One Autumn Night

Chapter Five

"What're you doing here?"

"More bags in the car? I'll carry them in," Declan told Abigail.

"No," she said curtly then reminded herself he was a client. "None for you to carry in at least, thank you. What are you doing here?"

"Helping Beckett cook for tonight."

Beckett busied himself with the pan of onions he had going on the stove.

Seeing Declan casually working away in her cramped kitchen was too much, causing fast flutters to jitter to life in her chest.

No, just no. She didn't want him there, she had a job to do, and she needed to do it. In her own space, away from the man who'd probably never cooked a day in his life.

Abigail took a deep breath to quiet the flutter. Declan was nothing but a client at this point. He was just someone she used to know. Know and love, she corrected, but that piece of information didn't matter or factor into the moment now.

"Thank you for stopping by but you hired the Plumber's Pub and the Plumber's Pub will deliver dinner to your guests on time this evening without you hovering. In fact hovering will cause delays. Excuse me." She used her practiced, professional tone then exited through the back door to retrieve the remaining groceries from her trunk.

How could the man just show up out of the dark abyss he'd disappeared into? He needed to return to it and just let her be. The past needed to stay in the past. "I hate this, I hate this," she hissed as she popped her trunk to the tune of a loud squeal.

Burgeoning steel-gray clouds continued to threaten as gurgles of thunder rumbled. She had something in common with the sky, she thought as she shoved her head in the trunk to pull forward the remaining bags. They were both on the verge of either holding it together or letting all hell break loose.

She needed that money to cover construction costs. And she hated, hated, hated that she did. And she hated that it was coming from the Fitzgeralds. She didn't want to bite her tongue for money, to stop being herself for money, to hold back the vibrancy—some may call it temper—of who she was in exchange for money. Dammit, she could not be bought. Again.

Aware that her mood was taking her for a ride, she muttered out a low sound of annoyance and tugged at a bag.

"So why'd you really call it Plumber's Pub?"

She ripped part of the paper bag when she heard Declan approach. Yanking the thing out anyway, annoyed, a stray bundle of white bar towels tumbled to the ground.

Declan reached for them before she could, then took the remaining two bags from her trunk. "Got the keys?"

"Yes," she said through gritted teeth. "And I already told you why I named the place what I did."

"That wasn't an answer."

"That was an answer," she countered, readjusting the hold on the bags along with her tone. "It most certainly was an answer."

"Okay, it was an answer, not your answer."

Struggling with an itch of annoyance she just couldn't get at, her temper spiked under the surface. "Exactly like a lawyer to latch onto one bitty word. You must be very good at your job."

"Your avoidance is only making me more intrigued." Carrying bags, Declan nudged open the back door with his foot, held it for her.

Her burnished gold eyes flicked a glance in his direction as she walked past. And it hit him straight in the chest like a flaming arrow. Her almond eyes could level him to a pile of rubble, he thought, and those bold, brazen flecks of light within them still set him ablaze.