“How did you two meet again, Mrs. Murphy?” Malachi enquires.
“Cillian’s my dance instructor. Came highly recommended by one of my friends. I had my doubts—mostly because he’s not of Latino descent—but he’s mighty good. Got my creaky hips swaying like you wouldn’t imagine. The ladies in my dance class can’t get enough of him.”
Cillian keeps eyeing the crystal centerpiece filled with votive candles and rose petals.
“How did you become adance instructor?” Although Malachi’s tone is neutral, I don’t miss the slight amusement tinging the words, as though he finds Cillian’s profession trivial.
I bristle, Gaea only knows why, since I also had much to say about Cillian’s calling. I decide it’s sympathy pains for the human at my side, whose complexion is growing rosier by the second.
The blush has climbed to the tips of his ears, which jut through the thick tangle of his hair. “I needed to make a living and didn’t have a college degree.”
“How long are you in Boston for, Mal?” Fiona cuts in, probably to help Cillian save face.
“If I can help it, for at least a month,” Malachi says.
Ines sighs. “I can’t tell you how eager I am not to dig clothes out of a suitcase every day.”
I am justdyingto ask her where she’ll be digging them from if she stays in Boston—Malachi’s closet? A waiter shears off my line of sight before I can formulate my question in a way that won’t make me sound like a lovesick tween.
I reach for my glass of wine, then think better of mixing liquors and ask the waiter for a fresh cocktail. Even though Idon’t look Cillian’s way, I feel his judgment ooze through his lenses.
At least he’s paying attention to me. Unlike Malachi, who’s focused on the conversation between Ines and my brother.
“I rarely drink.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to defend myself.
“I didn’t say anything.” True, but I’m sure he’s thinking a lot of things.
I recline in my seat. “You should work the room. Score some new customers.”
He fists his fork. “I have too many already.”
While I wonder if one can truly have too many customers, Cillian digs into his meal. Watching him eat—utensil clutched in his palm instead of daintily speared under his index finger—tosses me a decade back, to the first time I sat at Saul Hadez’s table.
Malachi’s father had observed my table manners, upper lip curled in disgust. It hadn’t stopped me from wiping my plate clean, but it had made me feel like trash.
I wonder if anyone’s ever made Cillian feel like trash. What ifIdid?
Unease settles in the pit of my stomach. “How many lessons do you give a day?”
“Depends on the days. I try to cap it at eight.”
“Every day?” I place my elbow on the table and cradle my head on the tips of my fingers, face turned toward him.
“Every day. Seven days a week.”
“How much do you charge per lesson?”
“For you, it’d be free.” He swipes his last bite of food, then sets his fork down.
He might hold his eating utensil like a dagger, but he chews with his mouth closed. Something that took me weeks to master.
I roll my eyes. “I’m serious… What’s the going rate on a private dance lesson in Boston these days?”
“Enough to put food in my belly and fuel in my car. Not enough to put much away in the bank.”
“Vague.”
“I don’t like talking about money.”
