The plan was to keep things simple, uncomplicated.

  The plan was to never, ever, ever again fall for my boss.

  Change of plans.

  Shit.

  River

  Well, my palms weren’t dripping pools of sweat onto my skirt, and I was able to sit comfortably in my chair without shaking so terribly that it rattled against the floor, and the contents of my breakfast with Declan remained in my stomach, so there was nothing else to say other than that the interview was going…fine. Grand, as they’d say here in Ireland.

  The producer had caught one look at me without makeup and in a simple floral skirt and tangerine lace top before we started filming and made a beeline toward me.

  Declan quickly blocked his path.

  “What happened to her makeup?” he asked.

  “She doesn’t need it,” Declan replied, arms crossed over his chest.

  The producer had frowned, leaning over to see me past Declan’s wide shoulders. “But—”

  “She doesn’t need it,” Declan repeated. It was clear to everyone in the studio that the conversation had ended.

  The production staff set up the microphones on both Declan and me, arranged us in chairs next to one another, and blinded us with hot, bright studio lights.

  The interviewer arrived. With her cleavage practically spilling out of her low-cut dress and a pearly white smile, she introduced herself to Declan without even a glance toward me.

  “This is River,” Declan said.

  The interviewer nodded disinterestedly over at me. “The assistant?” she asked.

  “The girlfriend.”

  The interviewer’s sickly sweet smile faltered. “Right then.” Her eyes avoided me as she tugged back up the corners of her bright pink, shiny lips. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Declan then reached over and squeezed my hand. He smiled over at me. “Thank you,” he whispered. “It’s nice not to do this alone.”

  I nodded. “I’ll try not to say anything too stupid or embarrassing.”

  He laughed. “Anything you say will be perfect,” he said as the producer counted down the start of the filming.

  And so it began. I was on television, the last place on earth I had thought I wanted to be just days ago, with Declan Gallagher, the last person on earth I had thought I wanted to be with just two days ago. Life sure was funny.

  It started off easy enough. Most of the questions were directed at Declan: questions about his training, about his diet, his comeback, his strategy, his title and championship history.

  I mostly nodded along, adding in here and there quips about how hard he’d been training or how regimented he’d been or how I supported him without reservation.

  Soon the interviewer’s questions pivoted toward me.

  “Now, River, darling…” The woman uncrossed her legs, shifted in her chair toward me, and crossed them again, her shiny black stiletto with the bright red sole bouncing. “…all of this must be very new for you?”

  I cleared my throat only to realise it was threatening to close shut. “Umm, yes,” I somehow managed to croak out.

  “Declan here isn’t the only one with pressures, now is he?” she asked, her shiny pink lips curling up into a stiff smile.

  My brows furled in confusion. “Umm…”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I admitted.

  “You’ve got quite large shoes to fill,” she said before her eyes travelled to my chest. “Or shall we say, quite large cups to fill.”

  It was an insult, obviously it was, but she laughed like we were the best of friends sharing an inside joke, as if she meant nothing at all by it.

  Beside me, Declan leaned forward, but I quickly placed my hand on his leg. “If we’re talking Guinness,” I said, “I’d be happy to fill any size cup.”

  Declan laughed along with the rest of the production team off set.

  The interviewer gave a half-hearted chuckle before diving right back in, talons poised.

  I knew what she wanted, of course I did. She wanted a sound piece to churn drama. She wanted a feud between Giselle and me, because nothing would boost ratings more than a high-profile catfight. She wanted something juicy.

  “Yes, but,” she started again, “surely, it must be difficult knowing who Declan used to be with.”

  “I think it’s important to look forward, not back,” I said, keeping my demeanour calm.

  The interviewer didn’t even seem to have heard what I said. “The comparisons don’t hurt then?” she asked, leaning forward, going in for the kill. She drummed her long manicured nails against her notepad as she studied my reaction with a small grin.

  “Comparisons?” I asked, my voice small.

