Chapter 23

"It's stalling again," I say, glancing over at Declan in fright. "What do I do?"

He swears under his breath, something that's happened at least half a dozen times since we started our driving lesson. It's pretty obvious he regrets offering to do this for me, and possibly even meeting me. At this point, I'm starting to take it personally.

I didn't ask him to teach me to drive the Jeep. He offered. It's not my fault that I'm not an expert at it after two hours. The only thing I've instantly been good at is baking, and I'm pretty sure that's not going to help me out of this current five-alarm-fire mess.

Truthfully, Declan seemed to bring his bad mood in with him when he showed up at the house earlier. And, sure, maybe it didn't help that Damien was waiting in the living room with me like an overprotective father and cracked jokes about knowing where to bury bodies—at least I hope they were jokes—but, honestly…

I'd been looking forward to seeing him, barely sleeping, and now it feels like he'd rather be anywhere else, and…

And I'm still stalled in front of a green light in the four block radius that passes for downtown Marshall. A woman who pulled up behind me in an enormous Buick honks her horn five times, then rolls past in the left lane. She looks like she's at least eighty and is still wearing curlers in her hair. She flashes me her middle finger as she passes. I'm usually the kind of person to take elder abuse rather than dish it out, but I'm upset enough to reciprocate and wave my index finger around like it's a flag.

"I thought people in small towns were supposed to be friendly," I say, trying not to hyperventilate. There aren't any cars behind the Buick, not yet, but it's only a matter of time. Soon there will be a pileup of them behind me, and I'll probably end up in the Marshall newspaper.

"Common misunderstanding," Declan says, but he looks stressed out too. His temples are shiny from sweat, and his hair is a delicious mess that I'd appreciate more if he weren't acting like a dick. That's another problem: it turns out the air conditioner doesn't work in this beast anymore, and it's a hot day, enough so that I suddenly have more sympathy for the unbaked cupcakes I slip into the oven. "They're shittier to each other, but there's a real community feeling about it."

I try the gas pedal. Nothing happens. Unease slides down my spine. I can feel people watching us from the sidewalks. Oh God, they'll probably have a nickname for me by tomorrow, and I'll only find out because Rex will tell me.

Declan swears again. Then, in a softer voice, he says, "Don't get anxious. You're doing just fine."

"I know I'm not," I say, my voice edged with panic. "If I were doing fine, the car would be moving. What am I doing wrong?"

He layers his hand over mine on the stick shift, and even though my whole body is tense and terrified, I feel his touch pass through me like a wave, turning me liquid for half a second before I remember that we're in the middle of the road, and we're stuck, and—

"We'll get through this together," he says, running his fingers across my hand as he tries to guide me through shifting the gear. "Now…"

I try, but by now my whole body is stiff and awkward with panic, and the awareness of the people watching us is overwhelming. "Oh, this is bad. This is really bad."

"Get out and circle around," he says. "I'm gonna slide in behind the wheel."

"What?" I squawk. Does this mean he thinks I'm incapable of learning? Am I doomed to own this Jeep but never be able to drive it?

"Claire," he says in a low rumble. "Please."

Since we're still stuck in the middle of a road, at a light that has turned red again, I comply.

"Having some car trouble?" asks an older man standing on the road watching us as if we're his favorite episode of the Andy Griffith show. He's wearing a newsboy cap and smoking an honest-to-God pipe even though it has to be five thousand degrees outside. "That thing's a beast. I always told Dick he'd stop up traffic with it. You must be—"

Someone honks their horn behind us, and I realize I'm standing in the middle of the road like a deer caught in the headlights listening to this man try to make casual conversation with me. Coming alive, I wave a hand at him and run around to the passenger seat. "Yep, I'm Dick's biological daughter, Claire," I call out. "Lovely to meet you. Enjoy the smoke."

Declan doesn't look at me until he's got the car moving again. Then he gives me a glance, the corner of his mouth twitching up the slightest bit. "Making friends?"

"Yeah," I say, leaving it at that, because I've decided I'm pissed. The more I think about it, actually, the more pissed I am. Everything he offers on his terms, his way. How is that fair or just? If we weren't in the middle of the road, in a hugely stressful situation, I'd give him the what-for. I'm sick of taking what I'm offered and being told to ask for no more. Besides, he's the one who offered to take me driving. Why should I have to apologize for that?

Declan drives another couple of blocks, then pulls over. "What?" I say, my voice hostile. "Are you going to tell me I'm doing a bad job? Because I realized that when I stalled in the middle of the road."

