Wallflower (Whittaker Floral #2)

7. Declan

7

DECLAN

T oday was Friday, the rehearsal dinner. I knew from texts that my parents had flown into Chicago earlier this afternoon, but I was yet to see them. They’d visited Ethan a number of times in the past year, but our paths hadn’t crossed in eleven months. Not that I was complaining—if remaining childless into my thirties guaranteed minimal visits from Mom and Dad…well, that was only one more reason to always wear a condom, far as I was concerned.

To my knowledge, my parents were staying at The Drake—the hotel where the wedding was set to take place tomorrow. Most likely, they were “resting” before the rehearsal, which really meant bent over their computers, making sure not to miss a moment of work. In fairness, I’d popped open my own laptop earlier this morning to get a few things done, but now I set it aside and was focused on getting ready for the rehearsal and the dinner afterwards.

Dinner, I was told, was taking place at a local sushi place, which sounded wonderful. I wanted nothing but the best for Ethan, but I was pretty sure the sushi dinner was going to be the highlight of this weekend’s festivities. The ceremony tomorrow, like most I’d been to in my life, was sure to be long and boring.

Smoothing my hair down, I turned to one side and back again, evaluating my slim-fit suit.I was freshly shaven and looked good, a wasted effort since there weren’t likely to be women at this rehearsal, but I liked to look my best. Tucking everything I needed into my pockets, I slipped out the door and down to the lobby. My car was outside waiting for me, and I hopped into the backseat, pulling my phone out as I did.

Declan: On my way to your hotel. Did you want me to meet you at a particular place?

Only a moment passed before the phone rang and I swiped to answer.

“Why do you insist on texting instead of calling?” my mother asked, her voice suggesting she saw herself as long-suffering in this debate.

“You’re a successful politician. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to text,” I replied dryly. We’d had this argument, in some form or another, at least seven times.

Mom snorted. “Of course I can text. Texting is lovely for quick notes to my assistant or updates when I’m traveling. It is terrible for talking to my son.”

I rolled my eyes. I always thought this time would be the time I got along with my parents, but it never was. They grated on me like sandpaper, especially Mom. “Duly noted,” I sighed. “Where would you like me to meet you? I’m nearly to the hotel.”

“Oh, we’re at the bar, dear. You can join us there.”

I didn’t mention it would’ve been far easier to text back a three word answer than have this entire exchange, though I wanted to. “I’ll see you there.”

The hotel was opulent in blues and golds with ornate wood ceilings. I headed into the bar, which was also decorated in rich woods, this time accompanied by leather, and found my parents sipping whiskeys. My mother was in a calf-length cerulean dress, my father in a traditional gray suit. They made a very handsome couple. A wide smile stretched across Mom’s face when she saw me. It was the sort of smile she wooed constituents with and flashed for photographers. It was not a warm or maternal smile, and it sparked no feeling in me. I smiled widely in return, a fake that genetics had ensured would be a perfect match to hers, and took the seat next to my father, looking up as the waitress approached. I, too, ordered a whiskey, never letting the smile falter, and the waitress grinned in reply, winking once as she headed off to get my drink.

“For God’s sake, Declan, could you please not seduce our waitress?” Mom muttered. Her tone was dry, but the disapproving expression made it clear she found no humor in the situation. I’d been on the receiving end of that expression more times than I could count. She sighed noisily. “When are you going to find someone and settle down like your brother?”

I’d spent my entire life trying to please my mother and had rarely succeeded. It was in the past year I’d realized spitting out grandchildren was the only surefire way to her heart. My brow raised wryly. “My brother who, six years ago, was ‘ wasting his ivy league education with some cockamamie app company ?’ Isn’t that what you said?” I nodded, confirming for her since I knew she’d never fess up. “I remember when I was the favorite, Mom. I’ll wait you out, I’m sure my time will roll around again.” And it would, so long as I had kids someday.

Her lips twisted into a sardonic grin. “You won’t become anyone's favorite by knocking up a hotel waitress.”

“Noted,” I replied, though I suspected this were a blatant lie. If she got to spoil grandkids, she wouldn’t care where they came from. Still, I didn’t want to start a fight. It wasn’t her fault I was in a bad mood. I just didn’t feel like sitting through a grand display of family this weekend. I loved them—certainly—but the whole bunch of them could be very tiresome. There was a reason I lived hundreds of miles away.

