Chapter 23
Electra
JEN: Girls want to do a themed party for the bachelorette.
JEN: Which means costumes.
JEN: Which means you need to wear one.
JEN: Theme is Wild West, so spurs and cowboy hats. Yeehaw.
JEN: Also, Logan asks if we need any chairs?
I don’t know what I was expecting, but not a flood of messages from Jeneva Smith about her bestie’s bachelorette. “I forgot about your little dance party.”
“Didn’t Jen invite you to come to it last night?”
“Invitations made under the influence of tequila should never be taken seriously. A lot like fake-dating schemes,” I add under my breath.
Why does my skin feel tight? I cannot possibly be jealous of Cillian entertaining a dozen rowdy women, one of whom is getting married.
Not that that’s ever stopped anyone from contemplating a last hurrah, but still…
Malachi is coming over. Malachi is the one you’ve been pining for, not the man who smells like constant surprise and hard work.
As I hand Cillian back his phone, his gaze drags over me—again.
Again, it jostles my pulse.
I expect he’ll type out a reply to eager Jeneva, but instead, he pockets the device.
“The second we quit this charade, she’ll be all over you.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No,” I lie. I lick my lips. “Just maybe wait a month, so that Callie doesn’t feel like murdering you, since she thinks that what we have is real.”
“Like I’ve told you—multiple times…” He crowds me again, but only sets one palm on the counter this time. The other hangs loosely at his side, as though undecided what to grip—me or marble. “I’m not interested in Jen.”
“That’s because you think you have a chance with me.”
His eyes go pitch-black as though actual darkness were closing in on him. “How about you kiss me before you dismiss me?”
Even though my pulse is going wild, I scoot my lips into a smirk sure to wound and keep him from entertaining an impossible dream. “Not a line I’m willing to cross, Lowry.”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve a girl who likes to do regular things—like aerobics and restaurant dates.”
He looms closer, his masculine heat overwhelming me. “Give me an actual reason not to kiss you.”
“Because, as I told you earlier, I’m not attracted to you,” I say, trying to keep my voice even and strong. I manage neither.
“So, if I reached under your dress, I wouldn’t find you wet?”
My lashes swing upward, and I choke on my inhale. “If you reached under my dress, I’d break all ten of your fingers.”
“Before…or after I got you off?”
My thighs squeeze. Absolute traitors.
“Before,” I squeak, because apparently, I’ve lost the ability to breathe like a functioning adult.
His fingers land on the outer curve of my thigh, just beneath the hem of my dress, and trace indolent little circles.
Instead of snatching his wrist or shoving him away with magic, I stand there like a yearning idiot.
He ignores my warning, his loops growing bolder, skimming the crease beneath my ass before sweeping back to my body’s edge.
I need to stop him.
Why don’t I want to?
A second question blots out the first: Why do I need to?
I try to recall my reasons, but I suddenly don’t give a shit that he doesn’t have runes or that he isn’t Malachi. Besides, what harm would there be in letting go just a little?
Not to mention, I’d gain some experience.
Plus, there’s no way I’d really get attached, so saying goodbye would be painless.
He leans forward, his mouth grazing the hollow of my neck, just above the pulse point that’s throbbing as wildly as another pulse point located farther south. One that he is nearing.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
His hand stops exploring. His neck straightens. His gaze narrows. But not on me. On a place behind me.
My front door.
My litany of fucks turns into a litany of shits. May it be my brother. Or Callie. Or anyone but the person I invited over. I suddenly don’t want Malachi here. I don’t want him to see Cillian and me together.
“Forgive me for intruding. Didn’t realize you had company, Elle.” Malachi’s voice cuts across my thundering pulse like a chainsaw.
I hesitate to turn, but then remind myself of the reasons I invited him—to see if he’d ever look at me the way Cillian does—and I steel my spine.
He does look, but his stare, unlike Cillian’s when I appeared in the doorway, is cold and disappointed, which only makes me feel like more of a kid. One caught fooling around in her parents’ kitchen.
I suddenly want to throw a trench coat over my skimpy dress. Which causes my anger to swell. Not at him but at myself. A man’s stare shouldn’t dictate how I feel.
“You didn’t ask if I had company.” My voice is steady, clinical. Even I’m surprised by my sangfroid. “So, what is it you wanted to chat about?”
He switches to Atlantean. “Various things, none of which concern the present company. Should I leave or should he?”
Cillian’s fingers lock around my hip, causing a shiver to swoop between my shoulder blades. I imagine he holds me to mark his territory. Unless it’s to offer me support. Knowing the man standing behind me, it could go either way.
