Chapter 39
Electra
“Turn left at the intersection,” I tell Cillian.
His brow creases as he flicks on his blinker. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere…”
The frown doesn’t let go of his forehead as he follows the rest of my directions.
Though calmer than he was for much of the evening, he’s still not his easygoing self. His excuse of bracing for heartbreak doesn’t sit well with me.
Repeated compulsion doesn’t affect everyone the same, but I’ve heard it can scramble minds. Usually in the long run, though.
A street lamp halos him, carving the jagged slope of his nose and sharp hinge of his jaw, silvering the long lashes bracketing eyes the color of a gathering storm.
Funny that I used to find him unattractive and awkward. There isn’t an awkward line to Cillian’s ruggedly handsome body.
“Pull up here.” I nod to the driveway of a small luxury hotel I’ve never stayed at, but where I’ve brunched countless times.
Partly because of their unwavering loyalty to Bloom’s Blooms for floral arrangements, and partly because of their appreciation for my people. Some establishments still hesitate to serve us, mistaking us for part of the mob.
As the valet opens my door, I catch Cillian’s throat bobbing with a swallow. He twists around to grab his gym bag, then leans forward and extracts a small pouch from beneath his seat. After tucking it into the duffel, he slings the wide strap across his chest and exits his vehicle.
Hand in hand, we enter a lobby paneled in mahogany and cherry-veined marble. When I ask for their best room, and the clerk gushes about the presidential suite being free, Cillian blanches.
I squeeze his hand. “My treat.”
He rolls his lips, shifts his jaw, discomfort contorting not only his expression but his posture. He doesn’t protest, though. But his discomfort grows as we ascend to the fourth floor into a sprawling suite that’s modern in its conception but charming in its materials.
As the clerk explains how the lights and television work, Cillian spins on himself, taking in the large woven pendant diffusing warm light over a king-sized bed dressed in layered neutrals, the chevron-pattern oak flooring, the charcoal wall paneling glowing with slim bronze sconces, and the framed paper cutout crowning the tufted headboard.
I imagine it’ll be his first time staying in a room that costs more per night than the average person’s monthly wage.
Before turning off my phone, I text Gael that I’m sleeping over at a friend’s and will be back in the morning for our flight. Once the clerk leaves and the latch clicks, Cillian finally speaks.
“It’s too much.” His pitch is lined with tangible frustration.
“But isn’t it pretty?”
He pivots, anger flashing across his features.
I sigh and walk over to him, cradling his stiff jaw and towing his face low to brush a kiss on his lips, which I hope will soften him. “Babe, please let’s enjoy tonight. I’m leaving tomorrow—”
“You’re leaving? Where are you going?”
“Somewhere near Austin.”
“Why?”
“Gael invited me to his ranch.”
His pupils contract. His mouth purses. “For how long?”
I shrug. “A few days…”
His chest lifts and falls, lifts and falls.
“Will you miss me?” I keep my tone teasing, even though I’m curious to learn if he will.
The tension in his posture finally breaks, and he grips my hips. “I miss you every second we aren’t together.”
I hesitate to invite him along. After all, Alexander liked Cillian’s cooking. I give my head a small shake.
Too soon.
Too dangerous.
“Will you miss me?” Cillian’s timbre is as hesitant as mine was flippant.
I nod, threading my arms between his to circle his waist. “Should we go check out the bathing amenities? I’d kill for a hot bath.”
“Haven’t had one of those in…in…” He looks at the ceiling as though the answer would be written there. “God, I can’t even remember.”
The bathroom possesses the same quiet luxury as the rest of the suite with its amethyst marble, tasseled glass pendants, round mirrors, and gold fixtures. As I fill the bath, Cillian eyes the décor as though it’s personally offending him.
Even though he doesn’t reiterate, “It’s too much,” it’s written plainly in the lines of his face and the rigidity of his shoulders.
“If I knew you’d hate it so much, I would’ve asked for their shittiest room.”
“I don’t hate it.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “It’s just that…”
I wait.
“That I don’t like how it makes me feel,” he finally admits.
I tilt my head. “How does it make you feel?”
“Impotent.”
I blink. “Why in the world would a hotel room make you feel impotent?”
His cheeks hollow. “Because I can’t afford it, Electra.”
“I can’t either.”
His frown deepens. “What?”
“Inherited money isn’t earned money. I’ve never made a dime in my life. If anyone should feel impotent, it’s me.”
“You’re twenty.”
“Not an excuse.”
“You could make money if you needed to.”
“Probably, but the fact remains that I haven’t made any. So stop hating on this room. I’m not the one paying for it. It’s a gift from my parents.”
“Not sure that makes me feel any better,” he mutters.
Nevertheless, his shoulders lose their harsh angle and he finally…finally sets down his bag.
He’s staying.