My bones buzz as I dial his number.
But I go straight to voicemail, so I send him a text.
* * *
Grant: Is this for real? Are you seriously being traded out west?
* * *
I close the screen, open the garage, and pull out. Along the way, I blast Five Seconds of Summer, Adele, and Bruno Mars till I reach the gallery. The valet takes my car, and I check my phone for messages on the way in.
No reply.
But he has a game today in Los Angeles. I click over to the LA Bandits schedule. Yup, the game’s about to start, so his phone is tucked away in his locker.
As I open the gallery door, I check the starting lineup for the game and stop in my tracks when I see Declan’s not on it. What the hell? Was he injured? Is he taking a day off?
I text him again.
* * *
Grant: You okay? You’re not on the lineup. LMK, Deck.
* * *
But my phone is silent for the next minute, the next two . . .
I take a big breath. Lineup probably didn’t update online for some reason. He’s on the field and I won’t hear from him for a few hours.
No biggie. This is our life. We are both out of pocket a lot.
I put my phone away in a feat of willpower and find Reese. We talk about the event, then for the next two hours, I catch up with some of the charity organizers and donors until the event winds down. As slow time-to-go music plays, I grab my phone from my pocket once again so I can check to see if my boyfriend has texted.
But before I can open the messages, all the breath rushes out of my lungs.
I don’t move.
I don’t speak.
I barely blink.
A man just strolled into the art gallery, looking for someone.
That someone is me. Because that man is mine.
My phone goes back in my pocket, and I walk to the guy who’s not supposed to be here till tomorrow. Declan’s like a tractor beam, drawing me in. I drink in the trim beard, the dark eyes, the secret smile.
I hope no one can hear my heart racing, but I don’t know how to stop it.
And I don’t want to. When I reach him in the entryway, neither of us makes a move to hug or touch, but my whole being aches to connect with him.
“Hey there,” he says.
“Hey to you.”
“Want to get out of here?”
I nod and walk away without looking back.
Outside, I hand the valet my ticket then turn to Declan, still trying to sort out his appearance. “What are you doing here a day early?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re in your car.”
“You’re such a tease,” I whisper.
“Trust me on this, rookie,” he says in a smoky voice that sends a shiver down my spine.
The desire to throw my arms around him and smother him in kisses is staggering. Reese always talks about love languages, and I’m pretty sure mine is touch. My entire being is begging me to say hi to him with lips and hands and entwined arms.
As we wait for the valet to return with my Tesla, Declan clasps his hands together, like he’s resisting me too. Yeah, he has the same love language. We’re both physical people. Our bodies are our livelihood.
A minute later, we’re in my car, and I still feel like I’m in a dream. Like all this fantastic reality might vanish when I wake up.
“Which way are we headed?” I ask. “My home? Please say my home. I’m dying to be alone with you.”
Declan tips his head the other direction. “How about the Golden Gate Bridge?”
“You’re killing me,” I mutter. Checking the mirrors, I pull away from the gallery and drive along the water toward the bridge. Evening joggers run on the edge of Crissy Field, and a group of women plays a soccer game under the lights.
I can’t stand it any longer. The need to touch him trumps everything, and I reach for his hand. “Spill,” I demand as our fingers thread together.
Squeezing back, he runs his thumb across my knuckles. “I will, but we need to stop somewhere.”
I groan in misery. “So, you make me get in my car before you’ll tell me why you’re here, and now that we’re in my car, you won’t tell me till we get out of my car. Dude, you are whiplash.”
Declan laughs, the big and deep kind of laugh that comes from the soul. “I promise it’s good.”
“You’re here. That’s good enough for me,” I say as the road curves and the traffic thins out along with the crowds. Darkness shrouds the car. We reach the foot of the winding hill leading up to the bridge.
“Good. That’s what I like hearing.”
A few seconds later, he nods, pointing to the side of the road. “You want to pull over here?”