Chapter 30

"Fuck. Fuck," I say, feeling the urge to splinter wood with my fist. I know from experience it wouldn't make me feel better for more than a second, but that second, oh.

"Was that Claire?" Rosie asks. She seems delighted by the possibility, as if Claire didn't take one look at us and run off into the night.

My sister has personally taken an axe to what passes for my life. The call I'd gotten on Sunday night was from Seamus, who'd gotten in touch to let me know Rosie had disappeared. I'd driven to fucking New York, and Shay and I had spent all day Monday trying to track her down. Then she finally responded to the hundreds of texts and messages we'd sent, saying, Isn't it in bad form not to greet your guest?

Turns out she'd arrived in Marshall on Monday morning and let herself into my house—my uncle had taught me the lockpicking trick, and I'd taught my sister and brother. Let no one say my sister doesn't do whatever-the-fuck she wants—including shutting off her phone because she didn't care to explain herself to two men who "always tell her what to do." As if she weren't as stubborn and mulish as the two of us combined.

So I went home, pissed off and seeing red. And, sure enough, there she fucking was this morning, waiting for me in my own house like she was queen of it.

She apologized for making Shay and me worry but insisted that if she'd given either of us any warning, we'd have done something to sabotage her. Sabotage, like we were rival spies. She has it in her head that she's going to save me, like I'm some shivering puppy stuck in the rain, not a thirty-one-year-old man capable of making his own bad decisions. But that's Rosie for you. I've told her I'm taking her home tomorrow, but she pointed out that she's a grown woman, and even if I kidnap her back to New York, she'll take the next flight out, and we'll have to do this dance again.

She came here because she heard something in my voice when I spoke about Claire, and she was convinced that if she didn't intervene, I was going to fuck up the only thing that has made me happy in years. She insists that I need to tell Claire the truth—everything—because it's the only way I'll be able to really be with her.

Shay, who's been more or less unhappy with me for years, surprised the fuck out of me by agreeing.

I'm less certain. I've only told one person since I left New York, and now he's in the unfortunate position of being dead. He's not dead because I told him, but even so, it's an unpleasant record.

Honestly, I haven't figured out what to do about Rosie yet. I can't keep her hidden in the house for however long she chooses to grace me with her presence, but I also can't start introducing her around town.

And now…

I saw the look on Claire's face. She thinks I stalled on seeing her because I'd arranged to bang another woman. Panic pounds through my veins. I can't let her think she doesn't matter to me. Because she does. A lot. The last few weeks have felt different than the sludge of time before them. Something inside of me broke when I found Dick dead at the bottom of those stairs, but Claire has pieced it together and pulled out parts of me that were buried for years. With her, I don't feel like I have to constantly be on my guard. I can be myself without worrying where Declan James ends and Declan O'Malley begins—because the truth is they're both me.

I get to my feet, my heart pounding. "I've got to go after her. She thinks we're…" I toggle a hand between us, and Rosie scrunches her nose.

"Gross."

"Thanks a lot," I say, taking the two steps to the cabinet on the porch and rustling through it.

"What the fuck are you still doing in here?" Rosie asks. "Your awesome, madeleine-making girlfriend is down there. You shouldn't be looking for rain boots or whatever. Go. And remember what we talked about."

"It's for her," I growl, finding the umbrella and grabbing it. I'm in too much of a rush to use it, so I tuck it under my arm and blast out of the house, my head whipping around to look for her. I see flash of white down the hill, visible through the grabbing tree branches, and I'm about to run down after her when I notice Nicole standing on the porch of Dick's house, Damien behind her. She points to her eyes, then me. I don't know how the fuck to respond, so I reciprocate the gesture and then race down the hill, nearly wiping out from the mud slipping beneath the heels of my shoes.

A few minutes later, I can see her at the bottom of the hill, near the greenhouse. She's stopped running and is standing there in the driving rain, staring up at me like she finally sees me for the fucking waste of life I am. She looks upset, but I can't tell if she's crying, because the rain is coming down hard now.

