Page 1 of Declan

Prologue

Declan

Iamofficiallyfucked.

Sure, my indulgence, or overindulgence in this case, in spirits and drugs has me a certain level of fucked up. But that’s only the icing on the cake of how fucked I am.

You see, up until this point, I don’t know if I’ve ever believed in love.

I mean, I’ve watched people close to me develop what appears to be intense feelings for another person, but that doesn’t mean that I understand it. That doesn’t mean I fully grasp what it’s like to be so wrapped up in another person, you no longer give a shit about your own wants and needs. It’s just that one person. All. The. Fucking. Time.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up.

I showed up to this annual award show with the intention of fulfilling my entertainment duties and then letting loose and entertaining everyone else. And for the most part, that’s what I’ve done, even with my attention distracted and my guts all twisted, which is incredibly confusing and entirely infuriating for a good-time guy such as myself.

I mean, it’s not like I didn’t know about her. It’s not like I’ve never crossed paths with her before.

Sure, we produce music in completely different genres, so we tend not to mix in the same circle. And yes, this is the first time I’ve ever been face-to-face with her, up close and personal.

And how we even ended up at the same table is lost on me.

Normally, they seat all of us rock guys together so we can cause trouble and stay out of everybody’s way. But no sooner do I sit down and look over do I see her seated primly across the table in some flowing, glowing sheer number that teases what anyone with eyes knows is underneath.

Sheer fucking bliss.

That is the best way to describe Marissa Munroe.

Issa. America’s pop princess, all smiles and soft blushes.

She’s curvy in all the right places. Her mid-length, wavy dark hair just begs to be wrapped around my hand so I can yank her head back and lick her pouty pink lips. But that would only draw my attention to the smooth golden skin of her neck and the throb of her pulse, her dark brown eyes hooded with want for me.

Then, there’s the small issue of me being distracted by the sound of her voice. It’s a little raspy and entirely melodic, and it sends this odd heat down my spine. I want nothing more than to sit beside her and lean in close so she can whisper in my ear.

I frown at my runaway thoughts, giving my head a shake in the hope I’ll suddenly come to my senses and focus back on what’s most important to me.

Mainly myself.

I’m just headed back to our table with a fresh drink or two when she falls in beside me, completely oblivious to the fact she’s standing so close to me. I smile, edging closer to her, and when my arm brushes against hers, she turns to me with a smile on her face. “Excu—“ she begins, but then her eyes meet mine, and the smile quickly fades.

I don’t let the sudden change in her demeanor bother me, not missing a beat as I say, “Miss Munroe, what a pleasure it is to see you.”

She narrows her eyes, her head tilting back so her chin is lifted almost defensively, and this gives me pause because it seems an odd reaction from someone I’ve never had any direct communication with. I can only assume my reputation precedes me; however, most people at least attempt to humor me with civility.

But not her, no. Marissa Munroe stares me down and then replies coldly, “No, thank you.”

I frown, outwardly taken aback by her response, and she uses this moment of surprise to move away from me, obviously intent on putting as much distance between us as possible if the swiftness of her walk is any indication.

No fucking way.

I take off after her, quickly closing the distance between us before she can get too far, and I manage to steer her around until she finally stops on the outskirts of the room, her glare now daggered.

My eyes widen at her reaction, her blatant dislike for me emulated through her stance and the angry grimace on her otherwise beautiful face.

She remains quiet for a moment, and when I don’t say anything, she says, “Well, are you going to get out of my way, or are we going to have a problem?”

“I’m not in your way,” I reply immediately, confused by her disdain but also by her insinuation that I’ve trapped her in plain sight of a room full of people.

“You forced me into a corner after I outright told you to leave me alone,” she retorts calmly. “I would call that in my way.”

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