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“Oh, you mean the… yeah, it’s been a little strange,” I admit, somewhat hesitantly. I don’t want Nora to think that I’m disparaging her grandson, or the lives they lead, but I’d be lying if I said this was normal to me. “Being around so much money.”
To my surprise, Nora chuckles at that, nodding in understanding. “Yes, it’s quite something, isn’t it? There’s certainly an adjustment period.”
I think of Declan renting an entire apartment just to hook up with me and nod fervently. “Yes, there is!”
“My late husband and I were never particularly wealthy people. My daughter didn’t come from money, and I know that she had some trouble getting used to it.”
“Your daughter—Declan’s mother?”
She nods, smiling fondly. “Yes. You know, I really think that the only reason she didn’t fit was because Johnathan never truly invited her in. She would’ve been just fine at those dinner parties, meeting all of those important people—but he never treated her as an equal, and ultimately, that was the problem.”
From everything Declan has told me, that makes sense. I feel a pang in my heart at the thought of this poor woman, doing everything she could to fit in—when all along, the problem was never her.
“But Declan has managed to distance himself from all of that,” Nora continues, a note of pride entering her voice. “He’s everything his father isn’t. Did you know that he bought me that house?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t.”
“He doesn’t like to brag about these things,” Nora says confidentially. “But he’s a very generous young man. I’m lucky to have him around, taking care of me in my old age.”
“You seem plenty able to take care of yourself,” I say, smiling. “But it’s nice that he helps.”
I take a sip from my cup, feeling warmed by the hot mint tea and this new information about Declan. He’s a good person, at his core. Underneath that hard exterior is a kind heart.
“Now, to business,” Nora says, nibbling at the toasted crust of her sandwich. “I imagine you’re hoping I can tell you some juicy stories about my grandson in his younger days.”
I grin, leaning forward over the table. “Well, if you have any good ones, I’m certainly not going to say no!”
“Let me tell you about a time when Declan was in college,” she begins, signaling the waiter to refill our teapot. “He and his friends got into trouble for sneaking onto their dorm roof….”
I listen and laugh as Nora regales me with tales about Declan’s exploits with his friends, getting up to mischief in their college years and guiding each other into adulthood. It’s funny to imagine Declan, so put-together and composed, getting in trouble for anything.
But I suppose that these kinds of run-ins were learning experiences—they’ve all helped to shape Declan into who he is today. And it feels good to hear about his youth.
All of Nora’s tales about younger Declan seem to involve Cole and Reed, and seem to involve all three of them getting up to no good, or else ending up in trouble entirely by accident.
I remember the familiar, casual dynamic between the three of them at the party. It’s no wonder they’re all so comfortable around each other. It sounds like they practically grew up together.
Knowing that Declan has these friendships—connections he’s held onto and strengthened for years—is also confidence-building. As cold as his exterior can be, he definitely has room in his life to form bonds with people.
By the time Nora has moved on to her third story, I’m already falling even more in love with him.
* * *
When I arrive home from my lunch, I toss my keys onto the table beside the door, stretch, and collapse onto the couch. I don’t have anything planned for the rest of the day—not until later this evening, when Declan is taking me out to dinner.
I’m reaching for the TV remote, planning to trawl through Netflix for something to mindlessly watch, when the door buzzer sounds.
I frown over at the door in confusion. Reagan’s not here—she’s out of town visiting her mom for the weekend—so I can’t imagine who’s trying to visit me unannounced on a Saturday afternoon.
When I press the button on the intercom, Declan’s voice comes through. “Spitfire, it’s me. Let me up.”
My brows furrow, but I do it automatically, and less than two minutes later, he’s at my door. When I open it, he’s got his hands braced on the frame, one eyebrow arched.
“Were you going to tell me?” he asks.
“Tell you what?” I step back to let him inside. He paces into my apartment, then turns to face me.
“Your birthday,” he replies. “My grandmother texted me after you left the bistro. Why didn’t you tell me your birthday was soon?”