  The interviewer chuckled casually. “Well, of course,” she said. “Giselle: international supermodel, multimillionaire entrepreneur with her own fashion line and one of the largest Instagram followings in the world, named People’s Most Beautiful Woman for three consecutive years, I could go on.”

  I suddenly felt uncomfortable with my bare face and simple floral skirt. The interviewer shrugged.

  “And then there’s you,” she said. “A personal assistant and…” Her voice trailed off, making the statement a question with the unspoken “what.” A personal assistant and what?

  It was left to me to fill in the blank. And what? And what? And what? I had to answer something. But what? “Um…”

  The studio lights that hadn’t felt so bright after all, they suddenly felt like the summer sun reflected off the black pavement on a busy New York street. It was sweltering and I kept waiting for a cool breeze that wasn’t coming. And what?

  “Um…”

  What was there? I wasn’t a celebrity. I wasn’t rich. I wasn’t stunningly beautiful. I didn’t have a fashion line. People, let alone People, didn’t even know who I was. And what?

  “Um…”

  And what?

  “Um…um…”

  And what?

  “And kind.”

  The male voice that spoke was strong, confident, sure. The voice inside my head was none of those things.

  “What was that?” the interviewer asked.

  I glanced over at Declan.

  His mouth opened, his lips moved, his voice strong, confident, and sure, cut through the heavy silence. “A personal assistant and kind,” he said. He smiled over at me and reached to intertwine his fingers with mine in full view of the cameras. It was a message, one he seemed to wish to convey loud and clear—she was with me.

  “Kind?” the interviewer asked, as if hearing the word for the first time.

  “Yes,” Declan said, sounding totally self-assured. “If people are so eager for a comparison, then I’ll give them a comparison. River learned the names of my staff the first day she arrived. The next time you’re interviewing Giselle, ask her if she can name a single one. And ‘the gardener’ doesn’t count.”

  The interviewer sat stunned as Declan leaned forward. On his face was the same determination and ferocity as when he sparred in the cage with Seamus. This was no longer an interview; it was a fight.

  A fight for me.

  “River doesn’t know the word grudge, but you best believe it’s Giselle’s middle name,” Declan continued. “River is a ‘yes’, Giselle is a ‘no’. River is a ‘you’, Giselle is a ‘me’. River’s camera is pointed at others, the world around her, nature and its infinite beauty and mystery and majesty. Giselle’s never leaves her own face.”

  Flabbergasted, the interviewer’s jaw dropped as she was left completely mute. Though it wouldn’t have even mattered if she managed to come up with something to say. Declan wasn’t finished.

  He had yet to deliver the final knockout punch.

  “Giselle was the one who dragged me down to my lowest, sank me down to my darkest, pulled me down toward my destruction.” Declan’s eyes contained fire. “River was the one who found me down there and did not run, did not leave, did not flinch. She was the one who showed me there was light. River was the one who believed I could fight.”

  My eyes widened in surprise when Declan suddenly stood, pulling me up beside him. “So I’m going to fight,” he said. “And from now on, I’ll let my fists do the talking. This interview is over.”

  I just caught the look of disbelief on the interviewer’s face as I hurried after Declan as he stalked quickly off the set, ripping his mike from his suit jacket.

  “Shit, Declan,” Seamus hissed as he hurried after us. “What the fuck was that?”

  Declan didn’t even glance back at him as he shoved the back door open to where our black sedan sat waiting for us. “That was my final word,” he said as I climbed inside the back seat.

  After he climbed in, Declan slammed the door closed in Seamus’s face. Immediately his callused palms were on either side of my face. His eyes searched mine earnestly. “I am so sorry,” his said quickly. “I’m so sorry, River. I’m so sorry. Christ, I never should have agreed to do any of that stupid shite. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. Ah, fuck. Fuck. Fuck, I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so—”

  “Thank you.”

  “I can’t believe I dragged you into this. I am so— Wait…what?”