His eyebrows wing up and he pings his fingers against the wheel. I can see the anxiety playing on his features, the unease. I hate that we're back to this, that the easy playfulness of the other night is gone. It makes me feel so damn tired.

"No," he says, his voice halting. "The other day…you wanted to see the storefront for the old bakery." He nods to a red-and-white-striped awning a couple of cars down, and a gasp escapes me.

Declan smiles for what's maybe the first time today. "Looks like the kind of place that would serve some kick-ass madeleines, don't you think?"

I smile at him, feeling a surge of at least partial forgiveness. It's not his fault he's a shitty driving instructor. After all, it's not like he's a professional. If I were trying to teach a nearly thirty-year-old woman to drive and she kept stalling in the middle of the street, I'd probably be sweating too.

"Let's get out and take a look," he says.

So we do, Declan putting a hand around my back as we make our approach, and even though my back has to feel swampy with sweat, he doesn't pull away. I decide that I don't want him to.

The windows are papered over, so I can't see inside, but there's a little box nailed to the door of the former bakery filled with brochures with the information for the realtor. I don't have the money to rent or buy this place, obviously, unless the insurance payout goes through—or Nicole agrees to sell the house and the sale goes through in record time.

But I've always found excuses not to go after the things I want. So I march up, grab one of the brochures, and stick it in my purse.

I feel Declan come up behind me. He murmurs into my ear, "When you're excited about something, you—"

But I don't get a chance to hear his insight, because someone grunts and says, "Dec."

I turn back to see a man with buzzed blond hair and a pair of rimless glasses that probably would have passed Nicole's coolness test. He's maybe thirty or forty, but it's impossible to tell because there's something ageless about him. Although he's not tall, he had broad shoulders and looks like he spends a lot of time at the gym.

"Mark," Declan says, so at least they've established that they know each other's names. Then it clicks: Mark is the man who owns the restaurant Declan brought plant starters to a week and a half ago.

"I saw your friend take one of the flyers," he says, nodding to me with the interested look of someone who's used to knowing everything but doesn't know me. He knows who I am, though, I'm guessing. Probably everyone in town does. "Place went off the market a few days ago."

All of the sunken bakes I've ever made seem to have returned to exact their revenge on my gut. Of course it already got snapped up. The location's perfect, and it even has that adorable awning.

"Oh," I say softly. It's not even a word, really, but it's all I've got right now.

Declan swears under his breath, then nods in my direction. "This is Claire. Claire, this is Mark."

After we exchange nods, Mark says, "Nicole's your sister?"

"That is my misfortune, yes," I say, even though I'm not altogether sure I mean it anymore.

He nods again. "Your sister asks an awful lot of questions. I'm sorry about your father. Dick was a good guy."

He looks like he means it. Then again, some people are excellent liars.

I nod, very much wanting this interaction to end so I can pout, and he takes the hint and delivers a third nod before moving on. He looks back once, though, maybe because he's curious about why Declan and I are here together, checking out someone else's shop.

My heart breaks a little, knowing this place will never be mine. It wasn't going to be mine anyway, but the possibility had been there. I'd been able to see it in my head.

"I'm sorry," Declan says, taking my hand, and the shock of his touch courses through me. There's an entreaty in his gaze. "Last time, it took them a year to fill it, so I thought…"

"It's okay," I say brightly. "It's probably too small, anyway. I'd obviously have a full house around the clock, and you don't want people to be packed in together like sardines."

"Course not." He runs his thumb over my wrist. "What you should really be looking at is a baking warehouse. You could be making shitty, mass-produced snack cakes."

"The dream."

But my voice hitches as I say it.

Something passes over Declan's face, and he leads me back over to the Jeep, which I've decided I loathe. I feel something crack inside of me when he doesn't even suggest that I slide behind the wheel.

It's irrational, since he just implied that I could open a successful bakery on my own, but my first thought is—he doesn't believe in me. There's a stoic, resigned look on his face that seems to validate it.

We hit a red light at the end of the downtown area, and this time Declan's the one who stalls. I watch as a bead of sweat travels down his forehead, and even though we're stuck in the middle of the road again, and the car is hot, and both of us are obviously in bad moods, part of me wants to lick it. Is it gross to want to lick someone's sweat?

It is, I decide, and it's given me a different reason to be mad at Declan, because he drives me the kind of crazy where I actually want to lick sweat.

"Is the car the problem?" I ask. "Maybe the car's the problem."

"The car's not the problem," he snaps back, messing with the stick shift and the pedals. That third pedal is what makes this so tricky, I decide. Too much going on. There's a reason I've never been interested in having a threesome.