“How was Spring Training, Deck?” Dad asked, finally tuning back into the conversation when it was clear I was done arguing with Mom. He always opted out of those conversations .

Baseball was a neutral topic—the kind of effortless conversation that would always make it easier to talk to Dad than Mom—and I began to list the best prospects I’d seen in Arizona. Dad leaned forward in his seat, full of commentary, while my mother made a show of drinking her whiskey petulantly until her watch dinged and she pulled out her phone. Her distraction allowed the baseball conversation to continue for nearly twenty minutes, until I glanced at my watch and took a final gulp of whiskey. “We need to head out,” I said abruptly, seeing a quick succession of texts from Ethan.

Ethan: You on your way down?

Ethan: Have you seen Mom and Dad?

Ethan: We’re in the Walton Room. Not sure I told you that.

He had, most assuredly, told me that. I led the way out of the bar, though I had no idea where I was going. “The Walton Room?” I asked the desk, and was given a quick series of directions. One elevator and two turns later, I was swinging the door to the ballroom open. Ellie was there, along with a man, two women, and Max. At the front of the room, Ethan was conferring with another stranger. I assumed this one was in charge of the ceremony.

Ethan had told me Ellie grew up with her mother and one sister, so it was a safe bet the two women were family. The older, more tired-looking version of Ellie was surely her mother, and the dark haired woman had to be her sister, though she looked nothing like either Ellie or her mother. The man in the group, who was a couple inches taller and a bit broader than myself, strode over to us, smiling. “You must be Ethan’s family. I’m Mason, Nadia’s fiancé.”

Ellie followed close behind Mason even as her mother and sister hung back, looking hesitant to be introduced. “Katheryn, Miles, Declan,” Ellie said to us, then shot her relatives a look that had them bustling closer, “This is my mother Maggie, my sister, Nadia?—”

“You can call me Nady,” the sister interjected.

“Of course,” Ellie agreed. “My sister Nady, and her fiancé, Mason.” The introductions led to a rotating line of hugs, and while I smiled wide and played along, I wasn’t particularly interested in becoming part of whatever new family Ethan was making for himself. My own parents exasperated me enough. Of the small cluster of people standing in this ballroom, Ethan was the only one I would’ve voluntarily spent time with, but he was busy. Hell, he’d been busy since the moment I’d gotten to Chicago.

Glancing over at where Ethan was talking with the man who was running the ceremony, it occurred to me I didn’t even know what—if any—religion Ethan was busying himself with these days. Was the man that stood with my brother a pastor, priest, reverend, or good friend? There were so many things I no longer knew about Ethan, a man who’d once considered me his closest confidant.

Finally things seemed settled and Ethan turned, smiling as he approached. “We’re going to get started. Max and Deck, I need you up front.” I glanced to my right, noticing Max had sidled up next to me while I’d been watching his father.

“Declan?” My eyes swung back to Ethan, uneasiness settling in my stomach at my brother’s unusual use of my full name. “I need you to be my best man legally. You’ll be my witness and sign the paperwork, but Max is going to be co-best man with you. He’ll be responsible for the rings, so he’ll stand next to me.”

My brow twitched, but through sheer force of will I kept my expression otherwise neutral. I’d taken for granted I’d be Ethan’s best man, but his words—while roundabout—were very clear. I was not the best man, just a guy of legal age, available to sign the wedding license.Not that I could really spite my brother for wanting to involve his teenage son. I could accept the change, but I didn’t appreciate the term “co-best man,” because, unlike Max, I wasn’t thirteen and didn’t need to pretend I was more involved than I was.

“Alright! Let’s get everyone in their places,” Ethan said with a single clap. He gestured to his son, who stood just to his left at the altar, and I stepped into my place behind Max.

Nady walked down the aisle first and then Ellie came down, escorted by her mother. When her mother sat, Nady and Ellie stood opposite Ethan, Max, and me. I felt like it was very unbalanced, visually, to not have another woman, but perhaps Ellie didn’t have very many close friends.

