Chapter 1 #2
Eventually I make my way to the far edge of the terrace, where the crowd thins out.
I lean against the stone railing, giving my cheeks a break from all the smiling, and take a slow sip of my rosé.
My fingers find the silk of my dress—my favorite, blue with little yellow flowers—and I pick at a loose thread while I do my best to avoid the inevitable.
But I can’t delay the confrontation forever. The longer I drag it out, the worse it gets, like a dentist appointment or anything else I'll reschedule four times before facing.
For courage, I take a generous swallow of wine. My third glass, which pushes me past my professional threshold, but I'm still technically on vacation time. Then I turn to head back into the fray.
My heel snags on a rogue cobblestone.
I lurch forward, my arms flailing, my only thought please don't let me fall in front of these people, please, please.
A hand grabs my elbow while another finds my waist, hauling me upright before I can finish my undignified trip toward the stones.
"Oh!" The gasp escapes as I find my footing, heat rushing to my face. "Oh my god, thank you so?—"
I look up and it's Cillian O'Rourke himself, still holding onto my arm with an amused look on his face. I never stumble, ever, and of course the universe waits for this exact moment to turn my legs to lead. And up close, he's annoyingly more of everything. Taller. Broader. Bluer eyes.
"You alright there?" His Irish accent rolls through every word, and his voice is deep and warm in a way that probably makes women melt on a regular basis.
I recover what's left of my composure and smooth my hands down my hips as he releases my arm. "Yes. Just cobblestones and heels. Bad combination."
"Aye, these stones are a menace." He smiles down at me. "Nearly had me earlier, and I didn't even have heels to blame."
"Yes, well. Be grateful for that." I exhale and decide to just rip the band-aid off. "Anyway, I suppose we should address the awkward history, since we're teaming up again. Small world, huh?"
He blinks at me, confusion crossing his face. "Uh… sorry, I'm drawing a blank on your name."
"Margot Prescott," I say, waiting for recognition to land.
The silence stretches uncomfortably while his expression remains completely unchanged, apart from a slight bit of panic creeping in his eyes.
"We've met before…" I offer, trying to help.
He tilts his head, studying my face.
I stare at him, irritation brewing. "Seriously? You don't remember me at all?"
His brow furrows. "I'm so sorry, but did we, ah… were we ever, you know…" He gestures vaguely between us with the bottle of his beer. "I mean, no offense, I'm on the road a lot, and some of those nights really blur together."
My jaw drops. This bastard thinks we slept together. And maybe even worse, he thinks I'm so forgettable he can't even place me.
"As if!" It bursts out of me, loud enough that two people by the railing glance over, and I lower my voice into a frantic hiss. "No. Blackstone Vineyards. Six years ago. I worked there and met with you like half a dozen times."
"Blackstone!" He snaps his fingers. "Right, that massive estate. Sorry, in my defense, that was about four hundred meetings ago and one of my first almost-deals. You were the… the intern, right?"
"Yes," I say. "I was the one fetching your coffee during those meetings. You were late to every single one, by the way."
He laughs, smiling at me over his beer bottle. "You’ve been holding onto that one for a while, huh?"
"It just seemed pertinent," I say. "I'm hoping your timing has improved since."
Who am I tonight?
This kind of attitude is usually my sister Sabrina's department, or my best friend Isabelle's. Either of them would be cheering to see me not people-pleasing for once. But it's not exactly ideal for business, antagonizing the future face of my entire project.
Thankfully, he just looks amused, and the knot in my chest loosens a little.
"My timing's much better these days, I promise." He leans in a little. "I do remember those meetings now. You had a notebook you carried around everywhere."
"It was a tabbed planner," I say. “Berta. My beloved little organizer, may she rest in peace.”
"Berta," he echoes, that infuriating grin widening even further. "Right. I remember you being more organized than the entire management staff combined."
"Well, I'm thrilled my organizational skills left such a mark. Too bad they didn't protect my job, seeing as you are the reason I was fired." I jab a finger toward his chest.
The amusement vanishes from his expression instantly. "I did what?"
"You got me fired," I repeat, ignoring the small responsible voice in my head telling me to stop talking.
She's losing out to three glasses of wine and an apparently bottomless grudge.
"My boss asked me what I thought about bringing you on for the brand, and then my opinion found its way back to your team. Two weeks later, they fired me."
"Huh." He tips the bottle back, looking thoughtful. "How bad was the opinion?"
"It wasn't that bad. I just suggested you weren't the right fit, and that…" I shift my weight, a small, unwelcome flicker of guilt surfacing. "That maybe you were too unrefined to suit the brand."
"That's it?" He laughs. "I've heard worse from my mother before breakfast."
"Well, it cost me my job, so I've never found the humor in it." I give him my most withering look.
"Fair enough," he says, the laugh fading. "I never knew about any of that, for what it's worth. And I wouldn't have cared at all if I had. My old management team apparently had very thin skin. They're long gone, if that helps."
"It helps a little," I admit.
"Look, I'm sorry you lost your job over me. And for being late to all those meetings back then, while we're settling debts." He runs a hand through his hair. "I was new to all of it. The deals, the money, the people whose whole job was telling me how great I was. I let it go to my head."
It's a nice speech, but I just don't buy it. The Cillian O'Rourke I've read about, the arrogant golden boy, the serial heartbreaker, doesn't strike me as someone who's done much growing up in the last six years. But I've poked the future face of this project enough for one evening.