Page 3 of Declan
He starts packing up, turning off his monitors, shutting down his equipment, and so I step out of the doorway, leaning against the hallway wall, waiting for him like the obsessed woman I am. When he comes around the corner, I put on my very best flirty expression, sticking my chest out, making sure the girls are on full display. I pretend that the way his eyes widen and the way he steps back doesn't hurt me, and I paste a sultry smile on my face. "Well, hello there, handsome. Fancy meeting you here."
2
DECLAN
I can feel her behind me. I swear I could be in the middle of a crowd of a million people and still know exactly where Cara is. I'm that drawn to her. She's been watching me. Again.
I tell myself that today is the day that I get over it and finally ask her out. I'm going to be smooth, speak clearly, and whatever I do, don't run away.
It seems pathetic to have to give myself a pep talk before I can talk to a woman, but she's not just any woman. She's the woman. The object of my obsession for the last three years and the one woman in the world that makes me turn into a teenage boy every time I see her. I swear I’ve dated women before. I've had full conversations with them. But no one like Cara.
She's been the sole occupant of my mental spank bank since the day I met her. I'm a fucking billionaire. Women come on to me all the time. Somehow I manage to handle them just fine. But the day I caught a glance of Cara across the room, the day she started working here, everything changed. Any skill I might've built up around women, any experience I may have had, just flew out the fucking window.
I spotted her as Ransom was getting her settled in her office, and I broke out in a full-body sweat. I had never seen anything like her. She was tall, so fucking tall in those stilettos. Nearly eye to eye with Ransom. From the top of her blonde hair to the tips of her pointy-toed stilettos, she oozed sex. She had the kind of body that I had drooled over since we managed to steal a bunch of adult magazines from the corner store when we were kids. The lush big breasts, the nipped-in but still thick waist, a luscious ass, and thick, strong legs. It's like everything about her was custom-made to match my dream woman.
I'm not proud of it, but when Ransom and Cara started down the hall toward my office that day, I dove into an empty cubicle and hid under the desk. A man as tall as I am should not be trying to wedge himself into a space that small. It was pathetic and painful.
I quizzed Ransom that night about the new girl and got all the details. And then, I mentally ran through all the things I wanted to say to her the next day. I had such grand plans. But instead, we all ended up in her office admiring her new desk chair. I have no idea what I said when we finally met, only that the way her hand felt in mine was earth-shattering. I do think I hung onto it a little too long. I distracted myself after that by playing with the chair. Jonas and I were fiddling with the hydraulics, geeking out a bit, and she fucking leaned over and smiled at me. My whole body twitched like it had been hit by lightning, and I fell out of the fucking chair.
It only got worse from there.
Closing my files, I grab my shit and head for my empty doorway, hoping like hell that she hasn't left the building already. Today's the day. I'm going to actually talk to her. I'm getting that date. Guaranteed.
I should have known better.
When I turn into the hallway, she's right fucking there. My dream, and my nightmare, smirking. I startle, clench my ass cheeks in fear, and step back, heart racing.
"Well, hello there, handsome. Fancy meeting you here." Her voice is low, raspy. I want to hear that voice scream my name. I'd fucking give anything for it.
I search for all my well-rehearsed words. And come up with nothing. "Cara," I force out, my throat tight. My fingers reach for the zip on my hoodie, sliding it up and down, over and over. The zipping sound is the only one between us as we stare at each other.
She smiles, and it lights up her face. Helen of Troy was a fucking gremlin compared to this woman. She takes a step closer, and I'm hyper-aware of her scent. The lemony fragrance is always a shock. I don't know what I expected her to smell like when we met, but it wasn't this fresh, clean scent she wears. The contrast of that smell with the way she radiates sex just throws me off balance.
I freeze as she reaches up, brushing my long hair off my forehead. She snorts delicately. "You're always hiding behind that hair." The touch of her hand makes my cock try and shoot through my jeans. I rear back, banging my head on the wall, desperate to get away from her touch. I'm losing control.
Her hand, still hovering where my forehead was, curls into a loose fist before she drops it to her side. She tosses her hair, laughing lightly, but it sounds off. I scramble to say something. Do something. Think asshole. Think.
"Ah...what are you up to tonight?"
I got the words out without stuttering. I. AM. AWESOME.
Her smile is back. “I’m heading to the club. Maybe you want to come along?" She steps closer, running her pointy black fingernail down my zipper. I watch that finger, completely blanking on anything she just said. What the fuck did she just ask me?
"Ah. Yeah, no. Clubs aren't really my thing."
Her eyebrow arches. "Pretty sure I heard Zach talking about taking you to the clubs."
Fuck. I have been going to the club with my brother Zach, but I really didn't want her to know that. It's not like that's my scene. It never has been, but I had some stupid idea that if I could practice talking to women, I wouldn't be so nervous around her. Zach's taken me out a bunch of times, and so far, nada.
I don't think it's ever going to work. Because the problem is not women. It's this woman. The woman occupies all of my thoughts. Come on Declan, think of something to say, for fuck's sake.
"Why are you always going to the club?" I don't mean the words to sound the way they come out, but I still want to know. From what I can tell, she spends most of her nights at clubs. It kills me to think about what she might be doing there. She's not mine. Not yet, at least. So I have no say over what she does. But I really wish she was home reading a book instead of out at the fucking nightclubs wearing God knows what. That's completely un-evolved, I know, but I can't help it.
Truthfully, I wish she was doing anything, in my home, with me. She lives a life that makes me sweat just thinking about it. The people, the noise, it’s all a lot. Wishing I were different, wishing I could be the kind of guy that would fit right in at those clubs, has gotten me exactly nowhere. So somewhere along the way, I started wishing she were different. Which is fucked up since I really like her just the way she is. It’s me, and my reactions I don’t like.
She frowns, stepping back. But that hand, that nail, stays on my chest. Our bodies aren't pressed together anymore, and I can think again, at least a tiny bit.
"Is that such a bad thing?"