The priest/pastor/reverend/friend gave an idea of what to expect throughout the ceremony, then Ellie and Ethan kissed a little peck—smiles libel to split their faces in two—and began the recession back down the aisle. They would walk together, of course, followed by Max alone, and Nady and I would bring up the rear arm in arm. Assuming I didn’t forget how to walk or sign my name, it was going to be pretty easy.

The next day was the wedding, and I quickly discovered that co-best men have nothing to do. Early in the morning Ethan, Mason, and I ventured into the suburbs and played a short round of golf, wearing light jackets and marveling over the increasingly nice spring weather. Then we ate brunch and headed back to the rooms we’d rented at The Drake.

An hour later, I found myself pacing around the room, disinterested in television and sick of peering out my window at the street below. Wandering down the hall, I checked in on Ethan, but he was fine. Max sat on the bed, looking at his phone as his father bustled around him. “How you doing, kid?” I asked.

Max shrugged, only sparing me a single glance. “I don’t know how to tie the bowtie,” he said quietly. I stared down at him, trying to decide if he seemed upset. I barely knew the boy, and his dad didn’t seem worried, so I let it go. The bow hung loose around his neck, and I reached a hand out, gesturing for him to come closer.

“I can tie that,” I said.

“Don’t bother yet,” Ethan said, walking past me and to a small table in the corner where his cuff links lie.

I shrugged. Perhaps Ethan wanted to do it himself. “Okay then, I’m going to head downstairs for now. Max, I’ll check in on you later.” The boy gave no indication of hearing my words, and I repeated, “Max?”

He looked up. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.” And then he looked at his phone once more. I wondered if every teenager was like this now.

“Okay,” I echoed back. “E? You sure you don’t need anything?” I asked again.

Ethan shook his head hastily, then caught himself, probably realizing he was being too dismissive. He looked at me—really looked at me—and smiled, which made me grin in return. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Good,” I said genuinely. I pulled my phone from my pocket, waving it in illustration. “I’m a phone call away if you think of anything. Max, you too.”

“Thanks,” the boy said, not looking up.

“Max,” Ethan scolded gently.

In a wide-eyed expression that was a perfect match to his father’s a moment earlier, Max looked up and nodded. “Sorry. I have your number. Thank you,” he said politely.

“Great, I’ll be downstairs checking on everything,” I said, and I headed out the door, figuring I’d wander outside and maybe find a Starbucks. With so little to do I’d probably need caffeine just to stay awake.

When I got to the ground floor, though, I found myself turning toward the ballroom instead of outside. I may as well actually check the place out and make sure everything was ready to go. It was the least I could do as a co-best man. In fact, it was quite possibly the only thing I could do.

At a distance, I could see two women bringing in flowers, and my breath caught for a moment, thinking one might be Hannah, but even from afar I could see one was Elizabeth and the other was a woman with short, curly hair. I shook my head once, wondering why Hannah had taken up residence in my brain. She was pretty, of that there was no doubt, but she hadn’t been breathtakingly beautiful. Well, there had been her eyes. Her eyes were breathtaking. They were a light brown that seemed to change with the light—one minute gold, then green, then gray. And, of course her lips had been full and lovely. In my fantasies she smiled, and it was gorgeous. I was sure that would be true in real life as well. Still, childish fantasies were hardly reason enough to be thinking about a woman as much as I’d been thinking about Hannah. Especially considering how disinterested she’d seemed.

I strolled down the aisle as two men set up the chairs on either side of it, creating the path even as I walked. I smiled a hello to Elizabeth, who was setting up a planter which overflowed with greenery and flowers, and continued all the way to the altar, where the other florist was working. I began to make my turn, same as I would later today, when she looked up at me. Her curly hair was down and hanging to her shoulders and her eyebrows had been tamed back so they now perfectly framed her gorgeous brown eyes, but it was Hannah. She looked different, but the bolt of interest and desire I’d felt the first day I’d met her was exactly the same. “Hannah,” I said on a quiet exhaled breath.

She frowned, and I frowned in reply, unprepared for her to dislike me as much as she seemed to. I didn’t know how to make someone like me, and yet I wanted so badly for Hannah to reciprocate the unusual attraction I felt. “Hello, Declan. Pleasure to see you again,” she said stiffly. Her face didn’t brighten the way it had in my imagination.

