5. Valentina
VALENTINA
I wake up warm.
That’s the first thing I register, before my brain has fully committed to consciousness.
There’s something warm near me, and it has the specific, deep warmth of another body pressed against mine.
There’s a heavy arm draped across my waist and slow even breathing against the back of my neck.
Then the memories arrive all at once.
The wine glass.
The wall.
The second kiss—the one I started, which I cannot attribute to temporary insanity because it wasn’t temporary and I was in full possession of my faculties, unfortunately.
The table.
The hallway, which I had forgotten about and have now remembered, and I’m going to need a moment with that.
The bedroom, finally, falling asleep at some point before dawn with my face against his chest and his arm around me, which didn’t feel wrong in the dark and now feels absolutely catastrophic in the morning light.
Multiple times.
I close my eyes.
I had sex with Cillian Brennan multiple times.
Of my own volition.
With enthusiasm.
On a dining table, against a wall, and in the bed we swore would be divided down the center by a sacred and inviolable DMZ, which is currently nowhere in evidence.
Fuck.
The worst part? It was the best sex I have had in my entire life. Double fuck.
I stare at the ceiling, doing an inventory of my terrible decisions—of which there are many—before taking a deep breath. I need to get out of here. Now.
Slowly and ever so carefully, I lift his arm by the wrist and slide out from under it inch by inch, holding my breath each time the mattress shifts under me.
Cillian snorts in his sleep and I freeze, my heart beating a staccato in my chest.
But then his breathing evens back out and I finish my extraction, breathing a sigh of relief when my feet hit the carpet below.
Snatching my robe, I flee to the bathroom and shut the door behind me, relief pouring through me.
Taking a deep breath, I straighten up and look into the mirror.
What I see has me learning against the door again.
The woman looking back at me has dark hair that looks like a rat’s nest. Mascara is smudged beneath both eyes and her lips are visibly swollen.
I would like to note, for the record, that I have never woken up looking like this in my life.
I have a nighttime routine.
I have a silk pillowcase.
I have always considered the concept of “sex hair” to be something that happened to other, less organized people.
Then there are the hickeys.
Holy shit, the hickeys.
A gasp escapes me as I twist my neck to survey and count the damage.
There’s one on my neck that’s positioned in the most inconvenient way.
It’s too high for a crewneck but too low for a turtleneck to not be obvious.
There are two on my shoulder.
One on my collarbone.
And a number of them elsewhere on me that I am going to document in my internal record and never mention to anyone, including myself.
Cillian Brennan is a menace.
I already knew he was, but this is simply new evidence of his depravity.
I get into the shower and turn it cold for the last three minutes just to shock my system awake.
I do my hair then tackle my makeup.
I make sure to put on extra coverage foundation on the neck, powder, concealer, then powder again.
I survey the result.
The neck situation is passable but requires backup.
Tapping my finger against my lip, I head into the closet and survey my accessories.
I select a deep red gauzy scarf and tie it artfully around my neck.
I’m going for a French look today, and this scarf perfectly compliments my navy and white striped shirt and navy trousers.
No one will ever know that the scarf is for a cover-up operation.
I look at myself in the mirror.
Acceptable.
Nobody would know unless they were looking.
I open the bathroom door and stop short.
Cillian is sitting on his side of the bed with his forearms on his knees and his head slightly bent.
He’s still shirtless and his hair sticks up wildly.
He looks up when I come out and we make eye contact across the room.
The silence that descends is so deeply uncomfortable that I briefly consider going back into the bathroom and just living there.
He opens his mouth.
I open mine.
Neither of us say anything.
This is, in the history of human communication, a new low.
I have faced down Connor Brennan’s stare across a table and held my ground.
And right now I cannot find a single word in any language I speak for this particular moment.
“Morning,” Cillian finally offers, and his voice sounds uncertain, like he’s not really sure what to say.
“Morning,” I return, with equivalent caution.
Silence.
I cross to the dresser because having my back to him is infinitely preferable to eye contact. I need to put on jewelry, and this is a good reason to be over here. I am not avoiding looking at him because of the shirtless situation or because of anything else. This is purely logistical.
“So,” I start.
“A mistake,” he says immediately from behind me.
He sounds certain, like he rehearsed it, which—did he rehearse it?
Was he lying there while I was in the shower deciding what to say?
The idea of that is somehow worse and I shove it away.
