Stripped (24 page)

Forever sounded good. “I was going to come find you at the barbeque. Or wherever you were, if you hadn’t been there.”

“Why?” His thigh brushed hers, and heat—not sensual but just as potent—shot down her leg. Her toes flexed in response.

There was a lump in her throat, her mouth suddenly dry. Needing a second to collect herself, she snagged her soda and drained it, until nothing but air bubbles, ice cubes, and the slurping sounds made by her straw remained. When he bumped a knee against her hip, she set the to-go cup aside. “I don’t know how to have a successful relationship.” Her hands curled into fists atop her thighs. “Obviously.”

His smile was soft, gentle, and nothing like what she had seen from him since they’d broken up. “Well, yeah, obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been available when I came along.”

She frowned at him. “You know what I mean.”

His smile faded. “I know what you mean,” he echoed quietly. “I’m not gonna set your world on fire, Fi. I’m not gonna burn everything you’ve worked so hard for to the ground.”

It was too difficult to hold his gaze any longer, so she turned her attention to the half-eaten packet of fries sitting on a pile of paper napkins. They were probably cold by now. Nothing worse than cold French fries. “It wouldn’t be you doing the burning. It would be me.
I
would make the wrong choice, or lots of wrong choices, and then—” She hated the tears pushing at her sinuses, but she wouldn’t lose control, not after the pep talk she’d just leveled on herself. With a brisk sniff, she blinked back the urge to cry. “I don’t want any more scars, Declan.”

“You ought to trust yourself a bit more. There’s a difference between what happened with that dancer and what’s happening now.”

Her head shot up. “How do you know—”

He lifted his hands from where they rested, linked between his bent knees. “Your mom told me.” He grinned, briefly. “Nice lady, your mom. Filled to the brim with quippy retorts, and you know how much I like those.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she scowled. “You were saying something about a difference?”

“The difference,” he said, leaning toward her, expression intent, “is that, before, you were alone. Every choice you had to make, right or wrong, you made it alone.”

“So?”

Slowly, as if not to startle her, he traced a finger over her cheekbone, crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening when he noticed her shiver of awareness. “
So
. When you’re in a relationship with someone, a real relationship, you don’t end up makin’ decisions on your own.” His finger moved to her jaw. “You make them together. Now,” he murmured, bridging the gap between them, “do you think I’d let you make a bad decision?”

The second before his lips covered hers, she muttered, “Well, there was that one time you thought we should make out in your trailer, and look how well—”

His kiss matched her house: perfect and clean and entirely, utterly hers. She cupped his scratchy jaw in her palms, letting the warmth from his skin bleed into hers, and felt her spine begin to melt. Her body simply leaned into his, curved under his, his arms pulling her into his lap.

The sound of French fries skittering across the floor as her foot knocked into them had him lifting his head, but not to glance at the mess. No, his eyes were all for her.
 

As were his words. “Fallin’ in love with you was so easy for me. Effortless, really, and I just…assumed it would be the same for you.” He pushed her glasses to the top of her head and stroked a hand through the hair she had left to dry loose around her shoulders after this morning’s shower. “So I got angry with you. I had no right to, but I did, and I’m sorry.”

Her own hands found his curls, and she buried her fingers in it, relishing the texture as much as she had that first morning in her makeup chair. His apology hung heavily in the air as her fingertips dug into his scalp. “I think we should do this.”

His lashes fluttered down in obvious pleasure as she applied gentle pressure to the base of his skull. “This?”

“Us. I think we should be an ‘us.’”

His body went still beneath hers, eyes flashing open again. The hand tangled in her hair moved to curve around her nape. “I want that. I’ve always wanted that.” This time his kiss wasn’t the least bit clean. It was messy and hot, with tongues and teeth and a muted groan from him when her hands traveled down his neck to dig into the lean strength of his shoulders, but still perfect and still hers.

As if there was ever any doubt.

Elation filled her as he urged her to straddle him. Denim-covered knees digging into the floor, she couldn’t suppress a full-body shiver when his hands slipped beneath the hem of her tank top. Clever fingers found her rib cage and tapped out some illogical rhythm before pressing into her skin.
 

