Chapter 21

Claire tries to stand from her chair but wobbles. "I'll help you."

"That's okay," I say with a smile. "I'd rather play it safe and keep the drunk girl away from the fire."

"I'm twenty-eight," she says belligerently. "I'm a woman."

"My mistake. Keep the drunk woman away from the fire."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-one."

She sighs and glances at the house. "I'm sorry they went inside. That's really rude. I told them it was rude. But Nicole pretended she was feeling nauseous."

I cock my head. "You sure she was pretending? She slugged back most of that bourbon herself."

"I could tell," she insists, then adds, "She's always trying to get us alone together."

I don't dispute it. It's clearly true, although I still don't fully understand why her sister would go to so much effort to lockdown a deadbeat gardener for her. "I don't understand why she'd do that, but I don't mind being alone with you."

They're small words, because truthfully there's little I want more than I want to be alone with her—and at the moment, I want it more than I fear it.

"Really?" she asks brightly.

"Really. Now let me put this fire out, and then I'll see you back to your house."

"Are you going to pick the lock again?" she asks.

"I will if I need to." I glance back at her, taking in the sight of her by the softer glow of the fire. A little drunk, a lot tired, and so damn beautiful it would make an angel weep and a devil burn.

"It made me so wet, watching you do that," she says conspiratorially.

I nearly fumble the bag of sand. "Jesus, Claire. You're not making this easy."

I'm tipsy enough that I don't really know what I mean by that. She's not making it easy to stay away from her, I guess.

"Good," she says, pursing her lips.

My cock mostly hard and my heart throbbing, I finish dousing the fire, making sure there's not a spark of it left to cause destruction we don't want. I feel a slight pang of regret when I see the crumbled ash at the bottom of the pit—all that's left of a hundred photos of Claire. But I saw them go into the fire, like watching her life go by on fast forward. Claire as a cute-as-hell baby, a toddler, a little girl, a preteen, a goody two-shoes teenager, and Claire as the assistant to Agnes Lewis.

I don't hit women—wouldn't, no matter what—but I'd destroy Agnes in other ways if I could. Anyone who'd look at Claire and want to crush her is a monster.

Claire must see me looking, because she tries to get to her feet again, manages it this time, and touches my elbow. "You know everything about me now, but I still don't know anything about you."

"I don't know everything about you," I say, slipping an arm around her waist and telling myself I'm doing it because she needs support. "I don't know what your favorite color is."

She snort-laughs, leaning into me in a way that makes my heart swell as I start walking her back toward the house, lights still glowing inside. It's nearly pitch black, but the stars are twinkling overhead and the moon's glow is buttery soft against her skin. The breeze carries the scent of our campfire, flavored with wildflowers. It feels like the witching hour, a time of night where anything can happen.

"There's all this pressure on everyone to have a favorite color. I feel like people only choose one because they're cornered into it. I mean, come on, aren't I allowed to like more than one color?" She scrunches her face. "I guess that's probably how you feel about your friends with benefits."

"No," I say, my hand moving over her lower back, trying to memorize the feeling of it beneath my fingertips. "And I told you. I haven't been seeing anyone."

She halts her steps before we round the side of the cabin. "But you could be seeing me if you wanted to. You could see all of me."

Fucking A. She's going to kill me. I thought my death would come at someone else's hand, but I was wrong. I'm going to die here and now, incinerated by Claire Rainey. I make my hand fall from around her back, because I can't touch her right now.

Clearing my throat, I say, "You're drunk, Claire. This isn't a good time for us to discuss this."

"In vino veritas," she says in a dramatic voice, lifting her arm and holding it out horizontally like she's an actor taking a bow.

"So you were sneaking wine, too, huh?" I joke. "Should've known. I mean it, though, I can't—"

"Does that mean you can when we're sober?" she asks, eyes twinkling.

"We're neighbors." I take a small step closer without meaning too, eliminating more of the short distance between us.

"I've decided I don't care."

"That's good of you," I say, my heart thumping. It's one of those moments when the air seems drunk on possibility. I'd thought I was past the point of possibilities, so I can't seem to find it in me to shut this one down. I want her, and I want her bad.

"Not tonight," I repeat.

