I fluff my hair to conceal my runes, roll up the sleeves of my black denim jacket, then beeline for the counter, determined to prove that I can flirt and land a man without displaying where I come from and who I’m related to.
Chapter 9
Cillian
Not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, I refresh my chat with Electra, hoping a message might have come through, and my phone forgot to display it.
Sadly, the only chat that’s gotten any action is the one I have with Jeneva.
ME:I’m here, but there’s no parking.
JEN:Celebrity cooking class.
That explains the dozen luxury SUVs.
JEN:Park behind the red Porsche. Tour of the place shouldn’t take long. I’ll be out ASAP. Just need to finish up ringing up a few customers.
After taking Jeneva’s advice, I unfold myself from the Woody, lock the door, and then head to the bar. The place is packed, not a free seat at the counter or at the tables in sight. Ever since the flower shop became a Boston landmark, courtesy of the Hadez family’s “endorsement,”Logan’shas becometheplace to be.
At least, that’s how Jeneva explained it the first time she asked me to grab a drink there, back when I’d just started giving Mrs. Murphy private dance lessons. I’d only agreed so I could gather as much information as possible about?—
I stop thinking about Jeneva, because there, astride one of the barstools, sits Electra. And she’s not alone. I narrow my eyes on her companion—a tall, black dude whose suit fits with the kind of precision money buys.
Where did I go wrong that the girl who doesn’t date is propped at a bar, chatting up a rando? Did I lay it on too thick?
I plow right toward the Atlantean enigma I’m doing a shit job of seducing.
“Cillian?” Electra’s mismatched eyes flash with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
I take stock of the glass on the bar that’s filled with ice but bears the mark of a salt rim. “I thought you didn’t drink with strangers.”
“Derek’s not a stranger.” Her irises grip mine as she adds, “He works for an investment bank and has a dog.”
If my pursuit of her were real, I’d be fucking hurt she considers the slick assholenot-a-strangerwhile she sticks me inside that category.
“Does he know you pick pickles out of sandwiches and compare all men to your savior?”
Her pretty lips pop wide before pressing tight. “Excuse me?”
When my slipup hits, I mutter, “Mrs. Murphy mentioned your past.” Thankfully, she has. And then I lean over to murmur, “Are you trying to make me jealous?”
Electra shivers. Or maybe she shudders. My ego chooses to interpret it as a shiver.
Before she can answer, I tell Derek. “Thanks for keeping my girlfriend company.”
“What the…?” Her features tighten with annoyance.
Derek the Suit rolls his neck. “Want me to escort him out, Elle?”
Elle?How long have they been chatting that he’s already been given access to her nickname?
When he lifts his arm to corral me from Electra, I snarl, “Don’t touch me.”
Though my knuckles itch, I keep them locked at my sides. I can’t afford to get into a bar brawl, and not because I have a record but because I don’t have one. Not yet. Unless my stepbrothers’ FBI contact has already pushed it into the system?
“Elle clearly doesn’t want you here, buddy.” Derek’s tone is quiet, like he’s trying not to make a scene.
“I’m not yourbuddy.” I straighten, noting the hitch in his throat as I reach my full height.
