23. CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 23

“It might not be long, but baby, I’ll love you to the day that I die”

Birds Of A Feather – Billie Eilish

Nathalie

C hristmas is by far the best holiday of the year.

I’ve been itching to decorate since Thanksgiving, since that’s when the holiday officially starts, at least in my calendar, but I’ve waited a respectful three weeks and am decorating in mid-December.

It feels wrong to have waited so long, but this is Deon’s home, not mine, and I was unsure of his opinion on Christmas decorations. When I finally worked up the courage to ask before he left for practice, he shrugged and said, “Whatever makes you happy is fine with me.”

He’s not allowed to say that !

He’s supposed to make it harder to fall for him, not easier. Instead, he’s telling me I can decorate however I want.

Does he realize how dangerous that is?

Using the couch as a ladder, I climb and stretch my arm to reach the higher parts of the tree and gently place the ornaments onto the fake branches.

I’ve spent years crafting the perfect collection of ornaments, and hunting through the clearance section of craft stores for discounted ornaments is nearly as exciting as Christmas morning.

“What are you doing?” Declan asks, surveying the storage boxes thrown around the room. “It looks like Santa threw up in here.”

He lifts a piece of tinsel, scowls, and drops it like it burns him. That’s not the Christmas cheer we want.

“Let me get on your shoulders,” I say, ignoring his jab.

It’s festive. There is a difference.

“Why?”

“So I can reach the top.” I leave out the duh , but I know he hears it.

With a sigh, Declan sits, and I crawl onto his shoulders. I point at an ornament, and he hands it to me to put on the tree. We follow the same routine until the tree is perfectly decorated, each ornament placed perfectly.

“You’re kinda heavy,” Declan says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. He jerks, and we jostle. I scream, grabbing onto the strands of his hair for stability.

“Agh!” He screams, and I scream in response until we’re both heaving with laughter.

It’s healing to have this moment with him. I miss his easy smiles and teasing. He hasn’t been himself, and I don’t blame him. I can’t imagine what he’s going through, but this small moment with him is a victory.

“Ahem.” A voice is cleared behind us, and Declan spins to face a bemused Deon, who holds a massive bouquet in his hands, pink and orange flowers bursting against the green and red of the decorations.

“Oh, hello,” I say with a sophisticated but highly inaccurate British accent. “Out of curiosity, how long have you been standing there?”

“About the time you called Declan a ‘buffoon’ for suggesting to put a small ornament on the bottom of the tree.” He bites his lip, and my stomach tingles. God, I love his subtle cocky smile.

“You heard that?” I tap Declan’s head. “Take me to the kitchen, please.”

“I am not a horse,” Declan spits but walks to the kitchen anyway. Deon forces back a laugh. “Not a word, Adams.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it,” Declan responds, standing right in front of Deon.

I look down at my fake boyfriend, who is fighting a goofy, boyish grin.

“What are these?” I ask, gesturing to the massive bouquet in his hands. “Did someone send you flowers?”

I snicker at the thought of someone sending Deon flowers. He would much rather have a bag of his special pretzels or a fruit basket. He is a man of simple things. Those things are food.

Both Deon and Declan look at me like I’m an idiot. What did I say?

“Nathalie,” Declan whispers, head tilted up to look at me, where I still sit on his shoulders, “I think they’re for you.”

“For me?!”

Deon sent me flowers once when I agreed to be his fake girlfriend, but he hasn’t since. There’s a giddy sensation pounding around my chest, one that demands to be felt.

Deon bought these for me .

And the colors…fuck, the pinks and oranges.

The colors of the sunrise. The colors that remind him of me .

I tap Declan's head.

“I would like to get down now.”

Declan groans in annoyance as I leap from Declan’s shoulders and into Deon’s arms.

“They’re beautiful,” I say, and his chest rumbles as he holds the flowers away from our bodies. “Thank you.”

I take the flowers, and Deon’s green eyes see straight into my soul as though he understands my every emotion and hears my thoughts.

One of them is more concerning than the rest.

I’ve fallen in love with you.

“I love them,” I say, dropping them into a vase in the center of the kitchen island. “Are you ready to help decorate?”

Declan groans, and I smack his arm.

“She turns Christmas cheer into Christmas fear,” he mutters, “She’s one of Santa’s elves but the one elf you avoid because they take their job too seriously.”

Deon cackles, and I smack them both as I bite back a smile.

“Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

I stomp away and begin to dig into my storage tubs when my two goofballs inch into the living room with guilt-ridden faces. So, so easy. All it takes is a few pointed words, and they’re putty in my hands.