  I smiled as I laid my hands over his still holding my face. “Thank you.”

  In the dim light of the back of the sedan, Declan frowned. “Thank you?” he asked with obvious confusion.

  I nodded.

  “But— I-I’m the reason you had to go through that.” He shook his head. “Thank you for what?”

  “For reminding me of the answer,” I said.

  When Declan’s eyes remained unsure, I continued. “I froze back there,” I explained. “When she said ‘and…’ I had no answer. I’d forgotten who I was, with all of…well, all of this.” I brushed my fingers against his. “And you reminded me,” I finished. “So…well, I just wanted to say thank you.”

  Declan studied me for a moment before awkwardly pulling his hands from my face and turning in his seat to face the front. He cleared his throat and stared forward. “Well, um, you’re welcome then,” he said stiffly before calling toward the front, “Driver, we’re ready.”

  As the car pulled out onto the street, I stared out the window and traced the lines on my cheeks where Declan’s hands had been. It was another chance to see Dublin and again, I saw nothing but Declan placing the makeup remover cloth into my palm, Declan reaching over for my hand, Declan storming off the set.

  Maybe the spotlight wasn’t so bad. Maybe I could handle it after all. Maybe it wasn’t all that terrible. At least, with him by my side.

  River

  I hadn’t bothered with a spoon…no, I’d gone straight for the ice cream scooper.

  It was weeks later. The bowl of cookie dough wobbled where it was balanced in my lap as I dug in deep for another mountain-sized mouthful. I squinted at my computer screen, the only source of illumination in the otherwise dark kitchen. It was, after all, sometime past midnight. As I crunched into a chunk of dark chocolate, my fingers flew furiously over the keyboard before reaching for the bottle of merlot on the marble island.

  I’d skipped the glass as well.

  The last few remaining swigs sloshed at the bottom of the bottle as I pressed and held down the delete button to erase what I’d just written. I was left again with just a blank email draft. I growled in frustration as I tried to dig out more cookie dough from the nearly empty bowl. I was licking the ice cream scooper when footsteps approached and a light switched on.

  “Uh-oh.”

  Wincing at the glare, I looked up from my frantic typing, the ice cream scooper stuffed into my mouth, to find Oisin shaking his head in the kitchen doorway.

  “My, oh my.” He clicked his tongue as his eyes travelled from the bottle of wine to the bowl of cookie dough to my laptop. “This does not look good, my little voodoo queen.”

  “I’m leaving, Oisin,” I announced matter of factly before returning my attention to the keyboard. “So don’t try to convince me otherwise. I’ve made up my mind. Hey, can you grab me some more wine while you’re up?”

  I reached for the bottle next to me to finish it off before Round 2, but Oisin snatched it up faster than I could wrap my fingers around it.

  “Hey,” I whined.

  He narrowed his eyes pointedly at me before marching over to the sink and pouring the rest of the bottle down the drain.

  “Hey!”

  Oisin leaned against the counter, crossed his arms over his silk night robe, and levelled his eyes at me. “River, what are you doing?”

  “I’m quitting.”

  Oisin frowned at me. “No, you’re not.”

  “I am,” I insisted, pointing to my computer screen. “I’m writing the email to Seamus right now. I’m out of here. Out. Of. Here.”

  Oisin assessed me. “You wouldn’t…” he said slowly.

  “No?” My chin jutted forward in a challenge. “Watch me.” My fingers typed out a quick “I quit, loser” and my mouse was hovering over the “Send” icon when Oisin rushed over.

  “Woah, woah, woah!” He pulled my laptop away from me. “Let’s think about this, shall we?”

  “I have thought about this.” I lunged for the keyboard, but Oisin easily kept it out of reach. Pouting, I again grabbed my ice cream scooper and dug into the cookie dough.

  Oisin scooted my laptop a little farther away, eyeing me to make sure I wasn’t going to stretch for it, before pulling out a bar stool next to me. He laid a hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asked softly.