On the contrary, real-life Hannah’s face curled into a tighter frown, even as my expression softened into a smile. The woman was perplexing. “Then why the frown?” I asked, genuinely curious.

Her face wiped clean, reminding me of the way a child’s magnetic doodle board slides clear. “Pardon me,” she said, “I have to get back to work.”

“Can I keep you company?” I asked impulsively.She didn’t look up. “I can help.”

Her eyes met mine, lit up in fiery golds. “You can’t help.” The answer was sharp and emphatic.

“Of course I can’t help,” I said, feeling stupid. I didn’t know shit about flowers. I was probably as useful to Hannah as I was to my brother where this wedding was concerned. I backpedaled quickly. “I didn’t mean with the artistic stuff, obviously, just with handing you things? Probably not even that…” I was babbling, and she inhaled deeply, the sound resigned.

“I work best on my own, but if you’d like to stay and chat that would be okay. Just don’t touch anything.” She was firm and made intense eye contact as she said it.

“Deal,” I said, raising my hands in the air as if I were accused of a crime. Hiking my pants legs up, I squatted down next to where she knelt. “How long have you been a florist?”

She looked back down at her work, but her tone relaxed as she spoke, her hands moving deftly to attach the different parts of the arrangement she was holding. “I’m not a florist, really, Elizabeth is, but I’ve worked for her since college. It’s been almost six years now.”

“Isn’t a florist someone who works with flowers? Because you definitely work with flowers,” I said, gesturing to the mountain of blooms next to her.

“I’m Elizabeth’s assistant,” she clarified, and I shrugged, not fool enough to argue. “What do you do?” she asked politely.

“I work in communications for MLB. Mostly traveling around, pitching social media items or press releases, etcetera.” I wasn’t fool enough to believe the average woman would find my job interesting, so I tried to keep it short. “Did you cut your hair?” I asked.

She looked up and our eyes met. I couldn’t say how Hannah felt, but my heart pounded in my ears. I’d never felt anything like the sudden and inexplicable attraction I had for Hannah, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it or hated it.“I did,” she replied softly.

“I like it,” I offered. This time she squinted at me as if I were making a joke at her expense, and I smiled, trying to break the tension. She frowned. What the hell was wrong with me? Here I was having some strange heart murmur, and she was glaring at me. I sighed.I knew I should leave, but I didn’t want to.

“Shouldn’t you be with the groom?” Hannah asked.

“Possibly.” I rolled my eyes, considering the question again. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my gaze shifting to the bustling set-up around me since Hannah clearly didn’t intend to look up from her work other than to offer an intermittent scowl.

For a while, Hannah worked in silence, probably preferring to pretend I wasn’t there. I watched her, but also checked out what was going on in the rest of the room, since Hannah seemed lost in her work and it felt inappropriate to stare at her.

Across the room, a photographer was walking around, checking light in various places. She was modelesque, her brown hair swept high to reveal an elegant neck, but she wasn’t causing me any cardiac anomalies the way Hannah seemed to, even as she caught my eye and smiled a decidedly sexy smile. I looked back down at Hannah. “What kind of flowers are those?” I asked mildly as she attached an arrangement to a stand and stood. The flowers hung, fluid as a waterfall.

“Which?” Hannah asked, glancing back at me, her eyes softening to a warm hazel. All her answers so far had been clipped, but this single word was accompanied by a wide-eyed expression of actual interest, as if I’d unlocked the single topic Hannah might willingly discuss.

I stood, nodding toward the arrangement. “The big ones,” I replied, kicking myself for not offering a better description.

She looked back at the arrangement, touching the largest of the flowers delicately. “Renaissance roses.” She opened her mouth as if she may say more, but no words came out, and she bit down on her lip again. Her cheeks were pink and rosy, and I had a wildly inappropriate urge to run the backs of my fingers down one.

“They’re beautiful,” I replied, though my eyes wandered away from the flowers and back to the woman.

“Aren’t they?” Hannah said, her expression going soft and sweet. Her lips curled into a half-smile, and it was more lovely than I’d imagined. “They’re my favorites.” It was the first moment I thought we may be able to share a real conversation, but before I could reply, a voice interrupted us.

