7. Adeline #2
The next half hour is spent in tense silence. The Irishman is handsome, but his brow is perpetually pinched together, a permanent frown on his lips. I’m a pawn in his game, but at the very least, he could try talking so we don’t sit in stony silence.
I’m sucking down wine when Ciaran hands his credit card to the waiter, his eyes still trained on the man behind us.
I sigh when the waiter leaves. “Just go over there already.”
Ciaran startles, blinking at me.
I toss back the rest of the wine. “Go.”
“I can’t just—”
“How many more times are we going to have to come here?” I hold up my glass. “How many more bottles of cabernet will have to be drunk before you get the nerve to go talk to your little man crush.”
Ciaran’s tell-tale growl begins. “He’s—”
“Some super important businessman you’ve got a hard on for. And the only reason we came here.”
He opens his mouth, but I’m not in the mood.
“I’m fine by the way, thanks for asking.” You shitty fake boyfriend. “I survived an assault and was almost killed, but I’m all good now.”
My muscles clench, the ghost of Jack’s hand brushing against me. I don’t let myself think about it—how he touched me.
My outburst only elicits a grumpy look from Ciaran, his thick brows becoming one. When he stands up, I’m aware of the disappointment in me. He doesn’t care enough to even respond to what I just said.
No shit, you dumb bitch.
I grab the wine bottle, sad to see it’s empty, when a shadow falls over me.
“Hello.” Yelena Zimin’s ice blue eyes pierce into me. It’s when I notice just how lightheaded I am from the wine. “How are you, Adeline?”
I’ve known Yelena all my life. I think of her husband as Uncle Lev, but there’s never been an ounce of auntie love from the woman. My sisters and I think of her as a Siberian cold front, her beige clothes and blank face nothing but glacial.
It’s the complete opposite of my mom, the domesticated Italian goddess who knows how to have fun. She and Yelena have been at war since, well, forever.
I know Yelena’s calculating stare is searching for information.
I straighten in my chair. “I’m great. How are you?”
She nods to affirm she’s okay. “And school. How are your studies?”
She’s still got a soft Russian accent, despite her years in the US, and for some reason her question grates against my skin. It’s even worse than Nat’s griping.
I swallow, my mouth feeling like a cotton ball. “They’re going well. I like all my classes.”
“Are you here by yourself?” she asks.
“No.” I turn my head before I can stop myself. Her gaze follows, eyes narrowing on Ciaran. He’s now shaking hands with the guy. Apparently he can be friendly and easy to get along with when he wants to because both are laughing.
“You are here with Cain Murray’s son?” she murmurs.
“Cain Murray,” I mumble, and when her attention is drawn back to me, I feel small. Like a child being tested by a teacher. How does she just know people?
“Adeline. . .” Her voice is softer, and I don’t know why I suddenly wish she’d sound like her usual bitchy self. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Ciaran and I just stopped for lunch.” I smile, tossing hair off my shoulder.
Soft ambient music plays, and there’s the tinkle of cutlery. A hostess shows in new guests. I don’t let the smile leave my face, and eventually, Yelena’s pointy shoes click against the floor as she walks away.
I sag into my chair.
“Uh, excuse me, miss.” Why does the waiter look so awkward? He’s fidgeting with the checkbook in his hand. “Um, the card. . .”
He doesn’t even have to say it. Ciaran’s card declined.
“Oh.”
Ciaran’s laugh is warm, echoing behind me.
Why do I feel bad? His nice laugh doesn’t erase the fact he stripped me naked the other night.
But I’m the one who ordered a four hundred dollar bottle of wine. Fuck.
“Charge it to my card,” I say quickly. I’ve met up with Nat here enough times that I know they still have it on file. “Adeline.” I clarify just to be sure he doesn’t accidentally charge another Akatov. “Don’t let him know.”
The waiter’s brows lift, judgment zinging between us. He bows his head, though, and scurries off.
Ciaran finishes networking. “Do you want to get some ice cream?”
What the actual fuck?
I frown. “I’m not some child. I don’t want sprinkles as a reward for being used.”
Ciaran shoves his hands in his pockets, his muscles tensing.
“Sir.” The waiter hands him the checkbook, and Ciaran slips his credit card back into his wallet without looking at the receipt.
My chair scrapes against the floor, and I grab my purse. “Thanks for lunch.”
I try to walk around Ciaran, once again noticing how fucking tall and muscular he is.
He grabs my elbow, but there’s no scowl on his face. His hand slips down my arm, his fingers threading through mine. What really takes me aback is how aware I am when his thumb strokes the back of my hand.
Whenever I look at Ciaran, things tend to blur around the edges. Like, all I can do is focus on him. On the man with the broad shoulders, who seems bigger than life.
At first I thought it was a reaction from Jack’s attack. Tunnel vision to go along with a panic attack. But my head’s been swimming throughout lunch as I chewed on my bottom lip, trying to understand this guy.
“Can I get you a coffee before you go study?” he asks.
I’ve never been the girl dreaming about a man with a cute accent sweeping me away, but sometimes when he talks, I stare at his lips.
“What?” I blink.
He doesn’t laugh, but a soft huff comes from him, something amusing him. I think it’s me. “You’re off to study, aren’t you?. That’s on your calendar next.”
“The calendar you hacked?”
He only smiles. A cheekier grin than the smirk he likes to give. “You want some coffee before you head off to the library. Or is wine your secret weapon?”
He angles us toward the door, still holding my hand.
“Are you buying me a coffee because you feel guilty for being a shitty boyfriend?”
His laugh vibrates, a deep, throaty noise. “Am I that shitty of a boyfriend?”
I shoot him a look, and he laughs again.
“There’s an event next week. A party full of politicians.”
My stomach sinks.
“I want you to get us on the guest list.”
“Bribing me with coffee now?” My stony voice is nowhere near the sweltering heat of lava boiling me from the inside out.