He says the words like he doesn't care how I feel, even though he finds my lips pleasurable. King would ask gentle questionsuntil I opened up. He'd know exactly how to ease the tension inside me.
Declan just drives, giving me space.
The city slides past my window. Rush hour traffic means we're moving slower than I'd like, which means more time trapped in this car that smells like him. I try not to notice how his forearms flex when he shifts gear or how his lips move as he sings an unfamiliar song in a baritone.
When he glances in my direction, heat pools low in my belly.
This is bad.
"Gregory talked to you today, didn't he?" he says, cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
I turn sharply. "How did you know?"
"I saw him in the parking lot and saw your face after he left." His jaw tightens. "What did he say?"
"Nothing important."
"Ivy."
"He thinks my research is distracting the team and wants me to scale back," I say in a bitter tone. "Apparently, I'm bad for performance, according to him."
"That's bullshit."
I laugh without humor. "Misha got hurt. The team's been losing, except for the last two games you won. Maybe he's right."
"He's not." Declan's voice carries an edge I haven't heard before. "Your research is important. Gregory is an asshole who doesn't like things he can't control. Don't believe a word of anything he says."
His tone makes me study his face. His expression looks neutral, but he's gripping the steering wheel and his shoulders are bunched up with tension.
"He’s your agent, right?"
"Unfortunately."
"Then why did you let him sign you up? Why are you still with him?"
He sighs. "It's a long story about family history. Not worth getting into."
But I want to get into it. I want to know why his voice hardened and his hands tightened on the wheel. I want to understand the Declan inside, the one behind the cocky smirks and penetrating kisses.
The thought terrifies me.
Because understanding Declan means getting closer to him and risking my research, my credibility, everything I've worked for.
King is safer. He sends flowers and food and has thoughtful conversations that don’t threaten my career or my heart. Except my heart is already threatening itself by pounding too hard every time Declan looks at me.
We pull up outside my apartment building as the sun sets, turning the sky orange. The temperature has dropped to a sharp evening chill. I turn to thank him before leaving.
"Do you want to come in?"
The traitorous invitation slips out of my mouth as I glance at that angular face with stubble. His eyebrows rise.
"Are you sure?"
I should retract the invitation to maintain professional distance. But my desire to know him more scrambles my brain cells.
"I have wine. Cheap wine but wine. Consider it payment for the ride."
A slow smile spreads on his face, transforming him from arrogant athlete to dangerously appealing.
