I nod to his glass. “How are the drinks?”
“Strong. Calming,” Cillian says, only reinforcing my suspicion that something is eating at him.
I grab the laminated cocktail menu wedged in between a plasticky succulent and an LED light shaped like a mushroom. The venue should have been called Kitsch instead of Cliché.
“They’re known for their spicy margaritas that range from mild Tajin to Carolina Reaper,” Jeneva says, still making no move to leave.
“That’s quite the range…” I muse.
“I think you’d like the Reaper.”
And I think she’d like to reap my soul.
I slot the menu card back between the table ornaments. “I do love living on the edge.”
When the waitress comes around, Jeneva orders me a Reaper, herself a Jalapeno—confirming she has no intention of leaving—and a double shot of vodka for Cillian.
“Nah. I’m good. But can we get another guac and chips, please?” he asks.
Once the waitress leaves, I chirp, “This is fun.”
“Isn’t it? You should see the toilets. The light switch activates an old jukebox. I don’t know who did the décor, but I think we should hire them to makeBloom’s Bloomshipper.”
“I don’t thinkhipis what Lisa is after. If Fiona were in charge, though, she’d be all over your idea.”
Jeneva suddenly smiles. “I’m so glad you’re on board!”
I cock an eyebrow while Cillian laughs quietly.
When she gets up and announces she’ll go take a video of the bathroom for Lisa, Cillian leans over, hooks the back of my stool, and drags me infinitesimally closer. “I missed you.”
“Did you really?”
“Yes, Ireallydid.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and conclude, from your sentimentality, that you, Cillian Lowry, are drunk.”
“It takes way more to get me drunk.”
I tilt my head, the blunt ends of my hair whispering across my short-sleeved top. “Your eyes are as shiny as disco balls.”
“Just reflecting what they see. And all they see is you.”
I give him an eye-roll. How could I not, after a line like that? “How was your day?”
“Long.”
“What did you do after leaving my place?”
“I walked around for a bit, then taught two privates. How was your day?”
“Do you sleep with your clients?”
His head rears back.
If I’d asked the question without compulsion, I would’ve expected his shock, but since my eyes are glowing, his reaction gives me pause. Unless they aren’t glowing?
They must be, because he’s suddenly gaping at me wide-eyed, saying, “I would never cross that line. Do you want their phone numbers?”
