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I huff a small laugh. “That’s a complicated question.”
“It’s a yes or a no.”
“I used to pretend to like whiskey,” I admit, not sure why I’m telling him this. “I thought it made me… oh, this sounds ridiculous. Cool. I thought that if people saw me liking whiskey, they’d think I was cool.”
“As opposed to a cosmopolitan?”
I shrug. “I guess. But then I got sick of worrying about what other people thought about me all the time. Like why was I even putting that level of effort into impressing strangers? I stopped forcing myself to drink it for years. Got into wine a little bit.” I smile and shake my head. “And then, wouldn’t you know it? I tried it again, just a couple of years ago, and realized I actually liked it. People say it’s an acquired taste. Maybe my palate finally acquired it. Or maybe it’s hereditary. My dad used to love whiskey.”
Declan is watching me. “Used to?”
I hesitate. I don’t talk about my parents with just anyone. And certainly not with a boss. But that’s the thing. Declan isn’t just anyone. And right now, he really doesn’t feel like my boss. So I take the plunge, thinking that it’s impossible that a single sip of whiskey would give me this level of liquid courage.
“Yes, used to. He and my mom died a couple years ago. Car crash. It was… tough. I had to pick up the pieces. It was only me. I didn’t have anyone else—except a boyfriend who didn’t support me and ended up cheating on me. I had to grow up immediately, get through the grieving process, and learn how to live on my own.”
I take a breath, glancing down into my whiskey glass before taking another sip. I didn’t want to get emotional, but here I am. This just isn’t a topic I chat about lightly. Or at all. It still cuts. Just not as deeply as it used to.
“So it is special to me that I’ve finally developed the taste for whiskey I wanted,” I continue. “Since my dad liked whiskey too, you know. It’s like a little part of him lives on through me. I don’t know. Maybe that’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid. You’ve found something to hold on to. Something to celebrate that memory of him.” Declan’s gray eyes shine at me. “And it’s yours. Don’t let anyone take that from you. Especially not some philandering boyfriend who didn’t appreciate what he had.” He clinks his glass against mine. “You’re strong, you know. Not everyone makes it out on the other side of tragedy stronger for it.”
I don’t know if I’m blushing from my scalp to my toes or if it’s the warmth from the whiskey. “Thank you.”
“My mother also died when I was around that age,” he says almost casually. Almost.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I tell him, but he shakes his head.
“Long time ago. Cancer.” Like that’s somehow easier than a car crash. I used to torture myself with thoughts and imaginary choices—would I rather lose them suddenly, in the crash, or know ahead of time that their death was coming, like cancer? It wasn’t a pretty period of time.
“It’s still tough,” I tell him. From my chair, I can see the framed family photo. The smiles. “Your mom was really beautiful.”
Declan follows my gaze to the portrait and exhales through his nose. “Maldives. We went every year. She loved to snorkel. Used to drive my father batshit crazy. He didn’t see what was so interesting under the surface of the water. Wouldn’t let her enjoy herself.”
“Where’s your dad now?” I ask, and immediately wish I could backtrack. Declan’s face darkens.
“He hasn’t shuffled off his mortal coil yet,” he says, and lapses into silence.
I don’t want to lose this Declan. Or this moment. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this close to anyone. Something nobody ever told me growing up is how hard it is to make—and hold on to—friends as an adult. I don’t know whether Declan and I are at the friendship stage of our turbulent relationship. But I want us to be. And I’d do just about anything to keep tonight from derailing.
I dart my gaze around his office, trying to find something to change the subject to. Something safe.
“So, you come here often?” I ask, then burst into laughter at the ridiculous look on Declan’s face—like it’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard. “Oh, come on. I mean this late. Do you always work the zombie shift?”
“Often, yes,” he says, swirling the whiskey in his glass before draining it down. “It’s quiet. Productive, like you said.”
“Lonely, though,” I amend. “And plus, you’re always early too. When do you find time to sleep? To eat? To do anything at all?”
He gives me a significant look as he pours himself another whiskey. As in, what do you think I’m doing right now? I don’t press him, but he continues all the same.
“Dynasty is my life,” he says. “If time is our most important asset, then I invest it into something I give a shit about. This company—and its success—is everything to me.”
“But what does success even mean if all you do is work?” I ask, tilting my head as I study him. I wonder if he sleeps here sometimes. Wonder if he’ll admit to it. “I know there are a ton of ways to measure success, but do you even enjoy it? Don’t you want a life outside of work? A wife someday? A family of your own?”
“No.” That’s it. No. No hesitation. No mulling it over. Just pure, cold certainty.
It reminds me, somewhat, of Declan in San Francisco. How he immediately fired his driver when I almost got hit in the middle of the street. This kind of self-assuredness is the same thing.
I want to know more. Want to ask more. But it feels like I’m tiptoeing blindly through a conversational minefield, and I don’t want anything to explode.
