“You didn’t ask if I had company.” My voice is steady, clinical. EvenI’msurprised by my sangfroid. “So, what is it you wanted to chat about?”
He switches to Atlantean. “Various things, none of which concern the present company. Should I leave or should he?”
Cillian’s fingers lock around my hip, causing a shiver to swoop between my shoulder blades. I imagine he holds me to mark his territory. Unless it’s to offer me support. Knowing the man standing behind me, it could go either way.
I glance over my shoulder to find him sporting a cocky grin. One he undoubtedly wears to piss Malachi off. The guy is ridiculously bold. He probably thinks that because he survived a stint in prison, he’s invulnerable.
When I turn back toward Malachi, I hunt his expression for jealousy but find only hostility.
“I fly out to Atlantis tomorrow,” he informs me—in English.
I don’t ask whether it’s to pick up his hateful girlfriend. Frankly, I don’t care to know.
“What time are you leaving? Maybe we can squeeze in a coffee before.” I’m shocked by the words coming out of my mouth.
Last week, Malachi’s offer pissed me off, but nowI’msuggesting it?
Also, how has it only been a week? It feels like a whole month has unfolded.
I need to have my head checked, if only to figure out how and when and why I stopped mooning after the one man I spent my entire teenage years obsessed with.
It cannot possibly be because of a stranger’s attention? After all, Cillian’s not the first man who’s looked my way. I might not be the kind of person who stops traffic, but I’m not invisible either.
“Let’s do that. Come over to my place at eight.” In Atlantean, Malachi adds, “Alone.”
I’m tempted to roll my eyes but keep them leveled on his retreating figure. “Okay.”
Still in Atlantean, he adds, “And, Elle, please keep your phone on you.”
He doesn’t need to add why. I’m smart enough to figure it out. He still doesn’t trust Cillian.
Instead of feeling annoyed that Malachi’s passing judgment, or that he didn’t fight harder to win me over, I feel relieved. And…oddly settled. Like I finally drew the tile needed to declare mahjong.
I turn back toward Cillian to find him glowering at my front door, features taut with frustration. I tilt my head to catch his attention. It takes a minute, but he finally gives it to me. As he does, though, he releases my hip and takes a step back.
“You invited him over?” Cillian’s tone holds a trace of hurt.
“He’s the reason you’re even here, remember?”
His jaw clenches so hard that I hear the distinct click of molars.
I lean against the island and cross my arms, not ready for him to see what Malachi’s visit has led me to uncover. “Still planning on cooking me dinner, or are you too mad at me to pursue this date?”
Cillian holds my stare in a way that makes me want to crack his lenses, and not because I don’t like the way his eyes feel on my body, but because I don’t like the way they feel on my mind. Like the private corners of my psyche are fair game.
He finally snaps out of his funk and pivots toward the burners. Wordlessly, he spins the dials and begins rooting around my kitchen. As he pulls out a large black ceramic bowl, I eye the small bottle of champagne he bought. I unwrap the foil and pop the cork.
The soft snap makes him glance over his shoulder at me. Though his features remain tense, his posture softens an iota. Keeping my eyes on him, I take a sip. One that means:I trust you.
He adds a few ingredients to the bowl, then scoops up a fistful of ribboned herbs and releases them like a scatter of magic dust. I suddenly understand Lisa and Fiona’s obsession with cooking shows—it’s riveting to watch someone absorbed in something they love.
“It’s ready.” He nods to the dining table, which is already set, and not just with cutlery—fuchsia peonies flare from a silver pitcher. He slides the bowl onto the table, right beside the flowers. “Didn’t know where to find a vase.” He sounds sheepish, as though I might care about this detail.
The content of the pitcher is the sort of detail I care about. No man—outside Dorian and my father—has ever given me flowers.
Though I suppose Cillian didn’tgivethem to me as much as bring them over to decorate. I wonder if he chose peonies to commemorate our first meeting. I decide against asking. Gaea only knows why.
Actually, that’s not true.Iknow why—because then he’d realize the first time we met has stayed with me, and he might read too much into that.
