Page 140 of One Night Only
“Us. Again. Because I can go all night. Talking, I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” I mutter, tying my hair into a loose bun. The city might as well be a swamp today and my body is beginning to protest at the lack of air conditioning. “I’m not trying to get out of anything.”
He watches me for a moment as if trying to decide something. “Then do you want to come up?” he asks.
“What?”
“This is me.”
I peer up at the nondescript apartment building beside us. “You mean it’s where you live?”
“Where did you think we were going?”
“To a bar.”
“I spend every day in a bar. So, do you want to come up?” he asks when I don’t say anything. “Or are you tired of talking?”
“I’m tired of arguing.”
“Even better.” And without waiting to see if I’ll follow, he jogs up the stoop.
He lives on the second floor; at the front of the building, and I barely have enough time to come to terms with the fact I’m about to see where he showers and sleeps and God knows what else when he opens the door and lets me inside.
I linger in the doorway, trying not to look as curious as I feel. I don’t know what I’m expecting. A pigsty? An anonymous yet sleek masculine bachelor pad?
It’s neither. The apartment is tiny but clean, consisting of an L-shaped living area and a small galley kitchen. Through an open door next to the one window, I spy the corner of a bed and promptly look away.
Declan dumps his keys on a metal side table and locks the door behind us.
His fridge is covered in magnets and postcards, Paul and Annie’s wedding invitation tacked right in the center. An open cereal box sits next to the sink and the sight of it makes my stomach dip as I imagine him waking up and making breakfast. I force my eyes away, turning to the living area and the few touches of personalization on show. There’s a bookshelf with some old-looking paperbacks, a house plant that looks surprisingly alive and a battered laptop on a coffee table, perched upon a stack of glossy travel magazines.
“Please,” Declan says seriously. “Try not to look too impressed.”
“It’s lovely.”
“You’re a terrible liar. Do you want wine? Beer? I’m afraid we left the gin at yours.”
“I’ll just have water.” I need a clear head for this.
He gets me a bottle from the fridge and gestures to the gray sofa, the main piece of furniture in the room. An intricate woven blanket is draped over the back of it in an attempt at interior design.
“My nan makes them,” Declan says, noticing me admiring it. “Her secret talent.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, running a hand over the wool. “I was wondering where I’ve seen one before, but Annie has one just like it. I’ve always been jealous.”
“That’s your Christmas present sorted then.”
I freeze at his words; glad I’m facing away from him. The thought of us swapping gifts for the holidays is too bizarre to even consider.
It’s been a long day.
Declan grabs a beer and collapses into a worn armchair next to the bedroom. I’m relieved he does. I can’t have him too near me right now. Instead, I sit as gracefully as I can on the sofa only to immediately regret the decision.
“What?” he asks as I subtly adjust the cushions behind me.
“Nothing.”
“You comfy?”
