Chapter 5
Cillian
The last few weeks have been slammed. Practice has ramped up with the playoffs bearing down on us, and every free day in between keeps getting swallowed by the wine campaign—the shoot for the label, tastings, meetings after meetings.
This morning's latest was a crack-of-dawn sit-down with Carol and Derek, the only slot my schedule allowed, and it doesn't wrap until nearly eight, a solid hour after I've mentally checked out.
My presence is required, unfortunately, and I spend the whole thing nodding along and resisting the urge to stab my eyeballs with a pen. I practically sprint out the door the second Carol says I'm no longer needed.
The stone corridors are quiet this early, just the steady sound of my footsteps on the stone. I'm whistling something low, telling myself I'm not scanning every doorway for a particular face on my way out.
I've been enjoying the back-and-forth between Margot and myself lately, even if I am trying to keep a lid on it. My focus needs to stay on the ice, and even if she didn't have a no-athletes rule, Margot Prescott does not strike me as the casual-anything sort of woman. And I don’t do serious.
Still, a bit of harmless flirting is hardly a crime, and I'll be damned if the pull isn't getting harder to ignore. I scan the reception rooms on my right while keeping an eye on the windows to my left, though I've no idea if she's even on the clock today.
But as I pass the tall window that frames the walled garden, a sudden flash of pale blue fabric snags my attention.
Margot.
I know I should keep my head down and keep moving. But the curiosity about what she's doing out there this early wins out, and I find myself turning for the garden door instead.
Outside, the garden's lush and the morning sun is already warm on the back of my neck. Margot's across the grass on a little three-rung ladder, up on her toes in a pair of high heels, stretched toward the climbing roses near the top of the stone wall.
And fuck me sideways. Her ass.
That pale blue dress is snug, highlighting every curve, and any remaining delusions about harmless flirting evaporate.
The only thought left in my head is the desperate urge to have her pinned firmly against the stone, my fingers tangled in her hair and that dress bunched at her hips, just to hear the specific noise she’d make while coming with my name on her lips.
I clear my throat before I'm caught gawping. "Are you raiding the estate grounds, Ace?"
"Oh!" She spins around so fast the ladder gives a dangerous little shimmy. I'm already halfway across the grass to catch her, but she steadies herself before I get there, one hand braced on the wall and the other clutching a pair of garden shears.
"Sorry, I should've said something from the doorway." I laugh, stopping a few feet back and putting my hands up.
She puffs a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. "You're fine. You just caught me off guard is all."
"So." I glance up at the blooming wall, then back to her. "They got you on the grounds crew now too?"
She laughs. "Well, they haven't talked me into the gutter maintenance yet, so there's hope for my dignity. But this isn't actually a work task." She turns back to the wall. "It's Walt's birthday. He does maintenance here."
"Walt a friend of yours?" I ask.
"Not exactly." She nips a stem from the wall. "He's just a very sweet old man, and I don't think he has much family left. So I'm organizing a little thing for him in the break room. Cake, the works."
I nod. "And the flowers are a bouquet for him?"
“Yes.” She glares at me, almost daring me to find it silly. "I know men always claim they don't care about that sort of thing, but I've never met one who wasn't a little bit delighted to be handed a bouquet."
"No, I didn't mean it like that, honestly." I shake my head. "I just think it's a really nice thing you're doing. Not everyone would."
"Oh." She pauses, her expression softening. "Well, thank you. I just need to gather a few more of these, and luckily the garden is overflowing right now. And I have the head gardener's blessing to take them, obviously."
She adds the disclaimer as if I'm planning to report her for floral theft, and I have to look away to hide the smile spreading across my face. There's a wicker basket at the foot of her ladder, already spilling over with pink roses and trailing bits of green.
"Need a hand? You looked like you were coming up a bit short for the prime candidates near the top." I gesture toward a cluster of cream roses that she’d been reaching for when I walked in.
She follows my gaze up the stone wall, chewing on her lower lip, seemingly weighing whether or not to accept my help. The lure of the cream roses must outweigh her pride, because she takes a step down and nods.
"Actually, yes." She climbs the rest of the way down and hands me the garden shears. "I'd be very grateful."
"Consider it done." I take the shears, and head up the rungs until I reach the top. "These ones the winners, then?"
