Arriving at Marguerite Gardens, I walk into the rustic shop. Brick walls, weathered wooden floors, extravagant floral arrangements set atop the agrarian tables, and him. Standing there in charcoal slacks and a light blue button-up, he turns away from the woman he’s speaking with and smiles as I walk over to him. Miffed.

“What are you doing here?”

“You made it,” Declan announces quietly with what looks like irritation and drops a scant kiss to my hand when he takes it.

“I didn’t know you’d be joining me.”

“I promised your husband I would oversee everything to ensure you get exactly what you want. So here I am,” he states, and then lowers his voice, “ensuring you get exactly what you want.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That,” I say. “Your crass flirting.”

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“Are you trying to make me uncomfortable?”

Completely ignoring my question, he turns around and calls out, “Betty, show us what you have.”

The lady he was talking to when I walked in is now situated behind one of the tables.

Declan pulls a chair out for me, and as I take a seat, Betty greets me and says, “So I was informed that we are planning a New Year’s Eve party. Do you already have an idea of what you’d like?”

“I believe we are firm on a masquerade theme. I was leaning towards dark oranges and whites.”

Betty and I go through a couple of books, taking notes on flowers and arrangement styles while Declan remains quiet in the seat next to me. At the end of our meeting, we decide on various arrangements of rusty orange dahlias, mint and buttercup roses, antique hydrangeas, ranunculus, and aspidistra.

After Betty excuses herself to leave Declan and me, I pull out my phone to text for the car, but before I can start typing, he snatches it out of my hands and says, “I’m starving.”

“Good to know,” I snap—annoyed—and grab for my phone at the same time he pulls it away and out of reach. “Give me my phone.”

“Have lunch with me.”

“No, thank you,” I say, making a mockery of my politeness.

Taking my hand and pulling me out of my seat as he stands, he says, “It wasn’t a question.”

His words come out clipped, almost angry, so I don’t give him attitude when he picks up my coat and helps me put it on. I’m not sure what to think about this shift in his demeanor. Normally, he’s light and flirty, but today he’s quiet and stern.

The frigid wind nearly stings my skin when he leads me outside and walks us over to his black Mercedes sports car. Of course he would drive a luxury car like this. It fits the mysterious, sexy look about him. I slip down into the cold leather seat and watch as he walks around the front of the car before he opens his door and gets in.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Not telling.” He says this with no interpretable body language as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“Why?”

“Because you argue too much.”

Feeling like a scolded child with his tone, I want to defy him just to piss him off, but instead, I’ll play his game. I’ll give him the cooperation he wants.

It’s time to start testing the waters.

The drive is short and quiet, and I’m surprised when he turns this luxury car into the lot at the Over Easy Café. I can’t even hide the smile on my face at the contrast of this picture as he parks in front of the modest diner.

“Is something funny about this?” he asks when he shuts the car off.

Shooting my narrowed eyes at him, I say, “Your mood is really starting to scathe me. I don’t know why you’re so pissy, but I wish you’d just cut the shit,” before opening my door and walking towards the building. When I look back, he’s standing there with an almost proud grin on his face. What the hell? I can’t figure out what this guy wants, sass or obedience.

Once inside, the place is busy with busboys clearing tables and people chatting loudly while eating. We are quickly served with coffee, and when I pick up the menu, Declan finally speaks, saying, “I figured you hadn’t eaten in a place like this in a while, so I thought I would take you somewhere low-key. Don’t worry; you’ll like the food. Order the blueberry crunch pancakes.”

His eyes are soft, as well as his voice, when he says this, and I ask, “Why are you suddenly being nice?”

“I’m cutting the shit. Take it while it lasts because I’m not a man who likes to take orders.”

And now, I read him clearly.

With a smile, I give him a sliver of obedience when I say, “I’ll have the blueberry crunch pancakes then.”

After our waitress stops by to take our order and fantasize about riding Declan’s cock, she giggles as she walks away.

“Do you get that a lot?” I ask. “Women feeding your ego as you watch them blush in your presence.”

“You always dissect everything like that?”

“You always avoid questions like that?”

Leaning his forearms on the table, he says, “No more than you do.”

“You realize, unless we’re discussing business, we talk in circles, right?”

“Okay then. No circles. Ask me a question,” he prompts and then takes a sip of his coffee, waiting with curious eyes. Emerald ones rimmed with his dark lashes. I can’t blame our waitress for her reaction. I wonder how many women go home after meeting him to fuck their fingers or vibrator before their pitiful husbands return from work.

Cleaning my thoughts, I ask the most innocent question I can think of, even though I already know the answer. “Where are you from?”

“That’s your question?” he laughs, and when I glare at him, he swallows it and says, “Edinburgh.”

“Scotland?”

“Do you know of another?”

Smartass.

“I thought you were cutting the shit and being nice,” I say as I lean back and pick up my coffee mug.

“Momentary slip. My turn. How long have you been married?”

“A little over three years.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Four years. And that was two questions,” I lightly nag.

“I’m not good at following rules either,” he says and then continues before giving me a chance to speak. “Sounds like a speedy path to the altar.”

“What can I say? When Bennett wants something, he wastes no time in claiming it.”

When our waitress returns, I watch as she nervously makes eyes with Declan while she serves our food. I laugh and he takes notice, shaking his head.

“See what I mean?” I ask after she walks off.

“Does that bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?” I question and pick up my fork to cut a piece of my pancake.

“Then why even mention it?”

“Circles, Declan. We’re doing it again,” I say and then take a bite of the granola-filled pancake as he watches.

“Okay, no circles. You have any kids?”

“No.”

“Do you want kids?”

“I can’t have kids, so it doesn’t really matter what I want.”

He takes a pause, not expecting that answer, and then asks, “Why can’t you have kids?”

“That’s none of your business,” I tell him and then take another sip of coffee.

“Do you love him?”

Swallowing hard, I clarify, “My husband?”

“Yes.”

He takes a bite of his eggs as I straighten my back and look him dead on. “Your assumption that there could be a possibility of more than one answer is offensive.”

I notice the slight upward turn of the corner of his mouth, and he holds his stare for a beat before saying, “Funny how you chose not to answer that question, but instead, avoid.”

“Of course I love him.”

Lie.

“So he’s it?”

I hesitate, making sure he takes notice, and then respond with a simple, “Yes,” careful to ensure a slight tremble in my voice.

He catches my subtleties as he keeps his eyes pinned on me and I shift, playing uncomfortable, and I’m certain he buys it when he changes the subject. We spend the rest of our meal in idle chitchat about nothing in particular, and as we leave and walk towards his car, my foot hits a patch of ice, unsteadying my balance. Declan’s hands are on me fast as I shuffle and land my back against the side of his car. He’s close. Chest to chest. Foggy vapors escaping us with each breath. I don’t speak or move away. I wonder if he’s going to make a play, because I can tell he’s thinking about it. But putting thoughts into action takes balls, and I’m hoping he has them.