“God,” he murmured into her throat as he trailed kisses from her ear to her clavicle. “I worried I’d never touch you again.”

“I know.” Fear sizzled through her limbs at the idea, and she clutched him to her, fisting the thin cotton of his shirt in needy hands. “The worst choice I ever made was walking away from you.” It was nothing but the truth. Down to her bones, it was the truth.

A rough sound emanated from his chest as he brought his lips back to hers for a kiss that bordered on desperate. The emotion in his kiss was like an open wound, raw and stinging, and it demanded soothing, tending. She opened for him even as her eyes squeezed closed, relaxing her fists in order to slide her palms along the strong column of his neck until she cupped his face once more. A soft moan escaped her as his fingertips kneaded the knotted muscles on either side of her spine.

Several fraught moments later, they broke apart, both breathing unevenly. “You had this tower around you when we met, Fi, and I meant to knock it down.” His forehead rested against hers, eyes sliding shut. “I think I might’ve climbed to the top, instead.”

She shook her head slightly, and their noses brushed in an intimacy as lovely as any kiss. “I don’t want to live in a tower. I want to live in this house, here, on the ground. With you.”

“Only if I can get a grill like your dad’s for the backyard.” He chuckled, dipping his lips to capture hers for one heartbeat, then another when she smiled against his mouth. “Nowhere I’d rather be than here, darlin’. Nowhere in the world.”

EPILOGUE

8 Months Later

Declan almost did it while in the bathroom at home.
 

Fiona was putting in her earrings, gaze locked on the mirror in front of her while he stood off to the side, absently inserting cuff links into the sleeves of his tuxedo shirt. She’d pinned her hair in an intricate series of twists, leaving her nape exposed but allowing a few errant curls to trail over one shoulder. In the mirror, he could see one of those curls find a home in the dip of her collarbone, and he wanted to put his lips there.

Earrings in place, she straightened, wearing nothing but the red lace scraps that served as her lingerie, and gave her reflection a critical eye. “I’m going with glasses tonight,” she informed him.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, love.”

When she turned to fix him with a brilliant smile, he had nearly done it. Where he found the willpower to hold off, he hadn’t a clue.

His resolve was tested again when the town car pulled into the driveway. He rose from the porch swing to let her know their ride was there when she materialized, pulling the door closed behind her and locking it before dropping the key into her clutch. He lost his breath.

She looked as though she’d been poured into the strapless navy gown. The bodice with its sweetheart neckline hugged her torso, the skirt draped luxuriously over her hips to skate the length of her legs. A subtle slit allowed him a glimpse of one sun-kissed calf, while the gown’s hem fluttered flirtatiously around a pair of strappy silver heels.
 

The gown was stunning in its simplicity, completely dependent on the body underneath to show it off to proper effect. His gaze travelled up to where those few curls still caressed her shoulder, then to the lovely face touched by only the faintest hint of cosmetics, and, finally, to the warm, familiar gray eyes behind a pair of narrow brushed-nickel frames.

He swallowed around the lump that had formed in his throat, studying her. “I don’t have words,” he told her, honestly.

She seemed to float across the porch, putting a hand to his cheek when she reached him. Her fingers stroked over the trimmed beard he’d grown back that winter. “You look pretty,” she said with a smile before kissing him briefly, firmly. “Now, let’s go win an Oscar.”

When he caught sight of the back of the gown as she preceded him into the car, he went breathless all over again. Sheer, iridescent silk fell from beneath her shoulder blades to trail behind her in an airy train, playing peekaboo with the fact that the entire back of the bodice was missing—all the way to the base of her spine.

Fiona may have been wearing that lacy bra in the bathroom, but she certainly didn’t have it on now.

They walked the red carpet leading into Dolby Theater, pausing every five feet or so for pictures, it seemed. A few entertainment reporters caught him, but even while offering up a sound bite or two, his palm never left the small of her back.

Fiona was, as ever, his foothold in the chaos.

