By the end of the night she’d clearly dumped him, anyhow, her eye on catching a bigger fish.
My fish.
My soon-to-be-husband fish.
“You’re my fish,” I mutter under my breath.
“I’m your what?” he chuckles.
“My fish.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Technically, I’m not. I’m thinking about Jessica Coffin and how she tried to steal my fish from me.”
He points to himself. “And I am the fish.”
“Something like that.”
“What kind?”
“What kind of what?”
“Fish. Am I a salmon? A trout? A grouper?”
“You’re a lobster, of course.”
“Lobsters aren’t fish.”
“We’re speaking in love metaphors.”
“It still doesn’t make sense.”
“Love doesn’t make sense.”
“No shit.”
“Declan.” The hurt in my voice masks some utterly chaotic emotion that plumes through me like a toxic cloud, a throbbing, pulsing danger that threatens to infiltrate every cell inside me. Not only has this conversation spiraled into bizarro Mom-topic territory, Declan is still angry. Frustrated. Disappointed.
And I’m the cause of that maelstrom inside him.
Which he hides behind barbs and banter, his stone face intact.
“Why the big emerald?” I ask him, my voice neutral.
“Huh?”
“Why an emerald? Aside from the fact that it matches your eyes?”
“It seemed fitting.”
“Because it was bigger than Amanda’s earrings? And because those earrings had gemstones like Andrew’s eyes?”
Declan’s frown tells me he’s truly caught off guard, his words sincere. “I didn’t think about that when I ordered the necklace. I just wanted something timeless, beautiful, and worthy of your delicate neck.”
I melt, blood firing at the words.
“You make me want to give you the world. And when you say no, it’s like—” He breaks off his words, turning away from me.
“I have the world.” My voice comes out in a shaky sigh. “I have you. I love you. I don’t love your money or your power. I don’t love your hundred-hour weeks or your press coverage. I love Declan McCormick, the man. Not Declan McCormick, the image. The billionaire. The icon.”
His eyes bore through me, as if fusing onto my soul.
“I don’t need baubles and designer clothes and stylists and new cars. I’m simple, Declan. I just want more of you.”
“You have more of me.”
“I want even more.” I’m greedy that way.
“And when I give you parts of my life, that is how I offer you more of myself.”
“You are not the giant green emerald!”
“And rejecting it doesn’t make you some kind of better person,” he says softly.
“I feel like we’re talking in circles,” I say, curling up inside, hurt that he doesn’t accept my words.
“I feel like I’m spinning my wheels,” he replies. If he feels the same way, then maybe...
“We’re not really at odds, though, are we?” My look begs him to agree.
“No.” He opens his arms and I step into them, pressing my cheek against his chest. Still naked, he stands tall and strong, back straight and his cheek resting against the crown of my head. “Not as long as you stop drinking that damn coffee from the resort next door.”
My laugh feels good. “Too bad Anterdec doesn’t own Grind It Fresh!” I joke.
His smile spreads across my scalp. “Or a Tesla dealership.”
“I’m a cheap date,” I remind him. “A good latte is all I need.”
“You’re all I need.” We’re trying to find our way across a fault line that has widened during the course of this conversation, tossing tether lines at each other with reasonable certainty the other will catch the weighted end.
Here’s the problem with reasonable certainty: a tiny portion of the time, it’s not reasonable.
Nor is it certain.
Chapter Twelve
“All that over a coffee?” Amanda and I are in the fitness center, pretending to work out before lunch. Mom goes to yoga upstairs, some poolside class where she gets to strut her stuff, and I don’t want to be anywhere near her right now. Knowing we have dinner tonight at eight p.m., and knowing it’ll be a giant mess just makes my avoidance kick in that much harder. By pretending we’re using the workout equipment, Amanda and I get a modicum of peace.
And she smuggles me clandestine lattes.
“Right.” Sip. It’s an orgasm in coffee form. Not the kind that makes fireworks explode in your head, though, or that make your hands curl and your fingertips scrape against the wall above the headboard. It’s the kind where wave after wave keep coming and coming until you start to wonder if it’ll ever end.
Maybe I’m imagining this coffee.
“He blew up like that just because you raved about the resort next door? Seriously?” Amanda takes a sip of her breve and gives a sound of appreciation. We’re on treadmills next to each other, set at 3.0 miles per hour, which means we could be lapped by old ladies at the mall with tennis balls on the bottom of their walkers.
“Right. Totally uncharacteristic of Declan. We’ve been together for two years. I’ve never seen this side of him.” Walking this slow takes effort. Effort requires calories. Which means this latte is actually workout fuel.
“He is supercompetitive.” She snorts. “Look at him and Andrew.”