“You think that mug of yours can do some quick test shots for me?" Hannah and I both jolted in surprise, and I looked up to find the photographer hovering next to us, blinking prettily .

A week ago I would’ve grinned at the obvious pick-up line, but today it was nothing more than an inconvenience—a barrier to getting to know Hannah better. I glanced at Hannah, but her eyes had fallen back to her work. Glancing down at my watch, I waved the photographer off. “Sorry, I have to get back upstairs soon,” I replied.

The photographer pouted theatrically, and I grinned crookedly in reply, as if our every move was choreographed. This was how it was supposed to be with women, easy and predictable, but the photographer couldn’t hold my interest. Not while Hannah was next to me. “I’m sure you’ll find someone else to help you out,” I said. For a beat, the photographer waited, as if I might change my mind, but my eyes sought out Hannah. I wanted to know more about Renaissance roses.

“I’m almost done here, if you want to go help,” Hannah said coolly, but her words were belied by the knit of her brow and tightness of her lips.

I wanted to cup her cheek, to feel her relax under my fingertips, but I was under no illusion Hannah would welcome my touch. Instead, I stepped closer, close enough to smell the flowers she held—or maybe it was the woman herself—while my heart thundered in my ears. Aware of how close the photographer remained, though she’d turned as if to walk away, I dropped my voice to a near whisper.These words weren’t for anyone else. They were for Hannah. “I know you’re not a florist, but you’re certainly an artist, because this,” I gestured toward the waterfall of flowers, “is breathtakingly beautiful, and you—” I didn’t want to say something that would offend her. “Well, it was lovely to see you again. Thanks for letting me hang out.” I backed away, smiling a closed lip smile, and regretted I had to leave, but it was getting late. “Now you’ll have to excuse me. I need to tend to a bowtie upstairs.”

I turned and headed out of the banquet hall, not looking back to see if Hannah was watching me. I didn’t think she would be, and I didn’t want to know if she wasn’t.

Upstairs, I checked back in on Max. His phone lay on the bed next to him, and the boy sat, staring at the wall, looking visibly upset. I walked to him quickly. “You alright, Max? ”

His eyes were wide and blue as he looked up, making him look even younger than his thirteen years. “I don’t want to do this,” he said.

I felt the panic creeping in, and I fought to keep my features unaffected. I could take care of rings and sign papers, but I was not equipped for children in crisis. Choosing my words carefully, I said, “The wedding? Have you talked to your dad?”

Max blinked rapidly, and I hoped he wouldn’t cry. I would have no idea what to do if the kid cried. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t want to let him down, but what if I embarrass myself?”

I hesitated, trying to regroup. Messing this conversation up was not an option. “Max,” I began cautiously, “are you upset your dad’s getting married, or are you worried about the wedding ceremony?”

Max froze as if considering the options, then his face scrunched. “I’m not upset about Ellie, if that’s what you mean.” I didn’t respond, and he continued. “My therapist likes to say ‘ I’ve had a lot of changes in the past year—’” he said this in what was likely an imitation of his therapist, his voice going high and feminine. “And I know I have, but I haven’t minded them that much. Except my mom, of course.” His final words were so quiet I had to lean forward to hear him.

“I’m really sorry about your mom, Max.” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. And I was. No matter what I thought about the woman who’d kept this boy a secret from my brother for years, and no matter how strained my relationship with my own mother was, no boy should have to live without his mom.

“Me too,” he murmured, then shook his head as if to clear it of all the sadness and refocus on his current problems.

It was strange, looking at Max. He shared his father’s features so thoroughly that to look at him was to be transported back to my eleven-year-old self, looking up at my sage older brother. Except now I was supposed to be the man who advised him . My mind jogged back to the problem at hand. “What’s wrong, then? You just don’t want to go to the wedding?”

He looked at me, blinking rapidly. “Alexandra O’Malley.”

I was at a loss for words, and all I could muster was, “What? ”

He sighed.“Alexandra O’Malley will be at the wedding because Dad’s friends with her dad. She’s an eighth grader and she’s really hot, and I have two zits and I’ll probably fall walking down the aisle or look stupid or forget the rings and ruin the whole thing.” He’d really gotten going on his explanation, and by the end I was staring at him with a wide-eyed expression that probably nearly matched his.