They were seated in the same row as the rest of the
Vendetta
cast and crew, Wes to Declan’s left and Fiona’s parents next to her. Sadie and Ryan sat on Wes’s other side, the director being notorious for never bringing a date to this sort of event, and then the lights dimmed in the theatre, and the ceremony officially began.

Declan held Fiona’s hand, clasped atop her thigh, until…

“The Oscar for Costume Design goes to—” The actress on stage paused for effect. “Rick O’Brien,
Vendetta
!”

Hugs and handshaking ensued, their row pushing to a stand as Rick kissed first his wife, then his daughter, and made his way onstage, accompanied by the strains of the orchestra and the applause of the audience.

Declan reached for Fiona’s hand again, rubbing his thumb gently over her knuckles, until…

“The Oscar for Makeup and Hairstyling goes to—” Another actress, also pausing for maximum effect. “Paulie Michele,
Vendetta
!”

Chest bursting with pride, Declan squeezed her tight before releasing her to stand aside as she, Amy, and Beth followed Paulie to the stage, as had been prearranged, should they win. One short speech by an effusive Paulie later, she was back beside Declan once more, hand locked securely in his.

Until…

“The Academy Award for Direction goes to,” with, thankfully, no pause for effect, “Wes Jackson for his film,
Vendetta
!”

Amid more hugging and handshaking, Declan had the panicked thought that he wasn’t going to get the chance to do what he needed to. This night was turning crazier by the second, a whirlwind of elation for their merry band, but Declan had a
plan
, damn it, and he was going to burst if he missed this opportunity because he was too caught up in the heady rush of experiencing win after win.
 

Then Fiona took his hand and smiled at him, and the panic receded, enough for him to pay attention to Wes’s acceptance speech.

“…so many individuals I’ll forget to thank, but I can’t imagine I’d be standing here without the stellar performances from
Vendetta
’s two leads, Sadie Bower and Declan Murphy.” Cameras found their row in the audience as Wes continued, his statue clasped loosely in one hand while the other extended toward them. “Sadie, you gorgeous creature, you are the meanest little street urchin I’ve ever met in my life.”

The audience laughed.

“And Declan.” Wes shook his head. “Man, can I just say, thank you for taking my call last April. We all won the lottery when you did.”

All Declan could manage was a nod and tight smile, emotion knocking him momentarily sideways. Fiona’s hand came to rest on his chest, and she leaned into his shoulder, helping him find purchase in the chaos.

Nothing remained but the awards for Actor, Actress, and Picture, and Declan knew the time had come. He put his lips to her ear. “Fi.”

She tilted her head closer. “Yes?”

That word.
Yes, that was the word. Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, he found what he needed, fisted it. His other hand continued to hold hers. “I…I still don’t have the words,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, wondering how he had gotten to this point without a better script in mind.

She glanced up at him, confused.

Resting his temple against hers, he whispered into her ear what he’d been dying to say all evening. “Will you marry me?” He lifted her hand, placing the ring he held in his at the tip of her third finger, ready to slide on the moment she said—

“
Yes
.” Breathless. Absolute. Smiling. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

“…Declan Murphy as Count Vargas in
Vendetta
!”

Lights and cameras found them as the ring slipped onto her finger, and she was clutching his face in both hands, kissing him fiercely. He grasped her wrists as exhilaration sang through his veins.
Yes
. She had said
yes
.

A sharp elbow to his ribs jerked him back to the present. Declan shot a questioning glance at Wes. “What?”

“You won.”

The orchestra swelled and applause rang out, and, in a haze, Declan found himself standing, then walking, then on the stage with a statue of a naked gold man being thrust into his hands. The microphone beckoned under the hot glare of the lights, and he searched the audience until he found her.

He thought she might be crying.

He blinked furiously for a moment before stepping up to the mic. “I didn’t prepare a speech,” he began with a small grin for the crowd. “Not because I didn’t think I’d win, but because I was too busy tryin’ to figure out another speech today, so I’ll just thank my agent, Molly Traeger. Wes Jackson for, you know, callin’ me.” The audience laughed. “The incredible crew. My costar, Sadie Bower.” Speaking grew difficult. “My family in Ireland, and the family I made here.”