I glance over my shoulder to find him sporting a cocky grin. One he undoubtedly wears to piss Malachi off. The guy is ridiculously bold. He probably thinks that because he survived a stint in prison, he’s invulnerable.
When I turn back toward Malachi, I hunt his expression for jealousy but find only hostility.
“I fly out to Atlantis tomorrow,” he informs me—in English.
I don’t ask whether it’s to pick up his hateful girlfriend. Frankly, I don’t care to know.
“What time are you leaving? Maybe we can squeeze in a coffee before.” I’m shocked by the words coming out of my mouth.
Last week, Malachi’s offer pissed me off, but now I’m suggesting it?
Also, how has it only been a week? It feels like a whole month has unfolded.
I need to have my head checked, if only to figure out how and when and why I stopped mooning after the one man I spent my entire teenage years obsessed with.
It cannot possibly be because of a stranger’s attention? After all, Cillian’s not the first man who’s looked my way. I might not be the kind of person who stops traffic, but I’m not invisible either.
“Let’s do that. Come over to my place at eight.” In Atlantean, Malachi adds, “Alone.”
I’m tempted to roll my eyes but keep them leveled on his retreating figure. “Okay.”
Still in Atlantean, he adds, “And, Elle, please keep your phone on you.”
He doesn’t need to add why. I’m smart enough to figure it out. He still doesn’t trust Cillian.
Instead of feeling annoyed that Malachi’s passing judgment, or that he didn’t fight harder to win me over, I feel relieved. And…oddly settled. Like I finally drew the tile needed to declare mahjong.
I turn back toward Cillian to find him glowering at my front door, features taut with frustration. I tilt my head to catch his attention. It takes a minute, but he finally gives it to me. As he does, though, he releases my hip and takes a step back.
“You invited him over?” Cillian’s tone holds a trace of hurt.
“He’s the reason you’re even here, remember?”
His jaw clenches so hard that I hear the distinct click of molars.
I lean against the island and cross my arms, not ready for him to see what Malachi’s visit has led me to uncover. “Still planning on cooking me dinner, or are you too mad at me to pursue this date?”
Cillian holds my stare in a way that makes me want to crack his lenses, and not because I don’t like the way his eyes feel on my body, but because I don’t like the way they feel on my mind. Like the private corners of my psyche are fair game.
He finally snaps out of his funk and pivots toward the burners. Wordlessly, he spins the dials and begins rooting around my kitchen. As he pulls out a large black ceramic bowl, I eye the small bottle of champagne he bought. I unwrap the foil and pop the cork.
The soft snap makes him glance over his shoulder at me. Though his features remain tense, his posture softens an iota. Keeping my eyes on him, I take a sip. One that means: I trust you.
He adds a few ingredients to the bowl, then scoops up a fistful of ribboned herbs and releases them like a scatter of magic dust. I suddenly understand Lisa and Fiona’s obsession with cooking shows—it’s riveting to watch someone absorbed in something they love.
“It’s ready.” He nods to the dining table, which is already set, and not just with cutlery—fuchsia peonies flare from a silver pitcher. He slides the bowl onto the table, right beside the flowers. “Didn’t know where to find a vase.” He sounds sheepish, as though I might care about this detail.
The content of the pitcher is the sort of detail I care about. No man—outside Dorian and my father—has ever given me flowers.
Though I suppose Cillian didn’t give them to me as much as bring them over to decorate. I wonder if he chose peonies to commemorate our first meeting. I decide against asking. Gaea only knows why.
Actually, that’s not true. I know why—because then he’d realize the first time we met has stayed with me, and he might read too much into that.
I sidestep him and take a seat. “What are we eating?”
“Pasta with pesto, but my way.”
I sip on my champagne as he dishes out what I learn contains only five ingredients, all of them slivered and crisp, save for the pine nuts, which have been reduced to a savory nut butter. It’s simple yet elaborate, but mostly fucking delicious.
“You could open your own restaurant,” I say, after my second serving.
“You make it sound easy, Electra. I don’t have the kind of money needed to open a restaurant.”
I sit back in my chair, stomach blissfully full. “All you need are investors.”
He drops his gaze to the slick of basil-infused oil coating his pasta bowl. “I could never be owned.”
“They wouldn’t own you, Cillian. They’d own a piece of your company, but your company isn’t you.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. Especially if you keep the majority shares. You’d have all the say.”
I can tell he’s unconvinced before he even murmurs, “Perhaps in another lifetime.”