Chapter 14
Margot
It’s nearing evening on my second day in Dublin, and I’ve retreated toward the edge of the room, putting some much-needed distance between myself and the steady swell of the crowd.
We're at a pub for one of the bigger foundation events, with Solstice providing a substantial donation as part of our ongoing partnership. My role tonight is mostly representing the brand and making connections.
I have another hour or two of this and then a meeting with the PR coordinator later, and then hopefully I can grab dinner and collapse into my hotel bed.
Cillian is across the room, held captive by a small crowd while a few cameras flash in his direction.
He looks ridiculously good. And where his little fan clubs used to just irritate me, now I only feel a sharp, possessive jealousy of every person in his orbit, because I want to be the one occupying his attention so badly it actually hurts.
But I can't, because of my own stupid rules, which only makes the longing feel that much more like a penance. I suppose I'm just a glutton for self-punishment. How very Catholic of me.
I take a long sip of my wine and turn my attention toward the window. Dublin at least has been an absolute dream so far, vibrant and historic. I just wish I'd actually had the chance to explore the city beyond the glass of a town car and work obligations.
It doesn't help that my mood has been spiraling all afternoon. My parents have texted me three times in the last hour about a fight they’re having, despite the small detail that I am currently on a different continent in the midst of a media storm.
It's as though they pick the exact moment I'm least able to help and ramp up the urgency accordingly.
Between the long-distance dance for them, the endless hand-shaking here, and a level of sexual frustration that has graduated to a physical throb, I'm about ready to vibrate out of my skin.
"Margot, thank you again." An older man from a marketing team appears at my shoulder. "The whole organization has been thrilled to collaborate on this. Absolute marketing gold for both our labels."
I summon my most professional smile. "Of course. It's a privilege to represent Solstice here."
"Yes, well, it's certainly a pleasure to have such a beautiful woman leading the initiative," he murmurs, leaning in close enough that I can smell his breath. "And I was wondering, I happen to know a charming little speakeasy just a few streets over…"
He launches into elaborate detail about what a fun little after-hours stop it could be, and I nod and smile like a hostage. My eye is officially starting to twitch. Because what my day truly required was a flirtatious older man added to the existing pile of disasters. Perfect.
"Hey, Ace." Cillian materializes at my side, shooting the guy a look that is less than friendly. "I need to steal her away for a moment. Business, you understand."
"Oh, naturally," the man stammers, his attention suddenly on his whiskey glass.
"Sorry, but duty calls," I say with a smile, letting Cillian take my elbow and guide me away from the crowd.
"Thank you," I whisper the second we're out of earshot. "I was trapped."
"Yeah, I caught the look on your face," Cillian says, glancing down at me with amusement. "You looked about ten seconds away from committing a felony."
"Generous estimate."
“Well, we can't have that.” He smiles at me. "If we both start brawling in public, it's going to be a bit on the nose, don't you think?"
"Yeah, that'd be a nightmare for the PR team." I laugh softly as we navigate the room. "I think they would actually die on the spot."
He chuckles, his hand steady at my elbow as we cut past a cluster of photographers and a small herd of marketing types I'd really rather not get cornered by.
"Where are we going?" I add as he steers me through a side door into a quieter hallway.
"There's a small walled garden out here. People use it for a smoke, but it's empty now. It'll give you a minute to breathe away from the circus." He pushes open a door that reveals a small cobblestone courtyard. "I'm finishing my rounds and leaving shortly anyway."
“Lucky you.” I take a deep breath and sag against the stone wall. "I'm trapped here for at least another hour, then I have that meeting with the PR guy. Then I think I can finally just have a late dinner after that."
"Sure you wouldn’t like some company?" He grins, leaning against the doorframe.
I snort. "Trust me, you wouldn't want to witness the version of me that's about to descend upon a bowl of carbonara and a bottle of red. It isn't a pretty sight."
He laughs, throwing his head back, and the sound loosens something in me, the tension of the day draining out of my shoulders.
It's strange, being in his orbit. I'm forever at the edge of a breaking point, caught in the swell of a roaring ocean, and at the same time he's a steadying anchor that makes the rest of the world go quiet.
Safe and entirely unraveled at once and I can't make sense of a single bit of it.
"So," he says. "No exploring plans after the carbonara?"
