Page 85 of From Ice to Grace
I managed to keep a straight face while a realtor took us from one overpriced condo to the next, all while Declan’s hand never left my waist. He must’ve seen the look on my face after we looked at another glassbox with a view, because he insisted they show us upgraded brownstones instead. I wanted to protest, because he shouldn’t be buying a house based on my preferences. Yet, he guided me through each perfectly furnished room, smiling and nodding at the right moments while looking out for one with the perfect fireplace. Whenever the realtor asked a question, he referred back to me, telling him to ask his ‘wife’ or even his ‘new bride’.
Which is how we ended up picking a brownstone with hardwood floors, crown molding, and a working fireplace. It’s fully furnished and we can move in tomorrow.
Now, I’m planted on the couch in our honeymoon suit, gifted to us by Declan’s newest sponsor, staring at the card that welcomes Mr and Mrs Murphy.
The entire day has felt a bit too real. Too much. Too complicated.
Behind closed doors, the dynamic between us will undoubtedly shift again and I’m struggling to compartmentalize. Everything is jumbled together. My admiration of his game, his skill, and his ambition, the way he stuck to drinking water today, the way he looked at me, the warmth of his constant closeness, how he kissed me today…twice.
See…a mess.
I’m not quite sure my heart knows how to beat normally after today.
“This is insane,” I mumble, everything that happened in the past twelve hours catching up with me. “This is completely insane.”
Declan tips the doorman who’s just brought in our overnight bags. He’s still in his suit, though the jacket and tie are gone. His sleeves are rolled up, his collar undone, and he still looks sharp. He thanks the man with that easy Boston charm before turning back to me.
Is his mind also reeling?
He walks straight to the small bar set up in the corner of our suite. A bucket of champagne sits on ice, while rows of amber and gold liquid glint against the mirrored shelves. No one could say this suite wasn’t beautiful or even indulgent. There are candles, plush carpets, and a hot tub that will not be used tonight. An entire stage set for something neither one of us agreed to.
I watch Declan plant both palms against the marble bar top, his shoulders tight as he breathes slowly. The whole day he hasn’t touched alcohol, not even when others raised their glasses around us. He didn’t look uncomfortable at any point, but I wondered what was going through his mind, what it cost him to stand there with water instead.
Father…I reach out to God with my heart. Should I say something?
No. It’s firm and clear.
So, I wait. Without saying a word, I watch instead.
Declan peels the foil from the champagne bottle, the muscles in his forearm flexing with the effort. He eases the cork free with practiced care. The pop sounds louder than it should in the quiet room.
Father be here with Him. Let your presence be enough to ease Declan, so he won’t need anything else from the bar.
He pours one glass, watching the bubbles fizz and rise, then stops. His jaw works. He sets the bottle down, firmly, before pulling open the mini-fridge instead. He takes out a bottle of water before heading over toward me.
“Here you go,” he says, handing me the glass of champagne. “Congratulations on getting your pass to stay in the States, Snowflake.”
Thank you, Father.
Taking the glass from him, his fingers brush against my own and relief floods me knowing that it might not seem like much to Declan…but he’s taking a step in the right direction.
“And congratulations to you too,” I say, taking a small sip before putting the glass down on the table next to me. I don’t want to be insensitive. Besides, after today, I don’t need a drink to mess with my mind. It’s already pretty muddled without the added alcohol.
“Don’t congratulate me yet,” he says, twisting the cap from the bottle and drinking deeply as frustration rolls off him. “I still have a week’s worth of suspension left. I’m not allowed to practice with the team, I can’t even get on the ice…” he looks at me, his dark eyes flashing with something akin to the confusion I feel too. “And if today is any indication, I’ll have to jump through more PR hoops before I get what I want.”
My gaze drops as I try to ignore the slight disappointment at being slugged in with PR hoops. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. It won’t do me any good to pretend that there’s more than an agreement between us. At least Declan’s head is on straight. And his reminder of this being purely for PR and documentation purposes just helps me to get my own mind back on track.
“I guess this is what we signed up for,” I say, getting up and marching to the bedroom door. It’s been a long day and I need a shower, a soft duvet and my Bible open across my lap. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”
Declan frowns slightly as I brush past him, the plastic of the water bottle crunching beneath his grip. Opening the bedroom door, I freeze.
The space is lowly lit with a few candles. There are rose petals scattered across a giant bed with a platter of chocolate covered strawberries sitting at the foot of the bed. Like a scene straight out of a movie, right in time to mock me.
“Just perfect,” I mutter, the bitterness clear in my voice, even to my own ears.
This is not going to be a real honeymoon, in any sense. Yet, seeing this leaves me with an ache in my heart. Last year, I thought I’d get this night with my husband. And now, I’m standing in the most beautiful room, with a husband, and there won’t be a honeymoon.
The irony is not lost on me.
