As long I forget the part where he doesn’t believe in romance, love, or marriage, of course. I’m not stupid enough to do a Teagan on it. I’d never try and trick or trap him, but if he offered me the ‘bit of fun’ he offered her, I sure as hell wouldn't turn it down.
Two Sex on The Beach and Three Flaming Orgasms later, and I’m bent over the hotel’s disabled toilets with Cillian holding my hair out of my face. He strokes my hair with a tenderness I never imagined he was capable of.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I mumble, the second I finish retching my guts up.
He grabs a thick wad of tissue and dabs my mouth dry. If I wasn't so touched by his unexpected kindness, it might occur to me to be mortified. ‘You don’t need to apologise to me, I’m not your father.’
‘But can I call you daddy?’ I hiccup.
Clearly not all the alcohol is in the toilet.
‘If you did, I’d have no choice but to take you home with me and smack your backside for getting yourself in this predicament.’ His Adam’s apple dips in his throat, and I swear his eyes strip me naked with one perusing sweep.
‘Would that be such a bad thing?’ Oh god. I’m drunk. And desperate, obviously.
He has no idea how many times I’d imagined being in his bed, or having him in mine, long before I even heard his velvet voice purring into my ear or felt the heat of his palm on my back. Or read his cynical sign-up form. And after what he told me on Wednesday, he would be horrified if he had the slightest inkling. Which is why he can never ever find out.
‘I’m sure it would be a fantastic thing.’ His gaze rakes over my cleavage. ‘But it’s not going to happen, princess.’
I pout like a four-year-old. ‘Why not?’
The attraction is undeniably mutual.
The smouldering glances.
The way he stroked my spine.
The way he acted like a caveman to Google man.
‘Firstly, I don’t sleep with intoxicated women.’ His finger coasts across my bare arm. ‘And secondly, it would complicate our arrangement.’
At least he didn't say it was because I’m a holy show that can’t hold her drink.
‘Come on, let’s get you home to bed.’
If only.
I wake up naked, face down on my quilted cream pillow. A thousand memories of the night before taunting me as I force open my eyes.
The cocktails.
Being sick.
The ‘daddy’ comment.
Thank God Cillian had more sense than me. I will never mock his serious, sullen ways ever again. Well, for a while at least.
I spy a glass of water and headache tablets on the bedside locker next to me and manage to drag my head high enough to swallow two before passing out again.
The next time I wake, it’s decidedly brighter and the pounding in my ears is not coming from inside my head. It’s coming from my front door.
I live in the penthouse apartment of a stunning block in Ballsbridge; a twenty-first birthday gift from my movie-star brother. He’s not all bad, even if he did rat me out to my parents for having a new man.
If it’s Frank and Penny dropping in for a surprise visit hoping to catch my ‘boyfriend’ here, they’re going to be sorely disappointed. Almost as disappointed as me. Because as mortified as I am about coming onto Cillian Callaghan last night, I don’t need to be drunk to admit I’m attracted to him. Panty-meltingly attracted to him.
My family are right. I literally have the worst taste in men. Because as attractive as he is, Cillian is a commitment-phobe with more baggage than an airplane on a long-haul flight to Australia.
I drag my fingers through my tousled curls, pull on a black silky robe from the back of my bedroom door, and pad through the sunny hallway to the front door. The banging continues. Giles, the building’s doorman/porter wouldn't let just anyone in. It must be someone I know. Or a takeaway delivery. And I didn't order takeaway, not yet anyway.
