to consider his next words. “I need you to communicate with me very openly. Very, very openly.”
“What do you mean?” My ears burn.
“If I ask you what happened or why you feel a certain way, I need you to be blunt.” He licks his bottom lip and then stares deep into my eyes. “I’m not good at guessing, Braelynn. And I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to tell me everything.”
The way he stares at me, as if he needs this, he needs me as if he’s begging me, I can hardly sit so close to him. The air in the room seems to thin and it’s only the two of us.
Neither of us eats, neither of us moves.
“I need you to forgive me and help me so I can handle you better.”