Bailey
And so it begins… an attempt by Declan and me to have a relationship.
We decided to start out with something simple. Without pressure. Away from The Wicked Horse. I’m cooking him dinner at my home, and he should be here soon.
It’s not that we’re opposed to The Wicked Horse. We’ll probably go again. But Declan and I talked a bit that last evening in Chicago in his bed in the family suite. We focused on what a relationship would look like between us, given we hadn’t been looking for something like this.
It was comical, really. Sometimes, it felt like we were negotiating a new agreement we would ultimately put in writing. It was clear we were operating from a place where trust doesn’t come easily. I have no clue his reasons, but I suspect it has to do with the way he was raised. As for me, it’s merely that I got pretty badly burned by a man I thought I could trust.
My most significant demand, and it was non-negotiable, was exclusivity. While I loved my experiences at the club, I wasn’t into sharing, and I was clear about that. Declan called me cute, kissed me on my nose, and said he could agree to that. Surprisingly, he admitted he hadn’t liked those men touching me that night as much as he thought he would, so he was okay with a pure sort of monogamy. We agreed our playtime in The Wicked Horse—should we choose to go back—would only be with each other.
For now.
The other thing we discussed was safe sex. We’ve been using condoms, which is the norm for people who aren’t committed and don’t know each other. Declan asked if I would consider doing away with them since we agreed to exclusivity, and I was on the pill. To be honest, the thought of having that level of intimacy with him was appealing. It was also an indication this wasn’t a whim.
We were thinking not only with our bodies, but our heads and maybe a little bit with our hearts.
Both of us had STD tests today—not that we’re expecting anything wrong to show up—and we’ll get the results soon. To say I’m eagerly anticipating sex with that man without anything between us is an understatement.
I glance at the clock. Declan should be here any moment. Lasagna is my go-to meal, and despite my not being Italian, I make a pretty damn good one. It’s been cooling on top of the stove while the garlic bread browns in the oven.
There’s a bottle of red opened on my wobbly, folding card table in my tiny kitchen done in faded yellow wallpaper, chipped Formica counters, and weathered linoleum floors. The downside to renting is I’m stuck with the trappings since it makes no sense to make improvements to a temporary home.
I contrast this dinner setup to the one at Blackwood mansion night before last. Not a single piece of crystal in sight. My plates are from Target. When I bought them after the divorce, I could only afford a setting for four. The wine was only fourteen dollars, and we’re going to have to drink it from the cheap glasses I got with the plates. I don’t have linen napkins, only paper towels, and the only flatware is a fork and a butter knife. About the fanciest thing I did was pour the grated parmesan cheese into a bowl.
It’s a far cry from what Declan is used to, yet… I don’t feel inadequate at all. Because one thing about Declan is that while he’s accustomed to the finer things, I don’t think he is dependent on them.
He’s the one who brought up a relationship. He’s the one who suggested a quiet dinner in my home would be a great first date. He knows I can’t offer the expensive things in life, but I can give him an honest effort at making him welcome and feeding him well.
I glance down at my outfit. I’d decided to be myself, and that means jeans—old and faded with a rip in one knee—a t-shirt, and bare feet. I scrubbed my face free of makeup after work, threw my hair up in a ponytail, and got busy putting my lasagna together. I told Declan this would be casual, and I’m dying to see the man in perhaps a pair of jeans, too. While he fills out a designer suit in the yummiest of ways, I bet jeans were built for a man such as him.
There’s a knock on the door.
Seven PM on the dot.
I blow a breath out—nerves and excitement—and rush into the living room and to the front door.
I swing it open, taking in the man on my front porch. He’s in a dark suit, designer dress shirt, and a silk tie. In his hand, he holds a white plastic bag that looks like takeout.
“You’re dressed nice,” I accuse, my greeting causing him to blink in surprise.
“But I brought dessert… from Flemings,” he cajoles, holding the bag up. “Cheesecake. You know they make the best.”
