Chapter 12
The guys all exchanged uneasy glances, shrugging slightly.
What were they supposed to say? That Declan Hawthorne–Westbridge’s golden boy–was drinking himself into oblivion over a woman? And not the one standing right in front of him?
Fortunately, Celeste didn’t seem to notice the awkward silence. She was more worried than
suspicious. Seeing Declan passed out cold, she rushed over and gently nudged his shoulder.
“Declan? Declan, can you hear me? How do you feel?”
Her voice brushed against his ear like a half–remembered dream.
He stirred groggily, blinking open his eyes. Everything was a blur. He couldn’t quite make out the face in front of him, but something about the voice felt… familiar.
So when she moved closer, trying to help him up, he didn’t resist. Just let her do it.
“This is bad,” Celeste muttered under her breath. “He’s had way too much. I’m taking him home.”
She spoke like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it was her right–and none of the guys
objected. In fact, they looked almost relieved to hand the problem off.
Tristan watched the two of them leave and sighed.
Once the door shut behind them, someone–Ryan Chambers, maybe–finally broke the silence.
“So… what’s going on with Declan?”
Tristan shook his head, exhaling long and hard. “Wish I knew.”
If Declan had feelings for Celeste, then with Marissa out of the picture, he should’ve been thrilled,
right?
But if it was Marissa he loved all along… then why had he said she was like a family to him? Why had
he always made excuses for Celeste?
Truth was,
no one understood what Declan really wanted–not even Declan himself.
He didn’t come to until the next morning.
Harsh sunlight streamed through the open window, stabbing at his skull like knives. His head
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throbbed like hell. Groaning, he sat up and rubbed his temples, wincing as the hangover hit in full
force.
That’s when he noticed the bowl on his nightstand.
Hangover soup.
Hope sparked in his chest.
He threw back the covers and practically stumbled out of bed, his legs moving on autopilot toward
the kitchen.
Porcelain clinked against glass somewhere inside.
He pushed open the door and blurted, “Marissa?!”
The woman in front of the stove froze for half a second. Then she turned around, smooth as ever.
“Declan? You’re up,” Celeste said brightly. “I left some hangover soup by your bed. Did you drink it? Actually, wait-” She turned back to the pot. “It’s probably cold by now. I’ll pour you a fresh bowl.”
She ladled it out and handed it over with a smile.
Declan took the bowl and stared at it for a long moment before finally saying, “Thanks.”
Celeste’s eyes lit up just a bit. “How is it?”
The soup
Different.
o did help–his headache eased almost instantly
something about it felt… off.
It didn’t taste like the ones Marissa used to make.
He didn’t say that out loud, though. Just nodded slowly. “It’s good.”
Silence settled over them again.
Celeste looked like she wanted to say more, but before she could, Declan spoke first.
“Your parents… they’re back in the country, right?”
The question caught her off guard, but she nodded. “Yeah. They got in three days ago.”
She didn’t understand why he was asking until the next second.
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“Back when you moved in, you said your family wasn’t around. But now that they’re back…” His voice was flat. Distant. “You should move back home. I’ll have someone drive you.”
With that, he turned and walked out, not bothering to look back.
“Declan!”
But Celeste wasn’t letting him off that easily. She caught up to him and grabbed his arm.
“What is this? You’re kicking me out?”
Her voice trembled. Panic bled into every word.
Declan’s brow furrowed as he pulled his wrist free. His tone dropped, edged with exhaustion.
“You never should’ve moved in to begin with.”
It was brutal.
Cruel, even.
And for a moment, both of them just stood there–shocked by how final it sounded.
Then, slowly, Celeste’s eyes filled with tears.
“…I’m sorry. You don’t have to send anyone. I’ll leave on my own.”
