Page 15 of Bossed

CHAPTER 8

NATALIE

I’m not prepared for how fast it happens, the shift from bedroom to battlefield, from intimate to intimidating.

Declan, for once, is in an outfit that doesn’t look like it belongs in a boardroom. The aqua blue polo shirt he’s wearing makes his eyes glow, and his faded jeans scream “designer” from a mile away. He orders me to drive his Corvette, claiming he wants to relax, but I think he really just wants to give me a chance to drive my dream car.

The city bleeds into bland suburbia in twenty minutes. The further we get from steel and glass, the more Declan seems to decompress. His hands relax, his shoulders drop, and he lets himself smile for no reason. I get the feeling that, for him, home is a place you protect by pretending not to care about it.

I park in front of an adorable, white-brick bungalow with geraniums in the planters and a miniature Irish flag flapping on the porch. The lawn is aggressively green and trimmed within an inch of its life. The house is small but radiates a kind of stubborn, permanent coziness.

Declan unbuckles, leans over, and kisses me. “Ready?”

“No,” I admit, “but let’s get it over with before I chicken out.”

“I can’t see you ever chickening out.” He laughs, for real, and grabs my hand, pulling me up the walk. The front door swings open before we even hit the first step.

“Declan McDaid, if you don’t wipe those boots, I’ll have your arse,” comes the voice, thick with Irish vowels and sharper than a shot of whiskey.

I fall in love with her on the spot.

A tiny woman stands in the doorway, maybe five feet nothing, with hair the color of snowdrifts and eyes the same deep green as rolling Kentucky hills. She’s wearing a pastel pink sweater and what looks like very expensive pearls, but the way she sizes us up makes me think she could still take out a burglar with a frying pan.

She hugs Declan first, standing on her tip-toes to slap the back of his head. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I haven’t seen you in three weeks, you ungrateful wretch.”

“Hi, Gram,” he says with a look that’s equal parts affection and abject fear.

Then she turns to me, and her face softens into a wide, genuine smile. “And you must be the girl who’s been keeping my boy busy.” Before I can say my own name, she’s got me in a bear hug that smells like lavender and home.

I hug back, slightly dazed. “I’m Natalie.”

She pulls back to arm’s length and inspects me. “You’re a strong one. I can tell from your grip.” Then, turning to Declan, she says, “Well, you finally brought home someone with a proper arse. God love you, but I was beginning to think you were practicing for the priesthood or batting for the other team.”

Declan actually blushes.

Gram ushers us in, bustling around like a cruise missile of maternal energy. There are doilies and tea cozies and about a thousand framed photos on every wall, all of them featuring a much younger Declan.

“Sit, sit,” she orders, pointing at a couch that’s so overstuffed it practically swallows me whole. Declan sits next to me, his hand dropping to my thigh automatically, like we’ve done this a hundred times.

Gram brings tea and biscuits, sets them down, and plants herself in the armchair like a queen on her throne. She doesn’t waste time.

“So, Natalie, how did you meet my grandson? He’s a pain in the arse to get to know.” The way she says it, I know she means it as a compliment.

I look at Declan, who is definitely not going to save me.

“At work,” I say. “First day, he tried to scare me off, but I held my ground.”

“Ha!” Gram crows, clapping her hands. “That’s the way to do it. Never let a McDaid push you around, dear. It only encourages them.” She sips her tea, then fixes me with a piercing stare. “Do you like it? The work?”

I think about this. “It’s growing on me,” I say finally. “Kinda like a fungus.”

“I like her spirit.” She glances at Declan. “She’s able to hold her own with you. Don’t screw it up.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Declan mutters.

Gram leans forward, not bothering to pretend she’s not interrogating me. “And your family? Where do they live?”

I hesitate. This is always the part where people get awkward, apologize, or completely withdraw. “I don’t have one,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I grew up in the foster system. Moved around a lot.”