Chapter 4 #2
"I’ve meetings all throughout the next month here, so just grab me anytime," Cillian replies easily.
"I should get back to the desk too." Janelle turns a final, dazed look back to Cillian. "It was so nice talking to you."
"You too." He smiles up at her warmly. "And tell your mother about that Redbreast whisky I mentioned; she'll love the stuff."
"Oh, I will!" She laughs and practically floats out the door, leaving us alone in the sudden quiet of the room.
I shake my head and look at Cillian. "You're twenty minutes early."
"Didn’t you tell me I used to be late for every single meeting?
" He tilts his head, studying my face. "I'm trying to turn over a new leaf.
Grow a bit of character, become the best version of myself, all that.
And you strike me as the sort who thinks on time is late, so I thought early would be safer. "
I narrow my eyes, feeling a prickle of annoyance. "I honestly can't tell if you're being rude or just surprisingly observant."
He laughs, a low sound that vibrates through the small room. "I just wanted to get on your good side, seeing as how we're going to be spending a lot of time together."
"Hmm," I murmur, already tapping my iPad to scroll through the campaign notes.
"So, been up to much lately, Ace?" he asks.
"No. And what's with the Ace thing, by the way?" I keep scrolling.
"The card everybody wants. Best there is at whatever they do." He grins. "And with how well you seem to run this place, the name just fit."
I feel a familiar prickle of annoyance. It's clear he believes he can simply deploy that charisma and watch every woman—and man, apparently, if Antonio is any indication—all fall apart like a house of cards.
When the reality is that he's just a serial heartbreaker who gets paid to slam into other men for a living and likely possesses the emotional depth of a puddle.
God, I wish we'd gone with literally anyone else for an ambassador. He gets under my skin like nobody else.
"If you're under the impression that a bit of flattery is going to loosen my professional resolve, you're going to be deeply disappointed," I say, without looking up.
"This is strictly business and we have a lot to cover.
The launch windows, the full marketing strategy, and the entire social media rollout.
So let's be serious and focus on work only. "
He nods. "Oh, aye. Deadly serious over here."
"Good,” I say. “Glad to hear it."
"Of course. I mean, with that stick so far up your ass, I imagine it's hard for you to focus on anything but work."
My head snaps up. "Excuse me?"
He leans forward. "I've tried being nice, but you're so wound up you can't even make small talk without finding a way to bristle at it."
"Maybe we should have some quiet time before the meeting," I hiss. "Since you're clearly incapable of being remotely professional."
"Fine by me."
"Good."
I go back to the notes on my iPad, or at least I pretend to.
The clock ticks through the silence, and I glance up just as he stretches back in his chair and twists around to the bookshelf behind him, running a finger along the spines like he owns the place.
Then he tugs a worn hardcover free and cracks it open on his knee.
I scoff before I can stop myself.
"I thought it was quiet time," he says immediately, not looking up.
"It is. I just didn't take you for the bookish sort."
"You know, this prejudice of yours is quite the issue." He flips a page, unbothered. "You're a regular Lord Henry Wotton over there. 'It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances.'”
Shit. He clearly reads, since he's casually quoting Dorian Gray at me, which is irritating enough, but even worse, I've got absolutely nothing loaded to fire back with.
"So you've actually read Oscar Wilde?"
"Aye, my dad's a literature professor in Dublin. Wilde's practically a home county author. I grew up on the classics and plenty more besides. Does that not fit the dumb-hockey-brute image you've got of me?"
He smiles, slow and insufferable, and I genuinely consider throwing my massive bag at his head.
Instead, I swallow my pride and do the responsible thing. "No. It doesn't. I'm sorry for the assumption, it was unfair and rude of me."
"Aye well, we all make mistakes," he says. "I'll forgive you this once, I suppose."
I shoot him a dry look. "Lucky me. I'll be sure to mark the occasion in my planner."
"Berta was the previous one, right?" He tilts his head, eyes bright. "So what's the name of the new successor?"
I stare at him, thrown that he remembered the name of my first planner at all, then force my attention back to my iPad.
"My latest is named Wilson,” I say primly. “He's color-coded, and I’d bet significantly more organized than anything you've ever owned."
He laughs. "See, Ace, this is exactly why I can't stay annoyed with you. I enjoy the witty jabs."
"You're impossible," I say, rolling my eyes, though I'll admit a small, traitorous part of me is pleased I made him laugh.
Why am I even leaning into this? I hold every client I've ever had at a clean, professional arm's length without thinking twice.
It's the easiest thing I do all day. But something about him keeps pulling bricks out of my walls, and the genuinely alarming part is that I keep handing him the next one.
The sudden vibration of my phone against the tabletop provides a needed escape from the conversation. I glance down and see a notification from my mother. I tap the screen open.
Mom: Just a quick update that Dad's knee rehab results came in. Looking okay so far luckily, though we got a referral to a specialist.
I tap back a quick that's great, and add it to my mental list to follow up on the referral and make sure they actually get it scheduled. If I don't personally oversee it, the appointment will drift off into the ether of forgotten tasks.
"Everything alright?" he asks.
"Yes." I set the phone down. "Just parents stuff. I have to take care of any and all appointments for them otherwise they’ll never do it, despite this particular one being essential to my dad’s knee recovery."
I could bite my tongue the second the frustration escapes. He studies me for a long, quiet moment, his expression unreadable.
"So you're the one who keeps the world turning for everyone, then," he remarks. "Not just this estate."
"To an extent. Someone has to be the responsible one." I retrieve my iPad, desperate for a distraction.
"Because if you don't shoulder the burden, nobody else will. Right?" He smiles.
I tip my head. "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."
He laughs lightly. "That explains a fair bit, actually. Is that why you're wound so tight? Managing everyone else's lives on top of your own? The whole weight-of-the-world thing?"
"Last I checked, I didn't ask a stranger to psychoanalyze me over marketing notes," I say, shooting him a look.
"So, that's a yes, then," he murmurs, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.
Any rebuttal dies in my throat as I swallow hard against a sudden, frantic pulse, the air in the small room feeling uncomfortably thick and intimate.
The door swings open and a cluster of marketing staff spills in, their cheerful greetings shattering whatever that just was. Cillian holds my eyes for one more beat before he turns to greet the group, easy as anything, like he didn't just knock the ground sideways under me.
I drag my attention down to the project notes, ignore the heat climbing up my neck, and do not look at him again for the rest of the meeting.