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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.