I recapped his explanation in my head for a minute to make sure I understood, and when I thought I had it I turned to face him, my expression serious. “Okay, you seem to have two problems here, so I’m going to try to tackle them one at a time. Sound good?” He nodded. “Okay, problem one seems to be that you’re afraid to mess up your dad’s wedding.”

“Just because of Alex,” he objected.

I doubted that was true, but it wasn’t worth arguing. “It doesn’t matter why, it’s obviously bugging you, so let’s talk about that first, and then I’ll solve your Alexandra problem.” I reached for his neck and began tying his bow, which gave us both something else to focus on. “This day is really important to your dad, and he trusts you and believes in you. I don’t know you that well, but I’m sure he’s right to place his trust in you. I’m sure you’ll do every step of this without issue. More importantly, though, is that even if you don’t, if you fall or lose the rings, it won’t matter, because your dad loves you and your sister and now Ellie in a way I’ve never seen him love anyone before. It’s special.” The truth of that statement made my stomach twist, but I didn’t have time to examine it right then.

“He loves you that much.”

Max’s words sent a rush of emotion through me—warmth, followed by a surge of bitterness. Again I pushed the feelings down. “Let’s just say, Max, that short of peeing on your dad’s leg during the ceremony, there’s not much you can do wrong in his eyes.” Max smiled tentatively. “Do you intend to pee on either bride or groom today, Maxwell?”

The boy laughed. “No.”

“Then that problem is solved. On to Alexandra.” I couldn’t suppress the smile that tilted my lips. I’d never fantasized about becoming an uncle, but if I had, these were the kinds of problems I would’ve imagined facing. “There’s something your dad hasn't told you, Max.” The boy leaned in eagerly, ready for this secret, and my grin widened. “ You are an Andrews, bud.”

Max frowned, having clearly expected a greater revelation, and he shrugged, shaking his head.“I know. Dad says I don’t have to change my name, but I’ve been thinking about it.”

I waved away his concerns. “No, no, Max.You misunderstand me.It doesn’t matter what your last name is on paper. You are an Andrews .You’re the spitting image of your father, and that means…” Uncles still had to be delicate, so I chose my words carefully. “It means girls will pay attention to you.” I shrugged. It felt a little overly complimentary to myself, but I knew it was true—or it had been true before I met Hannah, who seemed to have exactly zero interest in me. “I’ll bet you’ve seen lots of women pay attention to your dad, right?”

“Like, all the time.” Max was grinning.

“So, Max, we’re pretty good looking guys, you know? Women tend to like our smiles, and it’s okay to use them to impress women sometimes.” Without even asking, I was positive Ethan would not approve of this conversation. “The most important thing, though, is your charm. All that means is showing girls you’re totally confident, but that you also care about other people’s feelings. And you aren’t afraid to be funny, even if you’re laughing at yourself.” I was definitely winging it, but I had Max’s rapt attention. “That’s charm, bud, and you have it in spades. If you like Alexandra, go right up to her, smile, be funny, be interested in her, and don’t be afraid. It’s that simple.” I was proud of my pep talk, but as a responsible uncle, I had to stress the most important part. I pointed at the boy, widening my eyes seriously. “But don’t ever use your looks and charm to take advantage of a girl you’re not very interested in.” I nodded once, my lecture complete. Max was smiling.

“Thanks, Uncle Declan.”

I tousled his hair. “I like that. I’ve never been anyone’s uncle.”

We began to walk out of the room. “You’re Cora’s uncle, too,” the kid pointed out. He was right, even though it was still hard to wrap my head around.

“I know, and she’s super cute, but that throwing up thing she does all the time kind of grosses me out. I’m afraid to get too close.”

Max laughed. “It is really gross, but I like her. She likes to grab my nose. It’s cute. Kinda hurts, though.”

“Alright, you can think about my advice, and I’ll take yours and get myself some good Declan-Cora time. For now, though, let’s go down to the ballroom. I wonder if everything is set up yet.”

Or, more accurately, I wondered if all the flowers were done.