Chapter 3 #2
Cillian is at the front desk, hands moving as he tells some story, baseball cap tipped low and smile working overtime. Janelle and Andrea are leaning in from their side, laughing at whatever he said and clearly charmed.
He's a player if I've ever seen one, and the reputation backs it up. Apparently being a star hockey player gets women throwing themselves at you, and the gossip mill has been quite clear that Cillian does not, as a rule, decline.
I won't pretend Mr. Hottie is an inaccurate description. But my taste runs toward bookish philanthropists, so the athlete currently dominating my lobby is not a temptation I am struggling to resist.
And yet.
The man is massive. Not bodybuilder-steroid massive, which has never really held any appeal for me, but he is firmly in the blockbuster superhero category. He has to be at least six-four, broad through the shoulders, with defined forearms on display where his sleeves are rolled up.
There is something to be said for a man who can pick you up like you weigh nothing and fuck you senseless.
I shove that one back down with everything I've got. The last thing I need before nine in the morning on a Monday is a vivid mental image of Cillian O'Rourke lifting me off the floor.
"Mr. O'Rourke," I call across the lobby.
He looks over and breaks into an even wider smile. "Hey, Ace. Good to see you again."
Ace. The nickname from the party, apparently here to stay.
"It's nice to see you too." I cross the rest of the lobby to meet him. "Shall we?"
"By all means." He flashes a final, devastating wink at Janelle and Andrea. "A grand delight meeting you both."
They stammer out some breathless variation of the pleasure was all ours.
These two have navigated high-stakes interactions with tech titans and demanding celebrities without ever losing their cool, yet after five minutes in Cillian's magnetic orbit, they both look prepared to sign divorce papers on the spot.
I catch Janelle's eye and arch a skeptical eyebrow, and she frantically mouths oh my god while fanning herself with a stack of estate brochures.
I simply shake my head, earning a quick stuck-out tongue for my trouble, while Cillian glances back over his shoulder as I steer us toward the staff corridor.
"The private tasting room is this way," I say, setting a brisk pace to get him out of the lobby before the front desk staff actually faints.
"You can call me Cillian," he remarks, matching my stride with ease. "Mr. O'Rourke is what my lawyer calls me."
"I believe a standard of professionalism is appropriate, Mr. O'Rourke." I flash him a bright, hollow smile and hold the door open, stepping aside to let him enter first.
He chuckles as he passes, looking down at me with a grin that suggests he isn't even slightly discouraged. So much for setting boundaries.
The room is an intimate space, quiet and lined with arched windows that frame the vineyards perfectly. A long oak table, walls of vintage maps, and enough old wine guides to satisfy even the most tedious collector.
The morning wine flight is already staged at the head of the table. While Diane handles the public tours, this room is my domain, reserved for the VIPs, the partnerships, and the people who don't blink at reserve bottle pricing.
It also feels remarkably small with him standing in the center of it.
"So." I gesture toward the table as he takes the room in. "What's your current level of wine expertise?"
He glances back over his shoulder. "Virtually non-existent. My mam enjoys a glass, but I'm afraid I'm a beer man through and through. Right down to the Guinness, honestly."
"So the whole Guinness thing isn't just for the sponsorship?"
"Not at all, I genuinely love the stuff." He tilts his head. "Though I hardly touch a drop during the season, or anywhere near a game night. Don't tell the people writing the checks I said that."
"Your secret's safe with me. I'd hate to be the reason a beer conglomerate pulls your contract." I smile. "And I’ll admit, I don't know the first thing about beer. I don’t really like the taste of it, actually."
"Like I told you, Ace." He smiles, dimples making an appearance. "Oil and water."
"So it would seem." I pull out a chair, fully expecting him to take the seat across from mine.
Instead, he slides into the one right next to me, his shoulder almost touching mine. He smells annoyingly good too, some masculine, sophisticated scent that is decidedly not the Axe body spray or the predictable fuckboy Dior Sauvage I'd half-expected.
He reaches for one of the wine glasses, and my attention catches on his hands.
They're large, which makes sense for a man his size, but also strangely elegant.
Long fingers, well-kept nails, none of the sausage-fingered situation I'd assumed came standard with a man who hits other men for a living.