"What if I can do a field sobriety test?" she asks, laughing as she tries to walk in a straight line, arms out, and fails miserably.

"Now it's a hell no," I say, smiling at her. Because she's cute as hell, and being around her is addictive. I'd defy anyone to be in a bad mood when they're around her. Except for this Agnes Lewis woman.

She takes another step, and I capture her hand and draw her in close. A gasp escapes her, and she peers into my eyes. "You know, I do have a favorite color—it's green, the color of the moss in the winter and of those little flecks in your eyes. You have beautiful eyes. When I thought they were the last thing I was ever going to see, I was at peace with it. I want you, Claire. I haven't…I haven't let myself want anyone in a long time."

"Declan," she says, gripping my arms. "You need to kiss me, now."

"There's a lot you don't know about me," I say, groaning, feeling torn in two by all the things going on inside of me. Wanting her, needing to protect her by staying away, and needing to keep punishing myself, the way I think I deserve. I'm not sure which will win out, but right now they all seem likely to destroy me.

"So…start talking." She gives my arms a squeeze.

"You'd look at me differently if you knew everything." I know I should stop. I can't tell her. I can't tell anyone. The more people who know, the more likely it is that someone will come for me—and everyone around me, including Claire, could suffer for it. I look down, feeling my hair tumbling against my brow. "It would be unfair of me to get involved with you, knowing that."

"And I suppose you won't tell me."

"I can't. But I wasn't exaggerating. Your father would fucking hate me if he knew about my background."

"Can't you tell me some stuff?" she asks. "Other than your favorite color?"

"You know I have a sister," I say haltingly. My mind supplies: a sister who just quit her fifth job in two years, and she really seemed to like this one. The worry rears up again, but I swallow it. "And that my parents are dead. I have a younger brother too. Seamus. He's less than a year younger than me." I regret the words after they come out, because I've put myself in a position where I can't see that line in the sand again. I want to tell her things, to let her in. I want to know her, and for her to know me.

"You're the oldest," she comments.

"How'd you know?" I ask, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

"You have this air of I know best." She pauses, her expression contemplative. "Like my sister. You know, she's definitely crazy, but I'm starting to like her."

"I like both of them," I say, which isn't to say I trust them. Something about Nicole and Damien sets me on edge. There's this look they keep giving each other, like they know more than everyone else and it amuses them. "I'm the oldest," I confirm. "It's on me to look out for Rosie and Shay."

"They're both adults, I'm guessing?" she says, a slight smile playing on her lips.

"More or less."

"And did you always do landscaping?"

"Is this a job interview?"

"It's some kind of an interview," she says, her lips tipping up at the corners, "but I hope you don't expect to get paid for sex. I've only been here for a week, and Mrs. Rosings hasn't given me a paycheck yet."

Despite myself, I'm smiling again. "No, I haven't always done landscaping. I used to work in construction, but I've always liked plants. My mom and I took care of a greenhouse together when I was a kid. It was my favorite place in the world."

She lifts a hand to my face, guiding it down my cheek, and ends with her thumb on my bottom lip. My dick is as hard as a fucking rock, but what's more distressing is the feeling in my chest—soft like the bottom of one of those upside-down cakes Rosie likes to bake. Soft like a guy who keeps a greenhouse with his mother and doesn't like hurting people for the sake of it. Claire does that to me. She's done that to me from that first day, when I thought I was toast. She made me feel, for a second, anyway, like maybe it wasn't so bad to be toast. "See, that wasn't so hard."

"It is hard," I say without thinking. "Very."

I mean it two ways, and she doesn't miss either meaning, her gaze traveling downward in a slow but sure way that spreads fire through my body.

She glances back up, licking her lips, her hand still on my face. "You're going to take me driving on Wednesday? Maybe we can go out to dinner too."

"I can't do that, Claire," I say, swallowing. Because what I say next might be the end of this, whatever this is, and I don't want it to be. "We can't see each other out in the open. I can't have people talking about me, speculating. If we do this…it would be as friends with benefits, basically. Exclusive. We'd spend time together here, at our houses. That's all I can offer."

It's more than I should offer.

