The other guys must have been preoccupied with the fact that their hopes were dashed and they still have to fulfill the full month-long program, and didn’t notice Declan’s sudden shift in mood. Nor do they join me as I search for him.
I check his room, but he doesn’t answer when I knock. Then I head to the gym, but he isn’t there either. Finally, I poke my head into the kitchen and find him seated on the stainless-steel table, jabbing a spoon into a massive tub of ice cream.
He doesn’t look up as I slide onto the table next to him.
After a beat, I say, “You know how I said I prefer cake to ice cream? I bake it whenever I’m celebrating something...or the opposite.”
“What’s the opposite?” His voice is low, grumbly.
“I also bake when I’m upset.”
“That’s right, you do,” he says as if a specific memory from our shared past floats into his mind.
“Ice cream, on the other hand, is a hot summer day only item,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Is that so? We used to get ice cream rain or shine.”
My nod is swift and sure. “Things change.”
“They sure do.” He glances over at me, the corners of his lips tentative as if he battles with the news he received andsomething else. “According to these changes, does that mean that I can’t tempt you with a bite?” he asks as if temporarily pressing pause on whatever upsets him.
“I cannot be tempted,” I say with all the determination of someone who is very, very tempted.
He scoops up a bite. “I have to warn you, it’s delicious.”
“I said I didn’t want any. It’s all yours.”
“Nope. You definitely want a bite. I’m pretty sure it’s homemade, super creamy, butter pecan.”
“I’m not interested.”
He waves the spoon in front of me. “Not even a little bit?”
At the same time, our gazes shift from the ice cream and meet.
His upper lip hitches like he’s Elvis Presley and knows there’s no way a woman can say no to him.
I bite my lower lip just so I don’t open my mouth and risk giving in.
“Come on. Just a taste. You won’t be sorry.”
I try to take a deep breath, but it sticks. If this is just about the ice cream, he’s probably right. But if it’s about something else, I’m not so sure.
“This ice cream will change your life. It’s that good.”
“How much of it have you had?”
“Enough to make a decision.” His tone changes and whatever just floated between us dissolves, disappears, and his attention returns to whatever upset him and brought him here—the kitchen of all places.
“A decision about what?”
Declan sets the ice cream aside. He looks at his hands, clasped in his lap. “Some guys work out when they have something big on their minds. Others run and punch stuff. That usually does the trick, but this is different.” He lowers from the table, landing solidly on his feet. “The headmistress says wehave to take our lessons into the real world. Well, I have to go to Ireland.” His expression pinches with dread rather than the excitement I’d expect if going home. Then again, I can relate because where is home?
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask.
“You can’t come.”
“Why not?” My head tucks back with surprise.