“Obviously. This was clearly from proximity and frustration. It can’t happen again,” he finishes
“Obviously,” I agree, to the dresser, my fingers stilling over a pair of diamond earrings. “Agreed. Yes.”
“Boundaries.”
“Boundaries,” I confirm, putting the earrings on with more force than necessary. “Clear ones.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
I turn around.
He’s looking at me with emotionless blue eyes, and I look back at him with what I intend to be equally neutral, though it probably reads as a woman who is maintaining composure through sheer brute force of will.
“Good,” I tell him. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
“Same page,” he agrees.
“Great.”
“Great,” he says.
I pick up my bag and walk to the door.
I leave with my spine straight and the full Santoro composure locked into place.
I am out of the apartment before either of us is forced to say anything that would make this worse, which is, all things considered, a significant achievement.
The restaurant is quiet when I arrive at the corner table I reserved.
I order a coffee and I sit with my bag in my lap.
Touching my scarf to make sure it’s in the right spot, I take a deep breath.
Emma won’t notice.
She’s way too pregnant and tired and I’m going to ask her about the nursery the moment she sits down and she won’t notice a thing.
I am a Santoro.
I am composed.
I am going to get through this brunch without Emma knowing what happened.
I see her come in.
Unlike other women I know, pregnancy agrees with Emma.
She’s in a pale blue dress that hits just below the knee, her dark auburn hair half held back in a clip.
Those striking green eyes—they are genuinely her most extraordinary feature, dark-lashed and vivid in a way that photographs can’t quite capture—are scanning the room.
The moment she finds me her face breaks into a warm, open smile that makes my brother completely useless around her.
She makes—waddles—her way over and lowers herself into the chair across from me with a small exhale.
She tucks her bag under the table and picks up her menu. “Sorry I’m a bit late. I couldn’t find my shoes and by the time I found a pair, I realized they didn’t fit and—”
She looks up at me and her eyebrows furrow, her words trailing off.
“Hi,” I say brightly, smiling at her. “How are you? How’s the baby? How was your week? I’ve been reading about—”
Emma clearly isn’t listening to any of this.
She’s looking at me curiously, those green eyes narrowed.
A bead of sweat slides down my back as her head tilts a fraction to the right the way it does when she’s working something out.
“Valentina,” she says slowly
“—third trimester insomnia and I found this article about,” I continue on.
“Valentina.”
“Emma, what can I get you? They have the eggs benedict you liked last time, and I think they have a—”
“Why are you wearing a scarf?” she interrupts. “It’s sixty-two degrees.”
“It’s a style choice,” I tell her earnestly. “I’ve been exploring accessories. It’s very French.”
Emma looks at the scarf.
Then she looks at my face.
Then she looks at the scarf again, specifically at one point near the top of it, and her eyes go wide.
Then she starts laughing.
But here’s the thing about Emma.
She doesn’t have a polite, contained laugh.
No, my sister-in-law laughs with her whole body. She tips back slightly in her chair, one hand coming up to cover her mouth.
The couple two tables over look across at us.
“Stop,” I hiss, my face flaming as I glance at the other patrons. “Emma. Stop.”
“I’m…” She’s pressing her lips together but her shoulders are shaking and her face is red. “I’m sorry, I’m—”
“You’re causing a scene,” I snap, glaring at the other people who are staring at us. Why can’t people mind their business?
“You slept with him,” she says, with great clarity, still laughing at a volume that is not appropriate for a brunch in a restaurant where I am a regular.
The woman at the table to our left turns her head and I seriously want to melt into a puddle right now.
“Emma,” I say, in my lowest, most warning voice. It’s the one I use on junior gallery staff when they’ve made an error that requires correction.
Unfortunately for me, it has never worked on Emma and it does not work now.
“Oh my god,” she says, getting herself partially under control, dabbing at the corner of her eye with the backs of her fingers, her cheeks still flushed with laughter. “Oh my god, Valentina. Cillian?”
“Shh!”
“You actually—” She gestures at me in a way that I think is meant to encompass my general situation. “With Cillian?”
“Could you say his name at a normal volume just once,” I request stiffly, unable to handle this type of embarrassment. “As a gift to me.”
“Sorry.” She doesn’t look sorry at all, though. She picks up her water and takes a sip. I can see her working to arrange her face into something less amused, which takes several seconds.