The corner of Declan’s mouth ticked up when Grace let out a wet-sounding laugh. He knew her pride would hold a grudge against her letting the noise slip, but he was satisfied that he’d made her do something that wasn’t cry for once. Or scream in his face. There had been a lot of screaming in each other’s faces in unfamiliar lawyers’ offices.
As soon as Grace disposed of the tissue and leaned in, Declan unconsciously mirrored her. Could either of them really be blamed for that? One measly divorce couldn’t undo years upon years of muscle memory and natural magnetism. He gripped the back of the chair he was leaning against and rested his chin on his knuckles, raising an eyebrow at Grace. There was that stubborn pride again, doing what it could to belittle Declan in favour of making Grace look like she had the upperhand. There were still faint mascara smudges around her eyes and the tip of her nose was red. If anything, she looked like she needed a win so Declan didn’t counter her little jibe. Well, he did, but with less vigor than usual.
“Still need to see my face on the daily to get you through the day, Gracie?” he teased her, knowing he was asking for a scowl in response.
If she needed someone to be mad at right now though, he’d gone months upon months being on the receiving end of Grace’s ire. It was a different flavour than the usual passion she directed his way, and harder to digest, he had to admit. But he could bear it better than he would with indifference.
Being on her periphery was better than her forgetting about him at all. He supposed he had Bee to thank for keeping his ex-wife in his life one way or another.
“I think you and that pigeon have a lot in common,” he quipped, before leaning back and sitting up straight.
He gave Grace a careful once-over, certain she wasn’t about to burst into tears again. Then he rapped his knuckles on the brass frame of the chair.
“Right, enough tears from you. You’ve had your tantrum, back to business,” he declared.
He swung a leg back over the chair in a casual dismount then began unbuttoning his own blazer, a gift from Bee a few birthdays ago that he knew his daughter wasn’t fashion-savvy enough to have actually picked out for him herself. Bee and her mom were too artsy-fartsy to know what a label like this would mean. It had ‘purchased by Grace’ written all over it, though he supposed she wouldn’t remember that.
Reaching the final button, he let the blazer fall open and shrugged it from his shoulders, catching Grace’s eye.
“Don’t get too excited,” he warned her, knowing she’d hate the implication, coupled with the smug smirk he wore. Before she could grow too irate, he held the blazer out to her.
“It’ll cover the stains on your suit. The white suit you chose to wear. In December. In New York.”
Grace thought it was so typical of Declan to show up unannounced and forcibly shove himself back into her good graces – no pun intended, of course. It was deeply irritating, knowing that the man sat mere inches away from her was both the love and the loss of her life. He’d always known exactly how to pull her out of a bad mood, even when he’d been the one to land her there in the first place. She watched as his knuckles brushed the frame of the chair and wondered if she could ask him to clatter them across her skull instead. Maybe a healthy dose of amnesia would help her forget just how hopelessly she missed him.
“It wasn’t a tantrum, you ass,” Grace rolled her eyes. She was pouting, though, and her tone was the epitome of bratty.
She stayed seated for a moment longer, watching as he pushed up onto his feet, always with the dramatics. There was something obscenely sexy about the way that he did just about everything, his body moving in a way that was simultaneously so clumsy and elegant at the same time. He didn’t have the dancer’s rhythm that Morgan had, nor the hulking form of Teddy, but he was Declan and he was hers. Or rather, he had been hers, a very long time ago. Grace was so lost in her own little daydream that she almost missed the way he was shucking off his jacket, her cheeks flushing as he openly teased her about his PG striptease.
“I think I can just about handle the sight of your open collar, sweetheart,” Grace scoffed, the term of endearment toppling from her lips so naturally that she didn’t even realise. Despite her proclamation, her gaze travelled downwards, the blush on her cheeks reddening as she noted the slither of chest that was on show, peeking out from behind his shirt. He’d always been a stickler for buttoning all the way up – usually that was a job for Grace, nimble fingers tightening him up all the way to the collar while he cheekily smattered her neck with kisses, roaming hands trying to undress her by contrast.
Pushing to her feet with a sigh, she rolled her eyes again for extra measure, ignoring his gripes about her suit.
“You’re right. Whoever bought me this suit must be a total idiot,” she noted, catching his eye with a brief smile. “God forbid I want to look fabulous.”
As she stepped towards him, it would have been easy for her to pinch the blazer from his grasp and pull it on, as he intended. However, instinct took over as she turned on the spot, her back to his as she stood, waiting. It was too late by the time she realised her mistake, his scent filling her nostrils as she inhaled sharply, waiting for him to fill her space, to wrap the blazer around her shoulders and let it hold her the way he used to.
“Hurry up or they’ll think you kidnapped me,” she teased, voice catching in her throat. It would be just as easy to turn and grab the jacket and run, but she didn’t want to.
