“I’m just asking,” I rush on. “Like—no secret toddlers. No surprise paternity tests pending. No woman who might show up one day with a stroller and a very justified amount of rage.”
His eyebrows lift. “Is this where I reassure you—or where I ask how many crime podcasts you’ve been listening to?”
“So that’s a no?” I press.
“That’s a very emphatic no.”
I nod, pretending to accept it. “Okay. Good. Great.” I blow out a breath—then immediately ruin it. “What about ones you do know about?”
“Emphatic no,” he repeats.
“Okay, but hypothetically,” I say, unable to stop myself. “If you did have a baby… would you pay for it?”
Declan sighs, not annoyed—just tired. “I would never not take care of my child, Ivy. You know that about me. You know who I am.” He searches my face. “Where is this coming from?”
I exhale, the fight draining out of me. "I just want to know if there's anything you need to tell me about the women you dated in the past."
He's silent for a few seconds. "You want to know about my past relationships?'
"Yeah."
"Fine. Let's talk about them."
He gets to an intersection and turns to the right. After driving for a mile, he pulls over, parking in an empty lot near the waterfront. The ocean stretches black beyond the windshield, barely visible in the darkness.
"Declan..."
"Most of my past relationships were casual flings orchestrated by Gregory to maintain my 'eligible bachelor' image. Models, actresses, whoever looked good in photos and didn't ask too many questions were my targets." His voice is bitter. "I'd date them for a few weeks, we'd be seen at the right events, thenGregory would find some reason to end it. They were either too clingy, too ambitious, or too distracting."
"That sounds horrible."
“It was controlling, and I’ve been trying to break free from it.” He turns to me, his gaze sharp and unflinching. “But you’re different. I can’t stop thinking about you. You challenge me. You frustrate me. You make me want to be better.”
He exhales. “You’re not a publicity stunt or an image strategy. I already told you—I’m crazy about you. I want you to be my girlfriend. For real. I don’t know what else to say.”
“What if I don’t know you as well as I think I do?”
"Then get to know me. Ask me anything. I'm an open book."
But he's not. He's gripping the steering wheel, his body tense. There's something he's not telling me.
"Take me home," I say quietly. "I need to think."
The drive to my apartment is silent. When we arrive, he walks me to my door, and the concern in his expression makes my chest ache.
"Are we okay?" he asks.
"I don't know. Are we?"
"What we have is real. We can figure out everything else together."
I should listen to the warnings and doubts and that persistent voice in my head saying something doesn't add up. But believing him means this new love I've found will blossom.
So I bury my mother's warning about secrets. I place my lips on his to say goodbye. The kiss is hot, passionate. My hands caress his waist, his back, until I forget why I doubted him.
When it's over, I'm gasping for breath. He hugs me and leaves.
I close the door, then quickly bring out my phone and text King. He hasn’t answered since I asked him to meet up in person.
