Page 17

He sighed like the weight of the world had fallen onto his shoulders, but he went.

I smiled to myself and started sectioning off tin foil. The kitchen had settled into its usual noise. Ruckus flipping pages. Clayton opening and shutting cabinets. The faint sound of Micah letting the back door slam behind him.

Then I felt it.

Declan. I hadn’t expected him back in the kitchen before dinner.

I didn't look.

I kept lining up foil, spraying each piece, setting down potatoes, adding salt and pepper.

My entire attention shifted behind me anyway. I hated that. I knew exactly where he was without seeing him.

Leaning against the counter. Talking quietly to Clayton. His voice moved over my skin. Slow. Smooth. That Texas drawl, somehow stronger than either of our fathers’.

I focused on the potatoes. Potatoes had never made me stupid. Potatoes had never broken my heart.

I needed butter. Of course I did.

I turned.

Declan was standing directly in front of the refrigerator, the door open, staring into it like he'd forgotten why he'd opened it.

I waited.

He kept staring.

I waited some more. Nothing. With a heavy sigh, I moved toward him. “Chief.”

He shifted slightly. Not enough.

I reached around him for the butter, touching one hand lightly to his shoulder as I did. It was automatic.

Or maybe it wasn't.

Maybe after two years I was still pathetic enough to manufacture tiny excuses to touch him.

Either way, my fingers barely made contact.

Declan flinched. Actually flinched. Then he sidestepped away from me.

God. That hurt. It hit me so hard I had to catch the refrigerator door.

“Don't,” he said. He wasn't looking at me.

I went still.

“Don't touch me.”

His hand had closed hard around the edge of the counter, knuckles pale.

For a second I couldn't hear anything. Not Ruckus turning a page. Not Clayton moving around behind me.

Nothing. I stared at Declan's profile. “What?”

His jaw tightened. He shut the refrigerator and walked out of the kitchen. That was it.

No explanation. No apology. Just—