“What do you need?” Deon asks, bumping my hip. Butterflies erupt in my stomach, but I swat them away.

We have work to do.

“One of you can hang the wreath on the door, and the other can help me untangle the string lights.” I lift the massive, knotted ball of string and watch as the light flickers out of Deon’s eyes.

“I can put up the wreath!” Declan yells, bolting out the door.

“Traitor,” Deon mumbles, and I giggle as he sighs and grabs the lights.

“I’ll feed you a pretzel for everyone you untangle,” I bribe him, and he rolls his eyes but smiles.

“Deal.”

“Incoming!”

I barge into the bathroom, the room full of steam. I held it as long as I could. I did. But it was either pee my pants or go while Deon is showering. Declan is in the guest bathroom, and I don’t think anyone would want me barging in on him.

This is less embarrassing than peeing my pants. For me, at least.

I snicker when the story of Deon peeing his pants in fear pops into my mind.

“Agh!” Deon yells, dropping a bottle on the shower floor. It lands with a thud, and I sigh in relief.

I was about to implode .

“What are you doing?!” Deon screams over the sound of the shower. I finally glance over, and he’s hunched over, covering himself, my fancy body scrub on the tile.

“Were you using my things?”

“No,” he chokes out. I jerk my chin at the bottle on the floor. “I was…smelling it.”

“Were you?” I flush and wash my hands before sauntering to the shower door. The steam hides all but the outline of his body, but I want to see him fully.

My fingers itch to trace the hard lines of his muscles. As murderous and creepy as it may sound, I want to crawl into his skin to be closer to him. Laying on top of him in bed isn’t enough sometimes.

“What—What are you doing?” Deon asks, shuffling back in the large standing shower as I inch closer.

“Admiring you,” I admit. I might not be willing to tell him I’m falling for him, but he can know this. “You’re really beautiful.” I lean against the glass door. “Did you know that?”

Condensation builds on the glass, and I swipe it away to find Deon’s cheeks a bright red.

Oh my God. Deon Adams is fucking blushing.

I’m so giddy to see Deon with a blush that I hop onto the bathroom counter and swing my feet as I wait for a response.

Deon bends to retrieve my body scrub but contorts his body to reveal as little of himself as possible. I choke on my laughter.

“Deon.” My lips quiver as I try to hide my smile. “You’ve been inside of me. There’s no need for modesty.”

He gives me an incredulous look through the steam, and a wonderful idea pops into my mind.

“Can I join?” I ask, leaping to my feet.

“Join?” Deon’s short-circuiting. “Like showering together ?”

“Yeah,” I shrug, playing it cool when, in fact, my brain is frying right beside Deon’s. Showering with someone is something I’ve always seen in the movies and read in the books. “Do I need to say ‘artichoke’ for this? I can. Artichoke.”

It’s always held this romantic undertone, and I want to try it.

It’s not like I’m going to be doing it with anyone else while I try to get over Deon, so I may as well experience it now.

I stand on the other side of the glass door, waiting.

“Okay.”

I waste no time stripping down and stepping into a massive shower, large enough to fit three Deon-sized people comfortably. A built-in bench sits along the far wall, and a rain shower drenches my hair.

I pluck the scrub from his hand and place it back onto the shelf.

Deon gulps when we make eye contact, his gaze roving along my skin. Goosebumps travel along my forearms despite the hot water.

Fuck, I want to touch him.

Deon stands frozen, and my breast grazes his arm as I grab my shower gel.

“Can I?” I lift the soap.

He nods, and I lather the soap between my hands. Starting at his broad shoulders, I work my way down, gently caressing his skin. He sighs, and as I step closer, his erection presses against my stomach.

My core plummets, and I work my hands along his chest, paying close attention to his abs that ripple as he shifts.

“Fuck, Nat,” Deon groans as I inch closer to his hips.

Palms slayed against his chest, I push him back onto the bench. Lust and trepidation flicker across Deon’s gaze.

I wish he saw himself the way I do. I ache for him to understand how he makes me feel. With him, everything is right. For so long, I thought I was missing something. That part of myself was lacking, and that’s why no fling or situationship ever lasted.

Turns out, all I’ve ever wanted was right in front of me. He’s so special, and he has no idea.

I crawl onto his lap, my breasts pressed against his chest, his hardened cock bobbing between us.

I cup his cheek, and he sinks into the contact, eyes closing.

In a flash, the pros and cons list flashes in my mind.

Pros

I wouldn’t have to hide how I feel.

He would understand how worthy he is.

Cons

The rejection could crush me.

He doesn’t want a relationship.

I want someone to choose me. Not ask them to.