I head toward her through the mud, taking out the umbrella and popping it up, and it's just as insufficient as the pink plastic one was the day we met.

"Claire."

"I'm not getting under that umbrella with you," she says, her bottom lip pushed out. I hold it out for her to take, but her hand doesn't budge. Fuck it. I drop it, because I'm not going to stand around half-heartedly dry while she gets soaked.

"Let's talk in the greenhouse," I say.

"No, I'm not going into your growhouse."

There's something about the way she says it…

I angle a look at her, and she crosses her arms over her chest, her wet shirt stretching across her tits in a way that might have been distracting if she weren't looking at me like I were whatever's currently on the bottom of my shoes. Part of me is glad she's finally seeing me that way, that she's no longer looking at me like I'm the man who makes flowers bloom. I've given her so little to hang onto, so few assurances and guarantees.

It's no wonder she doesn't trust me—she shouldn't. She deserves more—she deserves everything—and I want to be the man who gives it to her, even though I know my own flaws and imperfections. My absolute inadequacy. I want to keep what we've been building and let it grow. It may be impossible, but I want to give it a chance. The hope that's been trying to seed in my heart demands it.

"I know what you're thinking," I say, speaking loudly because the rain is driving down, making water stream down my face in wet rivulets from my hair. "But she's my sister. Shay, he's my brother, he called me the other night and said Rosie had left home, and I drove to New York to help him search for her. When I got home, she was waiting for me. She was…I guess she was worried about me. I told you. There's no list. There are no other women. There haven't been. There won't be."

Her mouth parts, and she glances up the hill. I don't, because I don't want to take my eyes off her. She looks like a vision, her wet clothes only reminding me of that day, of the way she rocked against me next to the van with the busted tire. Also, if I look up there, the only thing I'm liable to see is Nicole and Damien with a couple of shotguns standing on the edge looking down—or maybe the two of them doing shots with Rosie. Either way, I'd rather not.

"I'm sorry," Claire says in a small voice. "I feel foolish."

I span the distance between us and wrap her up in my arms, surprised by the instant serotonin hit when she's pressed against me. I hold her because, right now, I can. But I've made a decision, or I'm halfway toward making one, and it's the kind of thing a man can't walk back from. Once she knows everything, there's a good chance she'll be running away from me because she understands rather than because she doesn't. But it's time to take a risk.

"Why wouldn't you make assumptions?" I say into her wet hair, gripping her tighter and reveling in the way her arms have wrapped around me, fisting my wet shirt. "I've given you no reason not to." I pull back enough that I can look at her. "But I need to talk to you, Claire. If we're going to keep seeing each other, you deserve to know who I am. All of it. Then you can decide."

She stiffens in my arms. "You'd really tell me?"

"Yes," I say, the word like dust in my mouth. "Yes."

"I have something to tell you too," she says in a rush. "Something I should have said a while ago."

That's unexpected but not unwelcome. If there are skeletons in her closet too, maybe they can dance with mine. But there's no way her secret is equally heavy—not with a soul like hers, bright and blinding and smelling of madeleines.

I hear Shay in my head again, pussy-whipped, only this time maybe he'd say it with half a grin. Earlier, Rosie thrust her phone at my face and insisted I talk to him so he could speak sense to me since I wasn't listening quickly enough or well enough for her.

"There's a chance she'll turn me in," I'd told him, and he'd grunted in agreement.

"Sure. But I agree with Rosie, man. You haven't been living your life. What's the difference between what you've been doing and a prison?"

There is a difference, of course. I have my greenhouse, full of life that I've helped create. I have my dog. I have the view of the sun going down over the mountains, and the pleasure of stepping onto the deck with a cup of coffee in the morning and soaking in the sounds of peace. Those things aren't nothing, but they're not living either. Not fully. I've been in stasis for the past two years. Not imprisoned but not free. Not engaging in anything except for when Dick conned me into being his friend…or on the rare occasions Rex backs me into getting a drink. Taking numbers only from women who were interested in sex, no conversation necessary.

