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and what he wants without the reflection of others. No mirrors pointed back at him telling him to internalize what everyone else thinks of him.  
    If I hadn’t touched him, kissed him, joked and teased and played with him, I would think he was a god. But no…he’s flesh and bone and real and authentic and…
    Mine.
    And I am enough for him. Enough as is.
    More than enough.
    And that is true even without Declan.
    “ I—” Steve is speechless. Declan’s godlike status just went up a notch, because Steve’s bloviating is hard to stop, like trying to stop Mom from getting up at 2:30 a.m. on Black Friday to stand in line at a big-box store and come home with a television bigger than the height of our house because “It was only $39.97! and they gave me a free coffee!”  
    “Come here,” Declan sa ys , pulling on my hand. He’s crossed oceans for me. Cut meetings short. Slept in airplane seats designed for children who aren’t tall enough to ride rollercoasters. His pull le aves no question, no opportunity to argue. I’ m going with him, and Steve’s nostrils flare.
    “What are you doing?” Steve ask s . He d oes n’t ask, though—the words c o me out in a livid monotone. Years of dating and he’d never shown jealousy toward any other guy, even when we’d been at nightclubs and someone grabbed my ass. No protectiveness, no possessiveness, no sense that he was upset that I was someone else’s hand candy, objectified and easy for a grab that meant nothing and everything at the same time.
    A ll those years of being his… what ? What was I to him?
    “I’m taking Shannon,” Declan sa ys in a tone that i s the mirror opposite of Steve’s—full of passion and infused with feeling. His words a re measured but the meaning behind them is n’t.
    She’s mine. You fucked up. Go away.
    Wait. Those were the meanings behind my words, actually.
    Declan pull s a wallet out of his back pocket, his other hand firmly holding my elbow with a grip that i s not unpleasant. He tosse s two twenties on the table and with a gentle nudge turn s me away from Steve, who sits there, impotent, staring gape-mouthed at the cash.
    Declan’s steps eat the floor between where I’d been sitting and the main door, my legs like tingling rubber bands as I work to match him. The way he just treated Steve ma kes my brain buzz. It was so…rude. So…macho.
    So… right .

Chapter Five
    “Thank you,” I sa y as he pushe s the door open and a burst of sunset explode s before my eyes, feeling returning to my legs, my lips, my body. As the steps t ake me away from a man who had never cherished me, never seen me as anything more than a tool, I fe el my body fill in.
    Like a paint-by-numbers project, here c omes my dignity in a lovely shade of purple . Blue st ands for confidence. Rich red for clarity. A sedate adobe represent s patience, and green i s the color of hope.
    Declan’s eyes.
    “For what?” he ask s as he h olds the car door open for the (of course) waiting limo outside the restaurant.
    “For that.” I thumb toward the restaurant, half expecting to see Steve’s distorted face pressed against the plate-glass window. “Um, how much did you hear?”  
    “You mean the part about his tiny penith and his huge ego? Because that was great.” A half-grin and hearty laugh follow. “‘Penith’ will never not be funny.”
    Declan’s hand is on the limo handle when I realize—my car!
    “Wait. I drove here,” I explain, a sinking feeling hitting me at once. Practical Shannon. How would I get home if Price Charming sweeps me away on his mechanical steed?  
    “Turdmobile?” he asks. A passerby gives him a funny look, staring at the limo with one eyebrow cocked.
    “Yep.” I look over at the parking lot where I stashed the damn thing. Even mixed in with a bunch of late-’90s junkers, the car stands out like my mom at a Submissive Wives conference.  
    “I’ll bring you back,” he says, opening the door. Declan slid es in next