It’s a youthful, innocent, and fresh first-glance sense. The one I’d felt when I met Siobhan all those years ago—and haven’t come close to feeling for anyone since.
Maybe not until now.
Maggie’s voice floats back to me. “Welcome to Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette of Concordia.”
If I’m not mistaken, by the way she stumbles over the school’s title, it’s the first time she’s spoken it out loud. I’m not going to lie. It’s slightly adorable.
She sucks in a deep, shaky breath. Is she nervous or steeling herself in case I get any wise ideas?
A brilliant plan forms in my mind. “Forget reform school. We’ll fake it. A double fake—pretend that we don’t know each other and that we’re going along with this etiquette nonsense.”
Ignoring me, she continues, “We teach social skills commonly known as etiquette. This will include in-person interaction, print, and online.”
“Listen, I know why I’m here, but don’t you think we could just go through the motions of the lessons and hang out instead?” Truthfully, I don’t want her to have to suffer through giving me the spiel. I know how to be a good lad, but often choose not to.
She lifts her chin slightly. “To be quite honest, it’s so I get a paycheck on Friday.”
“What?” I ask, taken aback by her candor.
She gives her head a dismissive shake like she forgot to be formal. “I meant to answer how it’ll help you. Sorry. As you know, it’s my first day.”
“I guess we’re all beginners at some point.” I recall how it felt when I arrived in Boston, started school, and my first time on the American football field. It was the same day I met Maggie Byrne. I step closer, intending to offer her comfort by bringing her gaze to mine.
She stiffens and doesn’t look up.
Taking the folder out of her hands, I close it and set it on the table. I pull out the chair for her. She drops in and then I assume a comfortable position with my legs wide and feet planted on the floor opposite her. “Like I was saying before, how about we help each other?”
“What do you mean?”
“How about we come up with a mutually advantageous agreement?”
She tilts her head. “I thought we agreed to start over and pretend we don’t know each other?” Maggie whisper shouts.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But we can skip the details. You give me a glowing review, but you don’t have to actually do anything. You still get paid. I can do my thing.”
“Declan, what’s your thing?” A hint of mockery enters her voice as though she decided I’m still an overgrown teenage boy with a propensity for being a rascal.
“Hmm. My thing? Let’s see, bad-boy football star.”
She snorts. “I should probably just do my job. We have to perform an individual evaluation first, provide regular updates, and make a midpoint review followed by the final review.”
“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to change your mind? We can pretend to be making over my life. I’ll just do my thing.” I brush my hands together like it’s a done deal.
“Your thing?” she repeats, sounding scandalized like I suggest we make a prison break or go hang out in an unsavory part of town.
“Yeah. There’s a sunny island about a thousand miles south of here.” I waggle my eyebrows, not opposed to a holiday in lieu of reform school.
“If you say anything about a mankini, I’ll?—”
A long beat passes as though she’s entertaining the possibility. It gives me enough time to think about what mythingis. Football, for starters. Training. Hanging with the guys. Showing up at events, getting screen time, and shining in the spotlight. Dating—though that’s off the table for the time being per the coach’s rules. “My thing is having a good time. We could go sightseeing.”
As the moment stretches between us, I struggle to come up with anything—or anyone—that feels like a true anchor. A person who’d be my ride or die like they used to say when I was a punk teenager—a person who’d do anything for me. Someone I’d let see the real me.
I have the aforementioned stuff I do, but a peculiar thought breaches the surface of my mind. Were all the facets of my public-facing persona a way to create distance between myself and what I lost so long ago? What I believed I’ll never have again?
True love.
The only person who has come close to orbiting that hemisphere sits primly across from me as if she struggles between picking up our friendship where we left off and doing the job she was hired for.