She lowers her hand, and my heart is thumping so fast, I'm surprised we can't both see it rising and falling from my chest in a cartoon pantomime. She's going to say no. I don't want her to say no. I'm not sure I can handle the disappointment if she does.

She studies me for a moment, then says, "It's because of that thing you can't tell me—the thing you're afraid would put me off."

"I know it would, because you're a good person, and you need to know that I'm not. I meant what I said the other day, Claire. I'm a bad man who's done bad things."

"I disagree," she blurts. "You care about your brother and sister, and you obviously cared about your parents."

"Everyone likes someone," I say gruffly, making myself take a small step back.

"Only someone who values life would choose to make a living growing plants," she argues, and although she doesn't know it, that one stings.

"When someone tells you they're not to be trusted, you should believe them," I say gruffly. "I'll bet your father told you that."

"He did," she says with a slight nod. "But I've followed his advice for most of my life, and where did it get me?"

"It got you here, I guess." Although a few seconds ago I'd meant to end this conversation and walk her the rest of the way to the house, I am a bad man—a man who's no good at denying himself. I pull her to me and rest my chin on top of her head, holding her to my chest. "I'm glad you're here."

"You're confusing."

"I know," I say softly. "I'm sorry."

She pauses, then says, "You said we'd have to keep it quiet, but Nicole and Damien would obviously know. And my friend Lainey. I tell her everything."

"You'd agree to that?" I ask, pulling away enough that I can look down at her. Then I shake my head. "Don't answer me now. I want you to think about it. We'll talk when I see you on Wednesday."

"Okay," she says silently. A second later, she grabs my shirt, catching me by surprise. "But you're going to kiss me right now, Declan. I need to make an educated decision."

"You're—"

"Too drunk for you to fuck, yes. But not too drunk for you to kiss. I want you to. I've wanted you to all week."

A groan escapes me, and I'm not about to tell her no. I've wanted to kiss her all week too. To pull her to me and forget everything, the way I did for a few seconds on that plane, when all that existed was Claire and me. Our connection started in that moment, when we thought we were breathing our last breaths and found a reason to enjoy them. But I would have still liked her, wanted her, no matter where we met. It would be impossible not to feel those things for Claire, but if we'd met in a different way, maybe they would have been more controllable.

When she tugs me down to her, my shirt still balled in her fist, I let my hand cup the back of her head so I can draw her closer. The second our lips brush, wild need takes ahold of me. It just feels so good, so right. I suck in her bottom lip and run my tongue over it, and the hand that's not holding the silky mass of hair runs down her back to the swell of her ass, learning her shape. Touching her in the places I've admired.

A sounds escapes her, and she releases my shirt and surprises me by slipping a hand beneath the hem and branding her palm against the bare flesh of my chest—her touch arcing electricity straight down to my dick, which has claimed all of the blood in my body and most of the functioning of my brain. Her palm roams around, learning me the way I'm learning her, while she makes those little sounds of pleasure that funnel directly into my mouth, and it's driving me mad. She is driving me mad.

She lifts onto her toes to get better leverage, her kiss becoming more forceful, her lips hot and sweet and soft against mine, although there's nothing soft about the pressure she's applying. Her tongue is weaving with mine in a dance that's familiar but not, because it's different with her. All of this is different, better.

Because you care about her, you dummy, I can hear Rosie say.

I want to back her into the side of the house and push her bra down so I can capture her nipple in my mouth again. I want to lift that dress up so I can bury my head between her legs, and my dick very much wants to sink into her sweet heat until both of us get a release—but she's drunk, and even though our houses are secluded and no one's likely to see us messing around outside, her sister and brother-in-law are in Dick's house. In fact, if Nicole's as interested in what's going on between us as Claire thinks, I wouldn't be surprised if she's watching us put on a show.

That thought's almost enough to deflate my dick. Almost. But then Claire's searching hand tracks lower as our mouths keep fighting to find the perfect angle. Her warm fingers slip under the waistband of my shorts and brush over my dick, captured in my boxer-briefs, and that sensation—her hand on me, even if it's just a whisper through the thin fabric, is too much. It feels so good it almost hurts.

I pull back, panting, and tug her hand away from my dick. "Not now."