She nods, watching from the lawn with the basket on her hip. "Yes. About an inch above the node. No, too high. Down a bit. There. Right there."
I snip through the stems, the flowers coming away into my palm, and I hand them down. She takes them and slots them in among the pinks, turning the basket to inspect the angle.
"Ugh, they're just perfect." She tilts the basket into the morning light, looking pleased.
"I didn't realize you had a side hustle as a florist," I say as I climb back down the ladder. "What other talents are you keeping under wraps?"
"Oh, loads. Beyond my exceptional organizational skills, I'm also a great parallel parker, I make a life-changing grilled cheese," she ticks them off on her free hand, "and I'm a bit of a shark at darts."
I arch an eyebrow. "Darts?"
“Yep.” She nods. "I could probably make a living as a hustler, honestly, because no one ever sees it coming."
"Is that right?" I close the distance between us, that spark in her gaze making it impossible to look away. "Well, I'd love to see that in person."
Her blue eyes widen and a flush climbs her neck, and fuck, it's a devastatingly attractive look on her.
"Well." She clears her throat, suddenly very preoccupied with the wicker basket. "You'll just have to accept my word for it."
I smile at that and step back. Message received.
"Let me take that," I say, reaching for the ladder just as she makes a move for it.
“Thank you.” She shifts the basket to her hip. "The gardening shed is just around this corner."
We walk side by side through the grounds and I can't help but steal a few glances at her as we make our way to the shed.
She’s got that vintage pin-up aesthetic that is rapidly becoming my new kryptonite—impossibly sexy, adorably earnest, and a committed rule-follower with just enough bite to keep things interesting.
I've always appreciated a woman who gives me a hard time, but no one has ever managed to get under my skin quite like she has.
And then there's the lingering memory of that brief glimpse of her black lace bra, which is haunting me like a ghost. Four weeks ago I had a one-night stand with a woman dressed like a dominatrix, and now I'm losing my mind over a sliver of fabric I barely saw on Margot, for fuck's sake.
"So, I happened to stumble upon that interview you did recently," she says, her tone sounding uncharacteristically cautious. "The one where you were discussing the... upcoming playoffs?"
"Aye, just the usual media obligations," I say. "Keeping tabs on me then, Ace?"
She gives me a sidelong glance. "I believe in being informed about our ambassador's public profile. But you do handle the cameras well, I'll give you that. Though even I could tell you were losing your patience toward the end."
I chuckle. "Oh, the whole British thing?"
She nods, watching me.
"Aye, it's a bit of a sore spot. Certain English reporters have this habit of claiming any Irish person once they start to do well.
One good season and I'm suddenly British player Cillian O'Rourke, like they've adopted me.
If it's not malicious I let it slide, but I can always tell who's doing it on purpose. "
"I'd say that's a justified grudge. Didn't the English occupy the place for what, several hundred years?"
"Eight hundred, give or take. We've still got a complicated relationship with them, if I'm being honest." I give a light shrug. "I've a few friends from over the water, but I draw a firm line at being called British or English."
"Fair enough," she says, a thoughtful look crossing her features.
We eventually reach a stone structure tucked away, framed by an explosion of flowers that makes the whole building look more like a storybook cottage than a simple gardening shed.
"This is the place," she says, gesturing toward the entrance.
I balance the ladder against my hip and swing the door open. "Wow. This is the most organized gardening shed I've ever seen."
Inside, every tool has its own labeled spot, rows of them neatly hung and sorted, the only two gaps the ones waiting on the ladder and shears in my hands. I fold the ladder down and slot it into its outline on the wall, then hang the shears on their little hook beside it.
Margot chuckles behind me. "José, our head gardener, is a perfectionist and an artist with the grounds. He runs a tight ship."
I glance back at her. "Sounds like someone else I know."
"Is that a polite way of calling me difficult, Mr. O'Rourke?"
"I'm saying you seem ridiculously competent and organized." I pull the door shut. "It's a compliment, Ace."
"Well, thank you." She shifts the basket on her hip.
We step back out onto the lawn and the morning sun is behind her now, catching the dark edges of her hair and lighting her up in a golden glow that makes her look like something out of a dream. And for the first time in my life while talking to a woman, I find myself completely lost for words.