I don’t know that since I can’t afford to eat at Flemings, but I’m stuck on the disappointment of him not being dressed down. “We agreed this was casual. My home is all about jeans. Even sweatpants. And yet, here you are, dressed all fancy. Declan, I’m not a fancy person. I mean, look at me… This is who I am and how I like things.”
Somewhere during my rant, Declan’s lips start to curve up.
When I’m done, I exhale a long breath. He laughs. “My apologies. I’d intended to change into something more casual, but my meeting ran late. I didn’t have time, especially since I wanted to grab a cheesecake from Flemings.”
My cheeks warm. I realize how ridiculous I’d just sounded, but I’m touched he felt picking up a dessert for us was worth such an effort.
I sweep my arm to indicate he should come in. “I’m sorry. I was just fantasizing about you in jeans,” I mutter in a shameless admission.
“Oh really,” he drawls with great interest. “What exactly would me in jeans do to you?”
“You’ll just have to wear them some time to find out,” I reply smartly, nabbing the bag. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I lead Declan into the kitchen, placing the bag in the fridge.
“Cute kitchen,” he remarks as he takes off his suit jacket, then sets it over the back of one of the chairs.
“It’s a bit dated,” I remark as I move to the stove. “But the yellow is cheery.”
Immediately, I feel him at my back, his hands at my hips and the warmth of him pressing into my back. His lips come to my neck, and he kisses me there. “Smells delicious.”
“The lasagna?” I murmur in a daze, the feel of his lips causing my body to flush with arousal.
“Among other things,” he replies softly, leaning around to press his lips against mine.
When he pulls back, he smiles. “What can I do to help?”
I blink to shake the spell this man so easily puts over me. “Um… you can pour the wine while I dish out the lasagna.”
“On it,” he replies, and I grab an oven mitt to pull the bread out.
We work in quick but companionable silence. I put the plates together to bring to the table, and Declan pours wine into my regular tumbler glasses without even a word as to how uncouth it is.
When we sit at the table, Declan’s eyes are drawn not to the food or even to me, but to a tiny ceramic vase in the middle where I put a silk Gerber daisy. His smile is warm and unlike any I’ve seen before.
He looks up. “That’s a really nice touch.”
And he means it. It’s a crappy silk flower in a two-dollar vase in my seventies-styled yellow kitchen, and he’s charmed by it.
“Thank you,” I reply softly.
He holds up his tumbler of wine, and I do the same as he toasts me. “To a beautiful woman and a beautiful meal. Thank you for having me in your home.”
Oh, God. Still so much formality in him, and I know he can’t help it. It’s probably how he’d thank anyone for a dinner invitation, but I can tell by the timbre of his voice he’s actually into this.
To me.
To who I am.
It’s the first time I think… maybe we really can have something together.
We eat and talk. Sometimes about work, but that’s only inevitable. We’ve been continuing with Declan’s plans to build a sex club-themed resort.
I’m surprised when he asks, “You said you were married before? What was the deal there?”
I chew my bite of cheesy lasagna. When I swallow, I say, “I’ve been divorced about a year now. My husband left me for another man.”
Declan’s eyebrows shoot almost into his hairline. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope,” I reply with a wry smile, my gaze going to my food. Even after all this time—even having this gorgeous man in my home and knowing he’ll be in my bed tonight—it’s still embarrassing.
“You know him being gay has nothing to do with you, right?” he says, causing my eyes to snap to him. “And him hiding it from you… that has nothing to do with you either. That only speaks to him being a dick for not being truthful.”
“Yeah,” I say on a wince. “I do, deep down. I guess I just don’t understand how I didn’t see it.”
“People who don’t have the guts to be themselves and have to keep that part hidden are exceptionally good at the deception. And if you were in love with him, you wouldn’t have wanted to see it. It’s why love is tricky.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say with a laugh, picking up my glass for a sip of wine. When I set it down, I lock eyes with him. “It’s hard for me to trust after that. Hard to trust this thing between us. We’re so different.”
