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The house was unnaturally quiet without Rupert's booming presence echoing through its halls. He was off in Spain, probably making a spectacle of himself at some racecourse or schmoozing with anyone willing to listen to his tales of triumph and debauchery. Magnolia had been glad to see him off, though the silence he'd left behind had been filled by an entirely different presence—Declan.
It had started innocuously enough. A night here, a night there, but now it seemed as though he was spending more time in her room than his own home. She had stopped questioning it after the third night, though the weight of it lingered in the back of her mind, gnawing at her when she least expected it.
On this particular morning, she found herself seated at the kitchen table, still in her dressing gown, hair loosely pinned atop her head. Declan stood at the stove, his tall frame hunched slightly as he scrambled eggs in a pan. The sight of him barefoot and in his shirt sleeves would have been almost domestic if not for the faint scowl etched into Mrs. Cartwright's face as she hovered near the counter.
"Mr. O'Hara," Mrs. Cartwright said pointedly, her tone icy enough to chill the room. "I really must insist that you let me handle breakfast."
"I've got it," Declan replied without turning around, his tone curt but not unkind. "Go put your feet up, Mrs. Cartwright. You've earned it."
The housekeeper's lips pursed into a thin line, and she turned her sharp eyes to Magnolia as if seeking backup. Magnolia merely shrugged, hiding a smile behind her teacup. Declan wasn't the type to take orders, even from someone as formidable as Mrs. Cartwright.
"Honestly, Mr. O'Hara, it's highly irregular," the housekeeper persisted, her hands wringing the dish towel she held. "Guests don't cook in this house."
Declan finally turned, spatula in hand, and gave her an exasperated look. "I'm not a guest," he said with a smirk, glancing toward Magnolia as he spoke. The comment sent a flutter through her chest, though she quickly buried it by taking another sip of tea.
Mrs. Cartwright muttered something under her breath about boundaries and propriety before bustling off to busy herself with cleaning the already pristine counters. Declan shook his head, muttering, "Bloody dragon," before returning to his eggs.
Magnolia watched him, her chin resting on her hand as the morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, bathing him in a warm glow. There was something oddly fascinating about seeing him like this—relaxed, almost playful. She wasn't sure she liked how much she enjoyed it.
"What's Maud thinking about all this?" she asked suddenly, the question escaping her before she could stop herself.
Declan didn't look at her, but she saw his shoulders tense slightly. "What do you mean?" he asked, though his tone made it clear he knew exactly what she meant.
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"This," she said, gesturing vaguely between them. "You spending your nights away instead of at home."
He sighed, setting the spatula down and turning to face her. "Maud's too busy trying to claw her way back into acting to notice where I am," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "She's got her head full of auditions and London. I could probably move to Timbuktu, and she wouldn't bat an eyelid."
Magnolia frowned, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. "That's not true. She must care."
Declan leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Does she? Honestly, Magnolia, I'm not so sure anymore."
The way he said her name sent a shiver down her spine, and she looked away, focusing on the steam rising from her tea. "You're still married," she said quietly, more to herself than to him.
"I know," he said simply, the weight of those two words hanging heavy in the air.
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the faint sizzle of the eggs in the pan. Magnolia didn't know what to say. She wanted to tell him he shouldn't be here, that this was dangerous for both of them, but the words felt hollow even in her own mind. She didn't want him to leave. That was the truth she couldn't admit, even to herself.
Declan pushed off the counter and returned to the stove, his movements tense. "Breakfast's nearly ready," he said, his tone lighter, as if trying to brush aside the conversation. "You like your eggs soft, don't you?"
She nodded, watching him carefully. There was something about the way he moved—efficient yet unhurried—that made her chest ache. It was such a simple thing, making breakfast, yet it felt monumental coming from him.
Mrs. Cartwright reappeared just as Declan was plating the eggs, her expression a mix of resignation and disdain. "I suppose I'll set the table, then," she said, her tone clipped.
"Don't bother," Declan said, carrying two plates to the table. "We'll eat here."
Magnolia couldn't suppress a smile as Mrs. Cartwright huffed and stalked out of the room, muttering something about the decline of standards. Declan set a plate in front of her and sat down across from her, his expression softening as their eyes met.
"Eat up," he said, his voice quieter now, almost tender. "You're too thin."
Magnolia rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the warmth that spread through her chest at his concern. "I'm perfectly healthy, thank you."
Declan didn't argue, but the look he gave her said he wasn't convinced. They ate in silence, the tension from earlier lingering but softened by the comfort of shared company. For a moment, it felt as though the rest of the world didn't exist—just the two of them, stealing a sliver of time that wasn't theirs to claim.
The kitchen was dimly lit now, with the fading evening sun casting long shadows across the room. Declan stood at the sink, rinsing the plates and cutlery from their breakfast—though it felt more like a shared ritual than just a meal. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair, and his broad back flexed subtly beneath the fabric of his shirt as he worked. Magnolia couldn't look away.
Perched on the kitchen island, her legs dangling over the edge, she nursed the last sip of her tea, but her focus was entirely on him. The sound of running water and the occasional clink of dishware were the only noises in the otherwise quiet house. Her gaze traveled over him, lingering on the strength in his shoulders, the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. It wasn't fair how effortlessly attractive he was.