The cons win by a landslide, but I kiss him and pour everything I’m unwilling to say into the kiss. It’s all lips and teeth and desperation. His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer as elation rushes through me. It’s not words, but it's a response, nonetheless. It feels like a promise. An understanding. A recognition.

Then reality floods back, and I realize I’m projecting what I feel. This is nothing more than physical to him.

The water washes away the tears that slip out as he kisses me like a man starved.

He guides the kiss, and I trail my fingers along his skin, letting my silent confession settle deep in my chest.

I’ve never loved anyone like this before. It’s overwhelming and the most glorious thing I’ve ever experienced, but he’ll never know I feel this way about him.

I’ve spent time contemplating telling him after the gala. Spent long hours after Deon’s fallen asleep weighing every pro and con I could conjure. Ultimately, it comes down to two things: I refuse to ask someone to love me, and my feelings were never a part of the deal.

He deserves to know someone loves him, but I can’t stomach the rejection. Maybe one day, he’ll open himself up for someone else to love him. I hope he does. He’s worthy of it.

I meant what I said when I told him it’s heartbreaking to watch someone give up on finding love. Everyone is worthy and deserving of it, and I hope one day, Deon decides that for himself and finds someone worthy of him.

If I thought I had a morsel of a shot that Deon would choose me, I would wait until he was ready for a relationship.

That’s how I know he holds too much power.

If Deon Adams asked, I would wait for him forever and one day more, just to be sure.

But he’s not going to ask, so I’m not going to wait.

The kiss breaks, and Deon’s sea-green eyes crack open. Confusion swims in his gaze, and I rise from the bench to finish showering.

Deon insists on washing my hair, and I let him, closing my eyes to lock away the tears. It’s the gentlest moment I’ve ever shared with someone, and if I open my eyes—If I look at Deon—I’ll crack into a million pieces.

He shuts the water off and wraps a soft, warm towel around my body. Wordlessly, he places a kiss on the top of my head—obliterating rule number two and making my heart skip a few beats—and as soon as he turns, I’m out of the bathroom and digging for clothes in my suitcase.

I need Declan as a buffer right now. I am so close to a breakdown. Being alone with Deon right now will speed up the timeline on that.

He holds me like a lifeline when we sleep at night. In the morning, the first thing he does is lift his calves so I can wiggle my toes beneath them. He places a tender kiss on my shoulder and murmurs good morning against my skin.

It’s all too real.

And it’s breaking every rule we created to prevent this from happening.

No non-platonic touching outside of sexy time. Except I can’t voice the words to tell him to stop because I crave it.

None of the acts are loud or momentous. They’re small gestures of affection that eat through the barbed wire I’ve tried to wrap around my heart, and now there’s a clear path Deon’s taken to root himself into my soul.

While Deon changes, I text Declan, who’s on the other side of the house.

I have a problem.

My phone dings almost immediately.

Declan: What kind of problem?

The “I’m falling in love with my fake boyfriend” kind of problem.

Oh. That’s a really big problem.

Does he know you feel that way?

No. And I’m not going to tell him.

But I need you to limit our alone time together.

I don’t understand.

I am asking, nay, begging you to be a menace.

Never leave me alone.

I’m crouched over my suitcase like Gollum when Deon scares the living hell out of me. “Want to watch our show?” he asks.

I leap into the air, and my phone catapults out of my hand. I quickly scramble to retrieve it before he sees my messages.

“Sure,” I croak, fingers flying across the screen as I text Declan. “Give me a minute to change.”

I’m going to need you to start being a menace. Right. Now.

As slowly as I can, I slip a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt over my body. One by one, I put on my socks. I’m beginning to lose faith in Declan when I hear what can only be described as a battle cry.

“Deon! Nathalie!” he whines. “I’m bored and want to hang out with my best friends .” His footsteps grow closer until he’s yelling into the door. “Come out.”

Two sharp bangs rattle the door.

Deon frowns in that direction, and I mentally tell myself anything Declan wants, he can have.

“I was hoping to hang out alone,” Deon whispers, inching away from the door.

I fake a sympathetic smile.

“We can all watch together,” I say, and Deon’s nose scrunches.

“It’s our show,” he retorts, and my heart squeezes at how he calls it ours . My brow rises, and Deon relents. “Fine. But he can’t talk through all the dates.”

It wouldn’t take a genius to parse together that Deon is less than thrilled with how the evening's events have transpired.

His every attempt at physical touch or a quiet moment alone has been spoiled by Declan, who currently sits between us on the couch.