"So I'm the problem?"

He doesn't respond, just keeps fiddling, and we start moving again. I feel anger building inside of me again, like a bread dough rising—although each silent minute is like an hour, expanding the lump of dough by two, three. I'd like to let him have it, I decide, although I'm not going to do it while we're driving the potential death trap car.

Neither of says anything else until we reach the driveway leading to Dick's house. Damien's car is gone, so Declan pulls into the premium spot, closest to the house.

Then he breathes out a sigh, taps the wheel as if deciding something, and unbuckles his belt before turning to me in his seat. "There's something I've got to tell you."

He looks bothered by it, maybe even tormented. It unfairly makes him hotter, which makes me madder.

This is it, I think as I unfasten my belt. He's going to tell me that he's decided it was a terrible idea to kiss me. He'll tell me that we shouldn't do this, and we can't. Logically, I know it's probably for the best if I don't start a no-strings arrangement with a man who lives next door to me, but I feel a crushing sense of disappointment. It's ridiculous to feel this awful about the end of something that never actually got off the ground, but I do. Worse than I have about any of my real breakups.

And all that awfulness only makes me madder, at Declan and also on myself, because I knew better, and I went and pinned my hopes on him all the same.

"I had no business offering to teach you how to drive," he starts, passing a hand back through that dark, black-as-pitch hair. It tumbles back down so quickly he shouldn't have bothered.

Here it comes…

I try to brace myself, but my heart is beating fast. So fast I'm surprised it's not filling the car with its percussive beat.

"I had no business doing it because when I offered I didn't know how to drive stick shift."

My mouth drops open.

"I figured it would be easier to learn," he continues, acting tormented, "but Rex has spent the past two afternoons trying to teach me. I'm not a natural, not even close, so it's fucked up of me to try to tell you what to do when I barely know how myself. I just…" He taps the wheel again. "I wanted to help you, and I made the offer before thinking it through. I didn't want to let you down. But I did, obviously, and it was irresponsible as hell. I'm so damn mad at myself."

"Why didn't you let Rex teach me directly?" I ask. "He probably wouldn't have minded." I'm still struggling to process this information. A second ago, I thought Declan was trying to push me away again. I was ready to rage at him and then go inside and rage-eat a whole pint of ice cream. But it turns out he's been spending his free time trying to learn something so he could have the dubious pleasure of teaching me. It's…

No one's ever done something like that for me before. Ever. Doug wouldn't even make me a photocopy of his notes from a meeting I'd missed. And this man, who is so much more than him, learned how to drive stick shift for me.

Declan's jaw works, then he says, "Because I wanted to be the one who helped you. I didn't want to let some other guy get to do it. I know how stupid that—"

I grab the front of his shirt and pull him to me. That's all it takes, a tug—and his lips are on mine again. Where they belong. They're soft but demanding, and the brush of his short beard against my face sends sensation rushing across my skin. It's such a relief, such an immediate pleasure, that a pleased sound escapes me. He must like that, because he leans in closer, his hand burying into my hair, tugging on the nerve endings in a way that makes me gasp again. He swallows the sounds, his mouth still on me, always on me, and my hand scrabbles under his shirt, needing to touch his flesh again. His chest is as hard and hot as I remember, a little sweaty, and I want all of it. All of him. I'm keyed up, blood boiling, and it's a little like that moment in that plane…adrenaline is pounding through me, wanting a release, making me want him more.

He lifts his mouth from mine, finally, but only so he can kiss my neck. It must be sweaty, but I can't find it in myself to be self-conscious, I'm too full of need to think about anything but getting Declan all over me. Inside of me. His mouth travels down to the crux of my collar bone, and he buries his face into the top of my shirt, like he can't be bothered to even pull away for the half a second it would take him to push it down.

I don't think I've ever been with a man who's so desperate for me he can't help himself, and it feels like my whole body is an ember of burning need. His hand travels up my thigh, up my skirt, and dear God, I'm going to explode if he touches me there…

His fingers feather across the top of my panties, and that slight contact makes me quake.

"Declan," I breathe against his hair. "I can't believe you did that for me."

"It would have been more impressive if I'd been any good at it," he says with a soft smile, his fingers brushing over me again, making me squirm.

"I guess I'm easily impressed. I need you. Now."

His answer is to pull away slightly, leaving my shirt pressed down from the pressure of his head against it.

"I need you."

"Thank God."