  “I’m quitting,” I repeated over a mouthful of cookie dough. “I’m quitting and that’s that.”

  “River.” Oisin squeezed my shoulder.

  I glanced over at him and saw in his soft but determined gaze that I wasn’t getting out of this one: I was trapped in a friendship web.

  I sighed and sagged over my bowl of cookie dough. “Everything’s been so different since Dublin,” I admitted. “I thought Declan and I were making progress. I thought even…” My voice trailed off as I stared down at my hands.

  The first time he missed dinner I hadn’t thought much about it. After our time in the city, I understood the pressure that Declan was under for his upcoming return fight. As I glanced again and again at the clock on the wall in the dining room, I assumed he simply lost track of time in the gym. It was nothing. I ate alone and went up to bed. I fell asleep without giving it a second thought.

  The second time he missed our dinner together, I started to worry. I remembered Niall’s words regarding Declan’s injuries. Was he beginning to push himself too hard? Was he going to hurt himself? Anxiety filled my chest because I was the one who said he could fight, that he should fight. I wasn’t sure I could stand to be the reason for Declan’s pain. Alone again, I finished my dinner, and on my way upstairs I stopped by the gym. I peeked inside to find Declan at the punching bag, fists pounding faster, faster, faster as the muscles along his back rippled. I went to bed but tossed and turned the whole night.

  The third night he didn’t show up for dinner I waited fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, forty-five minutes with my favourite pesto farfalle with grilled chicken getting colder and colder before slapping my napkin on the edge of the dining room table and marching straight down to the gym. I shoved open the doors and stormed across to where Declan was in full-out sprint on the treadmill. I moved to the front of the machine and pressed the emergency stop button.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I shouted as the belt slowed and stopped.

  Declan pulled out his headphones. “What?” he asked, clearly confused.

  “It’s 6:58,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Declan had glanced down at his watch. “Oh.” Without another word, he had hopped down from the treadmill and walked out of the gym.

  Relieved, I followed him along the hallway toward the dining room. I chastised myself for worrying; everything was fine. He just lost track of time, just as I had suspected.

  But as I turned into the dining room, I nearly crashed into him as he was leaving the room with his plate. He slipped past me without a word, without a glance.

  “Where are you going?” I shouted after him.

  “I’m going to watch the film of my last practice with Seamus while I eat,” he called back before disappearing around the corner.

  That night I didn’t sleep. I was far too busy staring up at my ceiling.

  As the days went on, I saw Declan less and less. He no longer ate dinner with me. Every time I went into the gym to get to my office, he was busy on a phone call or in the spa or just mysteriously gone. He even gave my morning breakfast routine to Oisin so I no longer saw him then.

  Soon, I realised what was right beneath my nose, what I hadn’t wanted to see: Declan was avoiding me.

  Our time in Dublin had blinded me. His lips, hot, desperate, and hungry, had placed a blindfold over my eyes. His arms, strong, firm and possessive, tied it tight. And his eyes, soft, kind, and yearning, had double knotted it, then double knotted it again, so I had no choice but to feel my way around the dark with my heart and my heart alone.

  So I didn’t see it coming.

  The old Declan had returned and I hadn’t even known it till I was already out in the icy cold, alone and in the dark.

  “So I’m quitting,” I said with a determined nod of my chin after explaining all of this as best I could to Oisin. “And that’s that.”

  Sitting next to me at the kitchen island, Oisin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  I frowned over at him in confusion.

  Oisin opened the laptop. His fingers clacked on the keyboard and he squinted. I watched in growing curiosity as his eyes scanned the page back and forth. In a whirl of motion, spun the laptop around to face me and jammed his finger at the page.

  “Look at this,” he commanded, pushing the laptop even closer to me.

  My head flopped back and I began to protest with a whine, “Ois—”

  “Look,” he interrupted. “Just look, alright?”

 

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