“We should do this every week,” Declan says, leaning back to block Deon’s arm as it snakes behind Declan’s back to get to me. Declan pins Deon’s arm against the couch, and Deon scowls as he rips his arm back.

I empathize, I do, but having a small bit of space is helping to settle my racing thoughts. I don’t want to turn off touch and physical affection entirely because I love it, but I need time to face reality, and I can’t ask for that without spilling the beans.

Declan is giving me time.

Deon tries to meet my eye around Declan’s massive head, but I pretend I don’t see him, shifting forward to grab my bracket.

“Do you think they zing on the show?” Declan asks, reaching to take the snack bowl from Deon.

“Probably not,” I respond, “I want to believe they do, but I think you have to be incredibly lucky to zing with someone.”

Deon grunts and Declan spins.

“Something you’d like to add?” Declan asks.

The bowl is ripped from Declan’s grip, and Deon shoves a handful of the snack mix into his mouth. Those stunning eyes meet mine, and they swirl with something foreign.

“Have either of you ever zinged?” Declan asks, a shit-eating grin on his face.

You could hear a pin drop.

I refuse to meet Deon’s gaze. I’m sure he thought he zinged with Savannah, and he has no interest in zinging with anyone else.

When my eyes lift, Deon’s focus is locked on me. His eyes smolder with intensity as he says, without missing a beat, “Yes.”

My heart sinks to my stomach. Of course, he’s zinged before. He proposed to Savannah. You don’t propose to someone if you don’t zing with them, even if they end up becoming evil monsters with zero capacity for empathy.

Declan senses the energy and shifts topics, once again crowning him the best anti-wingman ever .

“Well, I haven’t.” He pulls out his phone. “But I’m going on a date, and maybe I’ll zing with her.”

He shows us both the photos of a girl on a dating app. Her profile is plain and full of selfies and mirror photos. She may be nice, but she isn’t who I picture for Declan.

Declan needs someone who can match his energy while grounding him on Earth. Someone who can give it right back but also knows when to let him shine. Someone who doesn’t run from how his past impacts his life. And he especially needs someone who does not give a flying shit that he plays football professionally.

Declan slides his phone back into his pocket, and we return to the dating show. The lead is sobbing in front of the cameras, talking about how she’s going to have to make a decision, and she doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

Ian pops onto the screen, and Deon gasps.

“No. No. No,” he chants as Ian walks down a path surrounded by candlelight. Deon launches off the couch and stands two feet away from the television. “Don’t do this to me.”

My focus darts between the screen and Deon, holding my breath as his final choice walks into the ceremony, standing beside the remaining five men.

The host starts his monologue, and Deon’s foot taps on the floor. Declan leans over to whisper, “Why is he so nervous?”

“His signed Lord of the Rings poster is on the line,” I respond.

My choice looks calm and confident, polar opposite to Deon, who begins to pace. I choke back a laugh, and he spins, annoyance all over his face.

“Do you think this is funny, Nat?”

I shrug a shoulder, my lips quivering with the strength of the smile I’m trying to hold back. Not only do I find it hilarious, but I also find it adorable as hell.

If it was in the cards, I would spend forever watching dating shows with him and making silly bets on different contestants.

Deon stalks toward me, and I frantically pat Declan’s thigh in a silent signal for him to become a menace. As Deon creeps closer to the couch, Delcan darts out his leg in an attempt to block him. Instead, Deon stumbles over Declan’s foot, arms windmilling as he fights for balance and crashes into my body.

The air is ripped from my lungs as he falls on top of me. Deja Vú smacks me upside the head as Deon blinks. Just like when he tackled me in the Lair. A slow, cocky smile blooms on Deon’s face, revealing both of his dimples, telling me he’s remembering the same moment.

“Hi,” he says bashfully, cheeks tinged pink. “I regret inviting Declan to stay with us.”

He whispers the confession so quietly I barely hear it.

“Why?”

“He’s stealing all of your attention.” I bark out a laugh, but sober at the severity of Deon’s features. “I already have to compete with my freaking cat.”

“A-Are you jealous?” I choke out, my breathing labored for a multitude of reasons. One is Deon may be jealous. Another is that his 200-lb body is on top of mine.

It’s mostly due to the first reason.

“Yes,” he says simply.

My heart soars in ways it should not.

“Well, it looks like your guy made it,” Declan says, interrupting the moment. I want to whack him upside the head when I remember it’s what I asked for. Deon pushes off the couch, his clean scent lingering as he smugly checks his bracket.

Deon’s entire focus is mine when he speaks, “I’m coming for you, Nat.” He waves the paper through the air. “Watch your back.”

The better suggestion would be to protect my heart, but it doesn’t belong to me anymore.