Why don’t I feel worse about this than I do?
Chapter 5
Bree
“Let’s play Two Truths and a Lie.”
We’ve been in the vault for about forty-five minutes, trying to find ways to pass the time while avoiding any references to meeting in Austin. Luckily, it’s not stuffy in here. Declan and I have already named all fifty states, the capitals of about half, and played several rounds of the alphabet game. We gave up while listing cars from A to Z, giving up at the letter Q.
Declan’s jeans rustle slightly as he shifts. “Upping the stakes, I see.”
“What stakes? There are no stakes.”
“Now it’s personal. We’re going to learn some things about each other.”
“We’re stuck in a vault in the dark with a dog that’s not ours. Might as well.”
He chuckles, the sound deep and rich. “I’ll go first. So, Bree. Two truths… or a lie?” He drags out the question, laced with humor and a hint of suggestion.
My foot finds his and kicks it slightly. “That’s not going first.”
The little puppy is curled into a snuggly ball between us, Declan’s flannel shirt covering her up. We’re sitting on the floor against one of the leather sofas, where we’ve been since the lights timed out. Eventually the puppy got curious and made its way over.
“I’m waiting, Austin.” The low timbre of his voice, and the way he uses it to say my nickname, sends chills up my body.
“Fine.” I pause, the rise and fall of the puppy’s breathing steady. “I count the number of steps I take from one spot to the next. I graduated from Vanderbilt. I have a tattoo of an Emily Dickinson poem in a secret location.”
“Interesting, Austin.” He nudges my foot with his, mimicking my move from moments ago. “I don’t want to insult you by assuming that Vanderbilt is the lie. Obviously the truth. If that really is your alma mater, it makes sense that you would have a Dickinson tattoo. So, I’m going with the steps. Nobody does that.”
“Wrong. I do that.”
“That’s an odd thing to do.”
“Maybe, but my sister does it, too.”
“So, it’s got to be the tattoo. Because you’re obviously a Vanderbilt girl.”
“Third generation.”
“If you were to get a Dickinson tattoo, what would it be?”
“’Beauty is not caused. It is.’”
He emits a low hum deep in his throat, his bicep brushing my shoulder. “Love that.” His hand reaches out, finding my knee and tracing a slow circle on my skin.
“Your turn.” My words sing-song despite the seeds of lust germinating inside my abdomen.
“I have a spreadsheet ranking every coffee shop I’ve ever visited. I can identify trees by smell alone if I’m blindfolded. Twoyears ago, I was banned from a hardware store for ‘excessive lumber enthusiasm.’”
Laughter bubbles out of me before I can stop it, waking the puppy. “How am I supposed to figure that out, Declan?”
“Using that Vanderbilt education might help.”
“If it weren’t dark in here, you’d see my eye roll all the way from Nashville.” The puppy shifts again, and we both reach down to pet her fur, our fingertips brushing. Tiny sparks ripple through me at his touch, and I am so glad that it’s dark, or he’d see the blush blooming on my cheeks. “I’m going with the coffee shop. You have two options about trees.”
“You—”
“I change my mind. My Vanderbilt education trained me that lies can sometimes hide among the most obvious choices.”
