Cian follows my gaze then looks back at me with aknowing expression. “Would you like to step out onto the terrace? Get some fresh air for a bit?”
I hesitate, once again hyperaware of Killian’s eyes on us despite the crowded room. But why should I give a damn anyway?
He’s been ignoring me all night. It shouldn’t bother him if another man wants to talk to me.
“Sure,” I say, setting down my wine cooler. “Fresh air sounds nice.”
Cian offers me his hand, and after a second of hesitation, I take it. His palm is warm and dry against mine as he leads me through the crowd toward the terrace doors.
I don’t look back to see if Killian is still watching.
I already know he is.
Compared to the inside of Callahan House, the terrace is peaceful and quiet.
Though it’s not completely empty, the few stragglers outside stick to their own corners. There’s a tipsy Brady off to one side, arguing with another buttonman about some football match from last night.
Mrs. Callahan’s retreated outside too, balancing out her one too many drinks with a cigarette she sucks from. She’s peering forlornly out at the gardens as if not really seeing them.
Cian guides me to the stone steps leading down to the lawn. The night air is still warm despite the sun having set, but it’s still a welcome reprieve from the stuffiness of the party inside.
“Better?” he asks.
“Actually, yeah. Much better.”
We sit in uncertain silence for a few seconds, more solistening to the sounds from inside. The typical buzz of conversation that comes when you’re at a party.
I pick at the hem of my dress, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake.
“You really do look beautiful tonight,” Cian says suddenly. “I meant to tell you earlier—I mean directly anyway—but wasn’t sure how to approach you.”
Heat creeps up my neck, spreading to my cheeks. “Errr… thanks.”
Beautiful.
It’s not a word I hear often. Not a word I’d ever use to describe myself.
Fedorov sometimes told me I was beautiful. But it was always followed by his cold hands on me. A memory that immediately makes me shudder…
“I’ve noticed you, you know,” he continues. “Since the first night I saw you at the Banshee. You were running around with your notepad, looking like you wanted to murder half the customers.”
“That, um, sounds about right.”
He chuckles lightly. “I appreciate how sweet you seem. Underneath all that.”
Sweet?
Both brows rise above my glasses as I cast him a sideways glance.
Nobody has ever called me sweet. I’m a downright grump half the damn time, prickly and withdrawn and about as warm as the arctic.
“Thanks,” I mumble again.
Mostly because I don’t know what else to say. My fingers keep picking at the hem of my dress, the only thing I have to fuss at without my wine cooler.
“I’d like to get toknow you better,” Cian says. “Maybe we could go for dinner sometime. If your chaperone would allow it.”
I blink at him a few times. “Chaperone?”