"Wednesday," she says with a smile. "I need to give you something to look forward to." Then she hiccups. I laugh, my blood hot and heart racing, and then for no fucking reason at all, since she's perfectly capable of walking, just not in a straight line, I sweep her up into my arms.

She looks at me with startled eyes. "Well, hello."

"If you've forgotten that we've spent the last few hours together, I feel like a real asshole for kissing you."

"Not for letting me touch your dick?" she asks as I stride toward the front of the house.

"You took that liberty all on your own."

"I can still feel you," she says, snuggling closer, and I grit my teeth together and deliver her to her door.

It's not locked, possibly because we found each other just fine without any intervention.

"Bring me upstairs," she says.

I'm about to tell her it's not a good idea, but I see a glimmer of fear in her eyes, and I remember. Dick tripped down those stairs drunk, and even though I doubt she'd fall, she's thinking about it. Now, I am too, and nothing will do but for me to carry her up and see her safely to bed. So I do, and after I set her down on the mattress, I find myself drawing up the blankets so they cover her.

"You tucked me in," she says, sounding delighted by it.

"I guess I did. I think I'm going to get you a glass of water too."

"Are you going to sternly tell me to drink it?"

The way she says it, coy, makes my cock stir, and I nearly groan. "Yes, Claire."

"Good," she says with a soft smile, and I get her a glass of water and an Advil from the kitchen downstairs. It's still strange to be in here, now that it's theirs and not Dick's. It feels like the soul of the house has changed. Maybe that's because of the bonfire we had tonight. Something has been exorcised from this place—or maybe from Dick's guilty conscience. Because they may not have seen that he was troubled, but I did. He'd made bad choices, and he'd felt the weight of them. It was something we'd had in common.

He would have understood what they did tonight, and he wouldn't have held it against them.

Would he hold it against you if you fuck his daughter?

Shaking off the thought, because the answer is so obviously yes, I take out her phone and set it on the counter. She's probably too drunk to cyber-harass her ex-boss tonight, but it'd be better not to take the chance. If she wants to get revenge, I'll help her, but planning vengeance is best done sober.

When I get upstairs, Claire is asleep, and she looks so beautiful, her head cradled on her pillow, her eyelashes resting on her cheek, that my chest feels soft again. No doubt about it, she's making me soft. I'm not sure I can afford it—and I'm not sure I can stay away.

I set the water down on the table beside her bed. But if I don't get her to drink it, she's going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow, so I kiss her forehead, then touch her cheek, wanting to rouse her without scaring her.

When her eyes open and she sees me, a smile lifts her lips. "Is it Wednesday already?"

I laugh. "No, unfortunately. I brought you some water and an Advil. This is me being stern. I'm not leaving until you drink it all."

"I thought you wanted me to listen."

I hold back another laugh. "And when I say I'm not leaving, I'm going to stay here and tickle your feet until you do. That won't be pleasant for either of us."

"What's wrong with my feet?"

"Nothing, but feet don't do it for me."

She surveys me for a moment as if judging whether I'm serious. I must be tipsier than I realized, because I am.

I mime going for her foot, and she scrunches it up and pulls it away. I wrap a hand around it, and she arches it in my grip in a way that makes me wonder if I am in fact a foot guy—or maybe just a foot guy for her—and then I start tickling the sole.

Screeching with laughter, she says, "Stop, stop. I'll do it."

Releasing her foot, I give her the glass of water and the pill. She glances up at me over the rim of the glass. "I'm going to have to pee if I drink it all."

"That's between you and your bladder."

She looks at me through my eyelashes, watching as she takes the pill and downs the water.

"Thank you for taking care of me," she says. "A bad man wouldn't bother. A bad man would have taken what I've been offering."

Fuck me.

Is there anything more alluring than a beautiful woman telling you exactly what you want to hear?

"Don't saint me just yet," I say, then kiss her on the lips once more—a soft brush, because I don't trust myself to stop if I allow myself to have more—and I leave.

It's not until I'm home that I realize I left the wrong phone. But when I go back, it's not on the kitchen counter. I start to panic when I spot it on the round kitchen table. My heart slows back to a nearly normal pace as I make the switch.

Close call.