Chapter 10 #2
"I get that." He nods. "I'm the primary breadwinner for my lot now, which is a massive relief.
I love being able to take care of them, especially after my parents and sisters sacrificed so much for me.
But it means I never make a decision that's only about me.
Which is fine." He gives a small shrug. "I'd never trade it.
Doesn't mean it's always easy. And then there's the family guilt. "
"The human experience," I say with a small, weary smile. "Never quite black and white, is it?"
"True," he says, then leans in. "Listen, I don't mean to overstep, but I've been wanting to ask. Are you alright? At the gala the other night, you seemed… I don't know. Off."
The fact that he was watching me closely enough to notice is borderline mortifying, since the only reason I was off was because his proximity was a vivid, physical reminder that I'd spent the previous night coming to a shattering orgasm while imagining him fucking me senseless.
I wave a hand briskly, as if I can physically brush the memory out of the air between us.
"Oh, it was nothing. Just logistics and gala-related stress. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression it was personal."
Massive, world-class liar. I could not be a bigger liar if I tried.
And then, with zero warning, my brain serves up a startlingly high-definition image of him pinning me to the back wall of this very restaurant.
"Glad to hear it." Cillian smiles, dark blue eyes lingering in a way that is doing absolutely nothing for my composure. "You're usually so put-together. Had me a little worried, that's all."
His fingers under the lace of my underwear. His mouth at my ear. That low Irish rasp telling me to be a good girl for him, telling me to?—
I grab my water glass and take a big gulp.
No athletes. That's the policy. But for the life of me, I can't remember why I'm still clinging to it. And why do I hate him again? The lines keep getting blurrier. I'm not even sure he likes me. He flirts, sure, but he flirts with everyone.
"You sure you're okay?" His brow furrows. "You're doing that thing again where you look a million miles away."
"Fine." It comes out a full note too high. I clear my throat. "Just a tickle. Pollen, probably."
He doesn't look convinced, which is honestly annoying. It's borderline rude how easily he reads my face. Or maybe I'm just an open book around him in a way I've never been with anyone else.
If he can tell how horny I am right now I will have to fake my own death.
"Alright," I sigh, deciding a strategic half-truth is my only way out of this. "The truth is I have anxiety. I had a bit of an episode the other night. But it's under control."
Anxiety rooted in the terrifying possibility that he might sense I masturbated to him, but let's not lead with that.
"Hmm." He nods slowly, swirling his wine. "Sorry to hear that, Ace."
I wave it off, the picture of breezy composure. "It's been with me since I was a kid, so honestly, it's an old friend at this point. But like I said. I'm fine."
"The whole weight-of-the-world thing? That start back then too?" he asks, surprisingly perceptive.
"Yeah, pretty much," I say. "I used to get these really bad episodes where I'd just shut down and couldn't function for a few days. But some therapy and an anti-anxiety med later, I'm in a much better place with it."
He nods, watching me with the kind of steady attention that makes me feel like I'm the only person in the restaurant. I need to get my walls back up, fast, because they're crumbling at an alarming rate.
"I'm glad you got the help," he says. "It takes guts to admit you need it, and more to actually go get it. A lot of people I know wouldn't."
"Well." I clear my throat, twisting the stem of my glass. "I appreciate that, not making me feel… I don’t know, less because of it."
"Why on earth would I think less of you for it?"
An unwelcome memory of my ex-husband surfaces. A man with the unique talent of being unfaithful while treating my mental health like a personal grievance he was forced to endure.
One of his finer moments came after the cheating, during the ill-fated attempt to save the marriage. He actually told me that maybe if life with me didn't feel so heavy, he wouldn't have been driven to find someone easier.
Way to send a woman to therapy for a whole new reason.
"You'd be surprised," I say softly, keeping my eyes on the table. "My ex-husband always made me feel like I was a lot to deal with."
"He's an idiot, Ace. Like I told you before, you're a hell of a catch. And tough as nails, from what I can see." He gives me that slightly crooked smile, and I feel my walls crumbling by the inch.
"Well, thank you." I manage a small smile. "Though I hope I hide it well enough at work that I'm not subjecting anyone else to it."
"You hide it well." He chuckles. "I don't think I ever saw you flustered during all those marketing meetings. You were always well composed."
"Except when it comes to you," I murmur, the confession out before I can catch it.
He smiles, eyes locked on mine. "Aye, I suppose so. Maybe that's why I've gotten so good at reading you."
The walls are effectively dust.
I study him across the table. "What about you? Any particular demons of your own, or are you one of those flawless physical specimens with no visible cracks in the armor?”
"I'm afraid I've no deep, dark baggage to offer." He leans back with one arm hooked over his chair. "The pressure on the ice is a lot, sure. And I've a few family things that stress me out from time to time. But I wouldn't claim I've ever dealt with real anxiety or anything of that sort."
"Wow," I say, shaking my head. "Just rubbing in the emotional stability, then?"
"I know, I'm a monster." He grins with that infuriating, magnetic charm, and I find myself laughing along.
The "work date" continues as we fall into an easy rhythm.
The food arrives, and it's excellent, and we each order another glass of wine.
He tells me a story about his teammate Jonesy, a rental car, and a raccoon that has me laughing until I'm wiping my eyes with my napkin, then stories from growing up in Ireland.
In return, I tell him how I got into wine, about my garden and my slightly obsessive love of plants, about life with Sabrina and her documentary voiceovers narrating my every move.
And throughout it all I'm surprised to realize I don't feel even a flicker of frustration with him. Was I ever actually annoyed with him?
He's funny and charming, and despite his complete lack of wine expertise and my equally complete ignorance of sports, we share a surprising amount of common ground. A love for family, similar core values, and a sense of humor that nips back and forth.