Page 43 of Always Be an Us

He doesn't say anything to that, but I can tell the strike landed by the way his lips tighten.

"I'll tell Amelia bye on the way out," I say.

And with that, I turn around and leave before I say something else I regret.

When I get home, the restless energy from my conversation with Declan still hasn't left my body.

Ugh, why does he get under my skin so easily?

Just when I start to like him, he gets condescending again.

Why did I agree to work for him?

Why did I think we were becoming friends?

And why the heck am I still so attracted to him?

I pace up and down wondering what to do with all of it. It's too late to go out for a swim or a walk. Besides, without Grandpa here, it feels odd to be on the lake.

Left with no other options, I storm up to my room and throw open my closet. There's an old empty canvas there that I've had since high school and some watercolors lying around. I take them all out, setting it up in the space of a few seconds.

And then, for the first time in nearly three years, I start to paint.

Chapter Twelve

Declan

The next day, I step out of the limo and head towards the hotel lobby.

The sliding doors open and close behind me, blocking out the shuffle and din of the streets. That’s the thing about being back in the city… how noisy it is. And the smell. I thought I was used to it, having lived most of my adult life here at this point. But being away for a few days, it does take some adjusting to car horns, the sirens, and the industrial odor that colors the atmosphere.

A slow, light classical music takes its place when I step through the doors though, leading to the exquisite ballroom at the side of the lobby.

But that’s not my destination. Instead, I follow the line of crystal chandeliers above. They cast an orange light over the beige-and-violet mid-century modern furniture to the other side of the lobby.

Feet above my head, on the roof of the lobby, is an exquisite kaleidoscope of colors, a glass painting that is reminiscent of the Sistine Chapel. It's from that art piece that the hotel got its name, boldly embossed on the white walls.

The Vatican.

The Vatican hotel is one of my father’s first purchases. It’s his pride and joy and even though the design is quite dated, he still maintains a penthouse on the topmost floor, where he spends his time whenever he's in the city. Instead of an office, he prefers to hold many of his business meetings in the conference room, which is on the third floor next to the elevator.

A few seconds later, I walk into that room just as a waitress is delivering my father a glass of wine. Chardonnay most likely, as that’s his favorite. He smiles warmly at her, and she blushes.

Even at nearly seventy years old, my father, with his large physique and cool blue eyes, has a devastating effect on women. He likes to flirt occasionally too but he never remarried after his first divorce.

"Dad."

Both my father and the waitress turn at the sound of my voice. She squeaks and the tray nearly slips from her hand as her eyes meet mine. She catches it at the last minute, the bottle of Chardonnay wobbling from the struggle.

My father easily palms the bottle, steadying it.

I raise my eyebrow at the scene. The heat in the waitress's face grows as she mumbles an apology and then scurries out.

My dad shoots me a disapproving look.

"What?" I ask as I take the seat beside him.

"Did you have to do that?"

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