Chapter 49: Forty Nine

Declan cleared his throat and gently touched my arm. “Willow,” he looked down at me, “Go upstairs, get dressed.”

His voice was calm, but his eyes said everything - I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve got this.

I nodded, heart pounding. “Of course. I…I’ll just...”

I turned toward his parents, forcing a sheepish, polite smile. “It was lovely to meet you both. I’ll be back down in a few.”

His mother gave a curt nod, arms folded across her chest. “Yes, dear. Take your time.”

Declan’s father gave me a slightly warmer smile, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he was trying not to laugh at the situation.

I padded past them on the wooden floors, super aware of my bare legs, my messy hair, the fact that I was wearing their son’s shirt and absolutely nothing else. I wasn’t even wearing a bra. I didn’t look back, but I could feel her eyes on me the entire way up the stairs.

Once in the bedroom, I exhaled sharply and covered my face with my hands.

So much for a peaceful weekend.

I dug through my bag, pulling out jeans and a sweater, trying not to panic. My mind raced with what that woman must be thinking, who she believed I was.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, heart thudding. I could still hear murmurs of voices downstairs… low, tense, layered.

This wasn’t the version of me I wanted them to meet.

And God, what would they think when they found out I’m his student?

When I finally walked back downstairs, my hair pulled into a loose braid and my face composed into what I hoped was calm confidence, I found the three of them seated in the living area. Declan looked up the moment he heard my steps and offered a small, reassuring smile.

“Hey,” he said gently, patting the empty spot on the couch beside him. “Come here.”

I took the seat next to him, subtly brushing my hand against his for strength.

“Willow, this is my mom, Emma Ashwell. And my dad, Richard Ashwell.”

His mother gave me the same assessing look she had upstairs, though this time she smiled, but only with her lips. It was that polite but mean smile that only rich old ladies knew how to do. “It’s nice to meet you, Willow.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I said as politely as I could manage.

Richard gave a nod and leaned back in the armchair. “So, Willow. How do you and Declan know each other?”

Declan was quick. “She’s in the same graduate program I work with. We met on campus through mutual interests.”

That wasn’t a lie. Not really.

Elise raised an eyebrow. “How lovely,” she said, her voice smooth but cool. “What do you study?”

“Development economics,” I said, sitting straighter. “I’m focusing on energy transitions and community level projects.”

Her smile tightened. “Interesting.”

Richard snorted faintly. “Declan was always the idealist too. I keep asking him to stop this academic business and join the family.” He looked pointedly at Declan, “What he was born and raised for.”

Declan stiffened beside me, jaw flexing. “Right,” he said, clipped.

An awkward pause followed, filled only by the ticking of the clock in the corner.

“So, Willow,” Emma said suddenly, folding one leg over the other. “May I ask how old you are?”

Declan tensed immediately. I glanced at him, then back at her.

“Twenty three.,” I said simply.

“That’s quite young,” she replied, tone delicate, almost too kind. “Much younger than my son.” She looked at him, “I wonder what brought you two together.”

I didn’t miss the insinuation. And neither did Declan.

“We work together, Mom,” he said, “I told you.”

Richard leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at me. “What do your parents do?”

I hesitated, caught off guard by the suddenness of the question. “They run a bakery back in Pennysylvania.”

Richard gave a small nod. Elise just said, “Hmm.”

Declan shifted, as if ready to end the conversation entirely.

“I’ll get us some more coffee,” he muttered, standing up.

“I’ll help,” I offered quickly, following him into the kitchen.

The moment we were out of earshot, he leaned against the counter and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he muttered. “That went exactly how I didn’t want it to go.”

I placed a hand on his back. “It's okay, we were all surprised. I think maybe they’ll warm up to me later on.”

He chuckled bitterly. “My dad’s always like that. Nothing’s ever good enough. And my mom,” he paused, glancing over his shoulder, “has a radar for judgment and a silver tongue to match.”

I stepped in front of him. “You don’t have to defend me, Declan. I understand their concern. I just... didn’t expect to feel like a spotlight was on my every move.”

His eyes softened. “I didn’t expect it either. I wanted this weekend to be just us.”

I smiled faintly. “It still can be. But you might need to open some wine a little earlier than usual.”

He laughed under his breath and reached for the mugs. “I’ll pour.”

And as I leaned against the counter, watching him move with quiet frustration and purpose, I knew something deeper was brewing here, not just between me and his parents, but within him too. A lifetime of pressure and expectation he was still trying to break free from.

Declan had just started pouring coffee into the mugs when we heard footsteps behind us. I turned slightly and saw his mother walk into the kitchen, her heels clicking softly on the floor, her expression carefully pleasant.

She offered her son a polite smile. “Richard wants tea instead. You know how he gets if he has to wait.”

Declan nodded, already turning toward the kettle. “On it.”

Her gaze shifted to me. “Willow,” she said, her tone light, almost breezy, “why don’t the two of us put together some lunch for the men?”

I blinked.

There was no malice in her voice. No raised eyebrow or pointed smirk. Just a gentle smile, the kind used by women who are very good at veiling their judgments with domestic pleasantry.

I glanced at Declan. He didn’t look up, just focused on steeping the tea. Like he already knew this wasn’t really an offer, but a subtle test.

“Sure,” I said with a small smile. “I’d love to help.”

She opened the fridge. “Good. There’s some salmon we brought from the city, fresh, not farmed. And we picked up vegetables from the market this morning. I hope you’re comfortable handling a knife.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I’ve chopped a few things in my life.”

She gave a short laugh. “Wonderful.”

Declan finally turned, placing the mugs on a tray. “Don’t let her scare you off, Willow.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” She replied smoothly, already reaching for a cutting board.

He met my eyes for a moment. His look was soft, almost apologetic, and then he disappeared back into the living room with the drinks.

I took a deep breath and turned toward the counter. She was already arranging vegetables with practiced elegance.

“Do you cook often?” she asked without looking at me.

“When I have the time,” I said, washing my hands.

She nodded. “That’s good. Cooking shows a kind of discipline. Its something a lot of young women today seem to... overlook.”

I smiled thinly, picking up a knife. “I guess I like learning new skills. In and out of the kitchen.”

She glanced at me, her smile still polite but her eyes sharp. “I imagine you do.”