He nods. “In a lot of ways, yes, but in some ways we fit together nicely.”
I give him a faux glare. “There needs to be more than sex for a relationship to work.”
“But having great sex sure helps,” he quips.
“That’s true,” I admit.
“Are you anti-relationship because of your family?” I ask. I mean, it’s only fair since he knows from where my trust issues stem.
Declan shrugs as he cuts into another bite of lasagna. “I certainly didn’t have the best role models in my parents as to what a loving relationship should be.”
“How so?”
“My father routinely has a mistress on the side,” Declan says bitterly. “When I was younger, they used to fight about it a lot. As I got older, I realized they’d come to an acceptance of sorts. My father wasn’t going to stop, and my mother wasn’t about to give up her wealthy lifestyle, so she pretended not to know.”
“That’s awful,” I murmur, amazed at how the wealthy let money dictate behavior even in the areas of love and commitment.
Declan shrugs again. “My mother gave as good as she got. She had affairs with a handful of young men. And she drank… a lot.”
I grimace. He’s matter of fact about their dysfunction. Frankly, it’s a miracle Declan isn’t a complete misogynist given his father as a role model.
“What about your sister? You two don’t seem close.”
“She’s eight years older than me, so we didn’t do much together. She and my mother are close, and she takes after her in so many ways other than looks.”
I take that to mean she probably cheats on her husband, is snobbish, and perhaps a drunk. I won’t delve into the details.
“But you’re not like your mother or your father,” I point out.
Declan tries to suppress a sardonic smile. “I’m a lot like my parents, in some ways.”
“You’re not,” I argue.
“I’m an asshole at times,” he points out. “And I can be very elitist.”
“Not to me,” I maintain. Because isn’t that what really matters?
“No, not to you,” he admits with a soft look. “I had a bit of good influence growing up. A nanny named Leonie Schmidt. She’s from Germany. She could be strict in her rules and the enforcement of them, but she was also everything my parents weren’t. Kind, loving, funny, and she was interested in me. Not because it was her job, but because she loved me.”
“She sounds wonderful,” I breathe out, feeling the tension in my chest loosen. I had not realized it was there until he talked about Leonie.
“She is,” he agrees with a fond smile. “In fact, you should come to dinner with us the next time I take her out.”
“She lives here?” I exclaim.
Declan chuckles. “She goes wherever I go. She’s in a retirement community here in Vegas.”
He describes what growing up with Leonie was like. Along with the funny and heartwarming stories, he says his family all but turned their backs on her when she got too old to look after Marissa’s kids. None of them talk to or check in on her, except Declan, and he more than just checks in.
He cares for her. Pays for her home. Visits her at least once a week for dinner. She’s traveled all over the world with him while he opens new Blackwood resorts.
She’s the mother he never had. Since she didn’t have children, he is essentially her son.
I cannot wait to meet her, and I’m warmed he wants me to. It’s not something I think would ordinarily come so fast in a relationship, but let’s face it… I’ve already met his parents and they insulted me, so why not?
We continue to talk. Because he doesn’t seem to be shy about discussing it, I ask more questions about what it was like growing up a Blackwood. As expected, it involved lavish vacations, absentee parents, the most expensive of educations, and a nanny who doted on him in an attempt to make up for the love he was otherwise lacking.
He asks me what it was like to grow up a Robbins. I described a lot of PB&J and Chef Boyardee lunches, summer vacations roaming the neighborhood on my bike because we couldn’t afford to go anywhere, and cheap department store clothing that made it difficult to fit in with the cool kids.
But I also told him about the love and laughter around the dinner table, a ritualized event where we would eat good food my mom cooked after a long day at the mill, and we’d share how our days went with each other. And even though we didn’t have a lot of privileges, we always had what we needed.
It becomes apparent just how different our lives have been, yet there’s never a lull in our discussion. There’s quipping back and forth, profound questions, in-depth answers, and one of the things I love the most out of what we’re trying to do here… a lot of laughter.