One Autumn Night

Chapter Twelve

She could either be a ninny or a brave woman. And while it could be argued that she was feeling the former, she righted her shoulders and reminded herself she wasn't a teenager anymore. She was a fully functional adult, thank you very much.

Summoning strength, she knocked on the front door that appeared freshly painted, knocked again, then figuring most of the staff was busy tending to final prep for the party, she let herself in with a quiet, "Hello?"

She closed the door behind her and gazed up the curving half moons of grand staircases that flanked the foyer on either side. Gleaming wood marked the way up while white marble floors glistened in every direction at the base. Gold frames glinted, periwinkle hydrangeas burst in exquisite bouquets, and an enormous crystal chandelier hung in all its twinkling glory from the center of the foyer above Abigail's head.

Despising that she had shrunk—probably in height as well as in spirit—she kept on, one foot in front of the other, making her way up the stairs toward where she remembered Declan's room to be. Or at least where it used to be.

Passing by the first few doors, she stopped and rapped her knuckles against the solid wood of the fourth door in, hoping to hell it was still his room.

She knocked again then heard footsteps starting up the stairs behind her. She panicked, and in a fast, unexplainable surge, she opened the door and slipped in, closing it quietly.

She was scolding herself as Declan stepped out of the en suit bathroom, freshly showered, eyes bright and body covered in an exquisitely tailored black tuxedo.

She'd never been into fancy, preferring comfortable and casual to stuffy and shiny, but her mind fogged seeing the man before her styled and sharp, looking like the noble Fitzgerald man that he was.

"Hey, how's it going out there?"

He was comfortable in the classy surroundings just as he was comfortable in her packed pub kitchen. But because of that, and because he never flashed his status around when they were together, she'd largely forgotten about his moneyed breeding, his well-connected familial web of influence, the endless depths of cash that bought cars and planes and homes and people.

"Fine," she told him, feeling pressure pinch in her brow. She rubbed at it. "Actually not fine. Did you and Beckett bring the containers of sausage from Lucky?"

"Lucky? Oh right, your car. Yeah, Beckett took it down to the tent when we got here."

"He's not down there."

The music rose once again, blaring up to his second floor room that looked down on the spread of tents, the smattering of staff, the sparkling lights that shined against the darkened sky. The upper hand had always been his, hadn't it? It never would matter what kind of life she lived, his status would always tower above, casting shadows, and hers would always be as a speck in the moving maze of people below.

And she'd crumbled under the foot of that stature, hadn't she? She'd given in to the demands of it and had taken what was cast her way as a bribe. The realization was lowering and there was no other way to spin it. She'd been paid off and that fact made her insides clench with fisted hands that wanted desperately to fight back for once.

She was tired from lack of sleep, tired of feeling small. Just damn tired.

"Maybe you passed each other in your search. You all right?"

"No. Yes." She exhaled, feeling the rawness of it. "I just need my sausages and for this night to be over."

"Hey, come here." His hands lay on her shoulders, turning her to face him.