Wallflower (Whittaker Floral #2)

21. Hannah

21

HANNAH

D eclan was in a strange mood today. This morning he had pulled my naked body against his as my alarm went off, nuzzling my neck and making his usual jokes about coming to order flowers so he could see me. I laughed, kissed him, and squirmed out of his grasp when I worried he might keep me in bed all day.

He had seemed entirely normal when I left, but when we met up again he was not himself. He was distracted and, although he was making every effort not to take it out on me, it was clear his mood had soured. It was a side of Declan I was unfamiliar with, and I was worried, like maybe I should've noticed it before.

After dinner I suggested a movie, but Declan looked at me with a frown turning down one corner of his full lips. “No. We should go home. We need to talk.”

We need to talk?

I wanted to stand stock still on the sidewalk until Deck told me what the hell he meant by that, but he’d already begun walking, and the pathetic little girl in me—the one I'd rather not even acknowledge the existence of—scurried after him, keeping up with his long strides as he looped an arm around my waist and pulled me closer.

We walked the many blocks back to the apartment in virtual silence, which was completely foreign to me. When had I become the kind of woman who would be led through the streets silently? I had to speak up tonight—tell him how I felt, hear his worries—whatever was plaguing his brain, he shouldn’t have to deal with it alone.

For a single moment, when Declan’s arms twisted around my waist as I opened the front door to the apartment, I thought maybe I was misinterpreting the situation, and I melted into his touch, craving the familiar warmth and security. But as soon as I turned the key, he loosened his hold, and his hands—which had owned nearly every part of my body for the last few weeks—were suddenly nothing more than visitors. I rolled my lips between my teeth anxiously as his hands fell from my hips altogether.

Inside the door, I took a deep breath and turned to face him, glad when he set his hands back on my hips, though there remained enough distance between us to see his face well. His cheek was rough with stubble when I stroked a hand down it, looking into his eyes.

Emotion surged—it was an increasingly familiar feeling when I was with Declan—equal parts excitement and terror, leaving my stomach tightening and my chest expanding all at once. I’d been thinking for a week this feeling might be love, but I never meant for the words to pop out of my mouth when they did. “Forget whatever you're going to say to me, Deck. I love you. I love you so much, and you spend so much time here, and I think you should forget about your hotel and just move in with me.”

For one millisecond his eyes widened and brightened and I swore the expression was going to be joy, but just as quickly he soured, his face falling. His green eyes were filled with an emotion I thought might be pity, an expression that bottomed out my stomach. I stepped away from him, letting his hands drop. He made no attempt to stop my movement. In fact, he took his own step away from me, and my heart thundered in my chest, realizing I’d miscalculated everything. “Hannah,” he said slowly, “I don’t live in Chicago. I live in New York. At the end of the summer I have to leave here and go back home.”

The crushing blow of that statement, the finality of it, broke something in me, and my feet shuffled backwards, step by step, until I was entirely out of his reach, as if putting distance between us now could save me. But I knew better. That paltry space was too little, too late. I’d let Declan get close—all the way into my heart and soul. No amount of distance—not the three feet I’d put between us or the hundreds of miles away he’d soon be—could keep my heart from breaking. I’d thrown caution to the wind, and now the wind was throwing it back in my face.

“Hannah, wait,” he said, reaching for me.

I shook my head, backing away a few more inches. I didn’t want to talk, and I really didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not in front of Deck. “You should go, Declan.”

“We should talk, Han.”

I rolled my lips between my teeth, trying to control my emotions, but my eyes were welling with tears, and I couldn’t stand the idea of breaking down in front of him. The humiliation of having read the situation so wrong was enough of a punch to the gut. I literally could not stand to have him know how devastated I was by his rejection. I steadied my voice, hoping for the cool, collected tone Matty might use to handle a client. “No, Deck, you need to leave. Just go.”

Truman padded in, sitting himself between us, looking at Declan, and I placed a hand on his thick head for support. Undeterred, Declan moved another step toward me, concern in his eyes.

Straightening my spine, I backed away an equal step. Truman stood still, blocking any further advance from the man. “Hannah, we can?—”

Unbearably close to sobbing and worried I might beg him to stay, I inhaled as deeply as I could, using that breath to steel me. “I’m asking you to leave,” I said coldly. “I don’t want you here.”

Shoulders sagging, Declan turned around and walked out, and as the door closed with a quiet, finite click behind him, I sagged down next to Tru, hot tears streaming down my face.