"Sadly, no." I sigh. "I've been warned the PR thing will probably run long, and between that and the jetlag, I'm just going to go back to my room, do my hotel routine, and hopefully sleep like the dead."
"Your hotel routine," he repeats. "Go on, then. I need to hear this."
"It's a system, so my insomnia doesn't flare up," I say, with dignity.
"First, lavender pillow spray. I never travel without it.
It smells like my bed at home, and then my brain actually agrees to shut off.
Second, slippers, because I don't care how many stars the hotel has, that carpet has seen things I don't want to know about. "
"Reasonable," he says gravely. "Is there a third?"
"Of course. Third, I call down and ask for two extra pillows, because I sleep in a nest. Four pillows minimum. One under the head, one to hug, two forming a perimeter. And I get tucked in tight and feel like I'm in a nice straitjacket, and then I can sleep."
"I can imagine you'd feel right at home in one of those." He grins.
"Shut up. And yes, I would."
He smiles at me, and for a moment we just stand there, both of us leaning against the wall, not touching and yet somehow connected, like there's a quiet thread running between us in the space we're keeping.
The damp stone is cool against my shoulder, his eyes on me are warm, and I let myself breathe.
Then my phone buzzes in my hand.
I glance down and find a message from my dad.
Dad: Your mother mentioned staying with Aunt Mary for a while. I'm not sure what "a while" is supposed to mean. I didn't know who else to reach out to. You're always the one who can get through to her. Anyway, try not to let it ruin your time there.
A crushing sense of overwhelm hits me, at the trip, my parents, the headlines, all of it, and his text feels like it might be the thing that finally breaks me. One more person needing one more piece of me and I'm going to come apart right here in this corridor.
Cillian scans my features, his expression softening. "May I?"
I nod and tilt the screen toward him, watching his jaw tighten as he reads.
"I just…" I trail off. "I do not have the bandwidth for this right now. I'm already barely holding it together. Hang on. Don't say anything for a second, I need to do a thing."
He lifts an eyebrow, falling silent as he watches me. I tap open my meditation app and find the exercise I save for moments exactly like this one, the one that looks completely unhinged and works anyway.
I draw in a slow breath, closing my eyes, and push all the air into my left cheek until it balloons out, hold it for a second, then let it go through my nose.
I take another breath and push it into my right cheek this time, hold, then release.
Last, I puff out both cheeks at once and let it all out in one long, slow stream. Pfff.
I crack one eye open.
Cillian is staring at me like I've grown a second head. "What are you doing?"
"Regulating," I murmur, shunting another pocket of air into my left cheek. "It is a breathing exercise, Cillian."
"Right. No, I'm sure it's very effective." He's biting back a grin now. "It's just that you look a bit like a blowfish."
A startled laugh slips out, and my concentration shatters instantly. "It's called a cheek puff. There is legitimate clinical evidence behind it, I'll have you know."
"Sorry," he says, lifting his hands. "I know therapy and all that is great. I'm not knocking it. Just looks… a touch unusual, is all."
"Well, I'm not taking notes on emotional regulation from you." I narrow my eyes at him. "Isn't there some Irish stereotype about this? Bottling up every feeling in favor of some quiet, stoic misery?"
He chuckles. "Aye, but you're forgetting I'm half Canadian. So legally I'm allowed to admit feelings exist before I bury them."
"Oh, well, that changes everything." I roll my eyes, though the annoyance is losing the battle against a smile. "The goal is to achieve some semblance of calm, for your information."
"Feeling the anxiety creeping in again?" he asks, concern flickering in his eyes.
I do a quick scan, the way I have a hundred times, checking for the usual signs. The racing heart. The pressure sitting heavy on my chest. That creeping, impending-doom certainty that something is wrong. None of it's there, thankfully. What I find instead is something hotter and far simpler.
Anger.
"No," I say. "I'm pissed off. And I feel terrible for being mad, because they're clearly hurting and it's so selfish to be angry at hurting people. So every time I notice I'm angry, it makes me feel so guilty I could cry, and then the guilt makes me angrier. Ugh!"
I go back to my blowfish breathing, puffing one cheek and then the other, trying to bring the anger down a notch before I fire off a text I can't take back.
He nods slowly, watching me with a thoughtful look. "You need to hit something."
"Excuse me?" I stare at him, the breathing exercise officially abandoned.