Maybe it's foolish, telling Claire what happened. Ripping my chest open and letting her see the wounds I've hidden inside. But she's made me want more than just okay.

Her hand travels up to my jaw, and when I look into her eyes, I feel like I'm on that plane again, sitting between two possible futures. Life and death. Redemption and total destruction. And what do you know?

I'm compelled to do the same thing I did then. I lower my head and kiss her like both of our lives might depend upon it. Her hand finds my hair and grips it tightly as she kisses me back the same way, the rain falling down on us as if it's a blessing or a curse, or maybe both. Rain helps things grow. It washes away the ash left behind by destruction. And yet, rain itself can be destruction. Right now, though, with Claire in my arms, kissing me like she doesn't want to let me go, it feels like absolution.

Even if there's a very good chance she won't absolve me of shit. But I still want her to be my confessor.

She makes a noise in her throat, and I pull her closer, needing her sounds, her lips, her taste. Needing it to wash away everything that came before and everything I worried would come afterward. She nuzzles closer, our teeth clashing as the angle changes.

"Fuck, I missed you," I admit. It's only been a couple of days, but they've been tense days—the kind that make a man want to grind his teeth to dust—and I've longed for her. For the way all the colors look brighter when she's with me.

She pulls away slightly, panting. "Let's go to the greenhouse."

"My growhouse, you mean?" I ask, lifting my eyebrows.

She bites the lip I just sucked. "Like I said. There's something I have to tell you too."

Nerves prickle across my skin. She knows something, but what? And from whom?

Maybe I'm being a dumbass, but I swing her up into my arms. Because it might be the last chance I get to pretend that she's mine.

I didn't intend to fall for her.

But I'm not too oblivious to notice when I'm hurtling down a cliff.

She makes a sound of surprise but then wraps her wet arm around my wetter head, holding me close like she feels it too—the pulse of what might be goodbye. When we get to the door, I swing it open and then set her down inside.

"There's a chair in here," I start, but she shakes her head, water drops flicking from her hair. I feel them coursing down the collar of my shirt, my neck. My fucking underwear are wet. I'd suggest changing before we have our talk, but the only thing I have in here is a gardening smock.

Would I like to see her wearing that, and nothing else?

I'm only human, but it wouldn't be conducive to the conversation we're about to have.

"I'd rather stand."

I nod, because I'd rather stand too. It's better to take bad news standing, because it forces you to be strong enough to keep your feet.

"Declan," she says, biting her bottom lip. "I think I'd better start. Damien and Nicole…they're private investigators. The insurance company won't pay up because they claim Dick's death could have been suicide, so Nicole's been trying to prove it was an accident, or that he was…you know…that he might have been murdered. She's been looking into the possibility."

My spine has turned to ice, but I don't move. Don't talk.

If Claire felt like a fool earlier, I feel like the first sentient lifeform, gifted with only a brain cell or two. The signs were there all along. The way Nicole and Damien showed up at Vincenzo's to talk to Mark on his day off, when he's only open to receive bets…Nicole's possible revenge on Agnes Lewis and Doug…and then there's the way Nicole and Damien have kept throwing me toward Claire. Did they do it hoping information would shake loose?

Did Claire know that's what they were up to?

A feeling of betrayal scrapes at my throat.

"That's not good," I say woodenly. "You know…"

"That you've been hiding something big, yes. I'm sorry. I was worried you'd run from your life here. From me. I didn't want you to have to lose everything again…" She sighs. "That makes me sound too selfless. I didn't want you to go." She swallows and then says the thing I've lived in fear of for two years. "They know who you are, Declan. Nicole found out on her last trip to New York. When she heard about your uncle, she was worried…"

"She thinks I killed Dick," I say, swearing, then run a hand through my drenched hair. I pace a few steps before I can look at her again, shaking my head. "You think I might have killed him."

But she's shaking her head, her eyes troubled. "No, you liked him. Besides, I know you too well to think you'd do something like that. You're not a murderer."

Hot emotion floods me, nearly making me stagger. Because I want to agree with her. I really do. But I say, "That's where you're wrong, Claire. I am."