Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

DECLAN

"You're so fucking infuriating," I shout after her, annoyed with myself that I let her get under my skin.

"Maybe," she quips without missing a step, "but you also know I'm right."

That's probably the part that angers me the most.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I scrunch my face in frustration and let out a deep sigh when Quinn, as she walks further down the hall, disappears into the darkness. Taking a sip from my glass, I mumble through the woodsy burn, "I'm fucking doing the best I can."

Fiona…

Sarah…

Quinn…

I'm doing my best.

But my best is total shite.

I don't know how to handle any of them correctly. Mo ghrá, Sarah. I just want to fulfill my promises to her. To honor her as per the vows I made when I became her husband. That's always been the easy one—grieving her and staying true to her—but even that is becoming more of a challenge.

A stóirín , I'm still figuring that out day by day. That was Sarah. She was the one who had the faith in me to be a great father. If she were here, she'd probably be saying the same things to me as Quinn— as the barrage of nannies before her— and I'd listen. Eventually.

And Quinn… Not once in my life have I handled Quinn O'Brien correctly. Not that she makes it easy, but she deserves better. Better from me. But I can't. I can't be nice to her; I can't open that door. As shitty as it is to treat her this way, it isn't fair to either of us for me to let her in. I can't let her be more than she is—my nanny.

I can't do that again…

Sipping my whiskey as I walk through the apartment and onto the terrace, my thoughts wander to the night four years ago. A night that has forever changed who I am as a man and eventually turned me into the boorish asshole Quinn sees me as.

Sitting at the busy bar, I stare into the glass in my hands and mull over the decisions that have led me here. Thirty-four years old, and I have spent the last ten years with fleeting and meaningless women passing through my bed because I'm a fucking idiot . Because I shit all over the one good thing that ever happened to me.

"I'll buy you a drink if you pretend to be my boyfriend for five minutes," a petite redhead whispers as she slides up to the bar beside me.

"I'm not interes—" I sulk as my gaze wanders from my glass to an absolutely stunning pair of ocean-blue eyes that I quickly find myself wanting to drown in. The woman standing before me has sheer desperation written across her face. Yet, she is absolutely breathtaking…and about to walk away from me for nearly turning down her request. Slipping my arm around her waist, I quickly pull her flush to me with enough force that she blows a sputtered breath across my cheek. I tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear and lean closer until our lips aren't more than an inch apart. "Exactly how believable does this need to be?"

"Very," she breathlessly exhales the drawn-out word as her eyes bore through me.

With my left arm still tight around her waist, I keep her pressed to my side as my fingers dust from her ear, along her jaw, and to her chin. Slipping them under it, I tip her face up toward mine and lean in closer. I press my lips to hers, and she melts into the kiss—and into me. Sliding my fingers slowly down the length of her throat as I pull back, I ask, "How am I doing?"

"Yes…I…um…good," she stammers as her cheeks pinken, and I immediately realize that I'm fucking done for.

"You owe me a drink…" I pause, waiting for her name.

"Sarah." She coyly smiles as she stares up at me through her thick lashes.

"I'll take a whiskey neat, Sarah."

That's all it took. One drink because she needed to ward off some creep in a bar that wasn't taking ‘not interested' as an answer. One drink that turned into four, and the two of us closing down the bar at the end of the evening. For the first night in years, I was more interested in learning who she was than I was in getting her into my bed. One night that made me a husband and, subsequently, a father. That same night put me on the path to becoming the miserable asshole that Quinn called me out as.

Pacing along the terrace's railing, my eyes wander over the buildings across the street as I think about the life I should've had. Wallowing in my grief—and indulging my self-hate over failing the women in my life—I refill my glass a couple times more than I should. With it only making me feel worse, I pour the remainder of the whiskey in my glass down the drain.

As I make my way down the hall toward my room, I pause at Quinn's doorway. I lift my hand to knock but instead, Imerely stare at the door. Pulling my hand back, I bring it forward to knock but silently splay my palm over the panel separating us. ‘I'm sorry' doesn't seem sufficient, and I don't know what else to say. Instead, I head to my room and grab my wallet before returning to the kitchen to scribble a note for Quinn.

If nothing else, it's a start.