In fact, his fingers look like they'd be very good at…
Clearing my throat, I force my focus back. "Uh, what was the draw for this partnership? If you don't mind me asking. It just seems… a bit of a departure from your usual stuff."
"I don't mind at all." He waves it off. "You're not wrong, it's a bit outside my usual lane. But the Guinness campaign put me on Solstice's radar, so Carol reached out to my manager. And, you know, I'm easy for a big check."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Well. I suppose I should value the honesty."
"All four of my sisters would tell you it's my only redeeming quality." He leans back, hooking one arm over the chair's crest.
"Four sisters?" I look up, surprised. "That must have been an... active household."
"Chaos was the baseline." He grins. "I'm the second oldest, so I helped wrangle the younger three, but we're a tight-knit bunch, for what it's worth. What about you? Any siblings?"
"My younger sister, Sabrina," I say, pouring a splash of wine and sliding the glass toward him.
"She's working on her film degree, and she actually took over my spare bedroom last year to save on rent.
She's like my polar opposite. Free-spirited, allergic to anything resembling a plan. Basically a human glitter bomb, but it’s still just the best having her live with me. "
"Sounds a lot like Ellie, the youngest of my sisters." He chuckles. "But she's the baby of the family, so I still dote on her like she's a toddler."
"I know that feeling all too well." I smile, thinking of my own house. "Eldest daughter syndrome.”
"Ah, the protective instinct. We'd be insufferable as a pair." He lifts his glass at me. "A toast to the younger siblings, then. May they continue to ruin our nervous systems for as long as we both shall live."
I laugh and clink my glass against his, and a small flicker of real rapport settles between us.
We fall into an easy rhythm after that, working through the flight while I walk him through each vintage.
To my surprise, he actually listens, asks real questions, and even seems to be enjoying the wines.
"This one is grand." He takes another sip of the Sauvignon Blanc. "Almost... is it green apple? And something deeper underneath it. A mineral quality."
"Yes!" I say, nodding with enthusiasm. "Green apple and lemon zest up top, and that mineral note is the flint. That's exactly what you're supposed to find in this profile. You have a remarkably good palate, actually."
"Don't sound so shocked, Ace." He grins. "I'm a pretty quick study. Besides, learning wine is mostly confidence and a good nose, right?"
I shoot him a sidelong glance, realizing he's quoting my own earlier lecture back to me almost word for word. "Good memory."
“Well, I like hearing you talk.” He tilts his head, his gaze shifting into something dangerously flirty. "So I pay attention to the details."
A flush starts at my neck. "Alright, alright. Let's keep the focus on the vintage and not the flattery."
He laughs, a warm sound that vibrates through the small room, and I reach for the next bottle, carefully arranging the stemware for the sparkling selection.
"Now this." I pour the third wine. "Is the one I'm proudest of. It should be the easiest for you to promote, since it's a sparkling. Marketing is leaning hard into the your celebration drink angle."
"Right. Pop it after a big win, that sort of thing."
"Exactly. White peach, a little apricot." I slide the glass toward him. "It’s like summer in a bottle to me. No matter where you are, it just transports you to a dreamy dinner outside, maybe on the coast. Nostalgic almost, the sort of…"
I trail off, realizing I'm waxing poetic to a man who probably could not care less. He came here to put his face on a label, not to listen to me get sentimental about a bottle of sparkling.
I clear my throat. "What you actually need to know is that it pairs really well with goat cheese and grilled stone fruit."
He smiles. "You're really passionate about all this, huh?"
"Yes," I admit. "I know it sounds ridiculous, caring so much about wine. But I think a good bottle ends up tied to a memory, the way a meal does. A sister's graduation. An anniversary. A random Tuesday night when you're cooking at home and reach for something nice without thinking about it."
"I don't think it's ridiculous at all." He turns the stem of his glass slowly, his expression surprisingly sincere.
"And hey, I was the kid who decided he was going to play professional hockey.
In Ireland. Where roughly nobody plays hockey.
So I'm no stranger to loving something other people might not get. "
I find myself smiling at that. He's not nearly as insufferable as I thought he’d be. In fact, he's actually kind of lovely.