A smile lifts his lips slightly, a wicked smile, a warm smile, and then he kisses me again, soft and then hard, claiming my lips, and his hand stays under my skirt, stroking me through the fabric—and I know he has to feel how wet I am. How eager.

I half expect myself to be embarrassed by it, but again, I'm not. For the first time in my life, I'm not self-conscious about wanting something dirty.

He pulls back, which I don't like, then says something I do. Breathing as hard as I am, his dark hair dipping over his forehead, his eyes burning for me, he says, "Come with me."

Right now, I'd follow him off a cliff.

I press another kiss to his lips, then another, because it's a freedom I don't take for granted. I can kiss my hot neighbor now. I can kiss him, and no one but the two of us and the birds will ever know. "Okay."

He's out of the Jeep so quickly I almost get whiplash, and he comes around and opens my door, helping me down.

"Are we going inside?" I ask, my pulse quickening. I've thought about bringing him upstairs to my room. About stripping him down in my sad bedroom so I can have a positive memory attached to the space in addition to broken perfume bottles, lost suitcases, and the ghost of the deadbeat father I'll never meet.

"Yes," he says taking my hand. He weaves his fingers through mine, and the feeling of his calluses—put there by hard, sweaty work—makes me melt. He starts walking away from the car in long, capable strides, and I go with him. He doesn't lead me toward either of the houses, though, but down his side of the hill.

I give him a sidelong glance, and he explains, "There's something I'd like to show you."

"Is it your dick?" I say, sort of joking. Mostly not.

"You want to see my dick?" he asks, giving me a look that burns me to a crisp.

"Yes."

He shakes his head slightly, the longer pieces of his hair resettling with the movement. Hopefully that's just surprise and not a no. I don't think I could handle a no. "Fuck me."

"I'm trying to. I've been trying to."

He stops and licks his lips, and I remember that armrest again, how he cracked it like it was an egg. Maybe I'm being na?ve with him, and with Mrs. Rosings—trusting that they are what they seem to be even though there's evidence they both have secrets. But Damien was right. We all have secrets—each and every one of us—and I don't have it in me to be afraid of him. I want him to handle me, and handle me well. I want to give myself the kind of experience that won't fade into a disappointing memory halfway through.

"I've been thinking about you nonstop," he says, his gaze pulsing into me. "Ever since we got off that plane."

I lift onto my toes to kiss him again. He puts his big, strong hands around my waist and lifts me. And I squeal and wrap my legs around his waist, feeling his hand curl around my ass to support me.

He starts moving like that, as if I weigh nothing, and starts climbing down the hill. I kiss his chin and then the side of his face. I kiss just below his ear, and his hand moves over my ass. I am more anticipation than person, my whole body throbbing with need. My body wants him, and wants him badly. But it's not just my body. I've collected little bits of him over the past couple of weeks, like a crow searching for shiny objects and using them to tell a story full of missing pieces.

He keeps moving, humming slightly in his throat as I kiss his face, his beard, his lips.

"We're here," he says, setting me down, and to my surprise, my legs actually carry me instead of turning instantly to gelatin. In front of us is a little glass-encased greenhouse at the bottom of the hill—partially hidden from above by the trees in between our location and the houses. The door is metal, made to look like vines crowding together.

"I didn't even know this was down here," I say with a gasp.

"I don't advertise it," he says, giving me a significant look.

My eyes widen. "Because this is where you grow all the weed."

"Among other things," he confirms.

Alarm threatens to fizzle my high. "You grow other drugs?"

He shakes his head. "Drugs aren't the only plants worth growing, Claire."

Eyes dancing, he opens the door and stands back to let me enter. I step inside and gasp. Because I asked about flowers, and here are some next-level flowers. Orchids, arcing up in fat purple and yellow bunches. A pot of pink begonias with yellow centers like eyes. And dozens and dozens of dahlias.

"Declan…" I pause, turning to face him as he steps in behind me and closes the door. "This is amazing. You grew all of this yourself?"

"Yes. No offense, but I'm not going to sacrifice them for some rich guy's wedding. They were my mother's favorites."

"This place is partly for them," I say, understanding clicking into place. "For your family."

He shrugs. "Some of the stuff in here is. It's my way of missing people, I guess. You can mostly grow the same plants here as in Pennsylvania. Weather's different, but not much."

Emotion swells my throat.

He can't tell me much about his past, for whatever reason, but this is his way of sharing himself. Of giving me as much as he can of the person he left behind when he came here.

And, shit, I can feel myself tipping into something that's going to be more dangerous to me than Doug or any of the dumbasses who came before him ever could be.