Page 29 of One Night Only
“Heard you were missing me.”
I stiffen as Declan settles against the wall beside me, appearing as though out of nowhere. It’s an effort not to stare at him, dressed in a dark-gray suit, his hair suspiciously tidy, as though he just had it cut.
I hate the little stutter my heart gives at the sight of him, but I tell myself it’s normal. Of course I find him attractive. It’s the reason I slept with him in the first place and a few days and several thousand miles aren’t going to make any difference to that.
To my extra embarrassment, he notices my appraisal. “I scrub up well, don’t I?”
“I didn’t know you could dress yourself.”
“I didn’t. The man in the suit shop did. Terry is his name. Nice guy.”
He’s in a much better mood than he was in the last time I saw him. The best mood I’ve seen him in since I got here and suddenly, I find myself a little tongue-tied.
“I meant to say something to you at Mick’s,” he continues. “I was actually on my way here to apologize for the other night but then there you were, stealing from a small-business owner and looking like a drowned rat. That’s not to say I was doing much better. I was incredibly hungover. We’re talking rough as a badger’s arse—”
“I get it,” I interrupt. “Apology accepted.”
“I just don’t want you to think I was avoiding you.”
“I didn’t,” I lie.
“Great. In that case, do you want to dance?”
I shoot him a glance to see if he’s joking. “Not right now.”
“You want to get a drink?”
“Connor’s getting me a drink.”
“Connor?” Declan follows my gaze across the room to where his cousin watches us with a sour expression. “I see.”
“No, you don’tsee,” I say, annoyed at the implication in his tone.
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t like me?”
“Just because I forgive you doesn’t mean I have to like you,” I say. “And I don’t not like you. I don’t know you.”
“I think you know parts of me pretty well actually.”
My face heats at his words. “Feel free to leave at any point.”
“But Paul told me you wanted to see me.”
“I never said—” I break off at the smile on his face. “You’re so annoying.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’ll try anyway.” He waits but I stay quiet, not knowing what to say that won’t end in an argument. I sigh inwardly as a silence stretches between us. I was much more eloquent when I spoke with him in my head.
“So, tell me, Sarah,” he continues politely. “How are you finding it on our fair isle?”
“It’s very pretty.”
“That’s it? No sentimental feelings about returning to the land of your ancestors?”
“My ancestors were French and Dutch.”
