Having a cousin in the same club as him was definitely working against me here.
“Yes, I went to a spa.”
“A spa?” he asked, gaze sliding over me. I could hear his thoughts: then why aren’t your hair or your nails done? Why don’t you look rested? Why do you look so tense?
“Yep. It’s been a long time since I took a few days off for myself.” That was painfully true. “It was time to pamper myself.”
Raff leaned closer, his voice just for me. “Lula, why are you lying?”
I forced my chin up, lifting a brow. “I take offense to that,” I told him, folding my arms over my chest, my mug resting on my forearm. Everything about me was daring him to contradict me.
I expected him to. At least one more time. Raff was nothing if he wasn’t relentless. So when he shrank back, watching me with those dark eyes of his, I was almost even more on alert.
The look was uncomfortably long, making me need to concentrate so I didn’t shift around and give my guilt away.
“My mistake then.” There was something inexplicably soft in his voice as he spoke.
Thankfully, Casey either caught up with everyone else or sensed the rising tension in the air and moved between us, wiping down the counter.
“What can I get for you, Raff?”
He didn’t answer with one of his usual cheesy pick-up lines. He just gave me one last lingering glance, then her a distracted smile.
I took that as my chance to get the hell away from him.
I turned and slammed my hand into the swinging door. Then ran right into someone.
“Dammit!” I yelped as my hot coffee spilled all down my front.
“Shit,” Cillian hissed as I spilled coffee on him as well.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, taking a step back, horrified by the sudden and almost overwhelming urge to cry.
I wouldn’t say I wasn’t a cryer. We all had our little mini breakdowns. They were good for our mental health. Purge all the ugly crap and move on. But I never, ever cried over silly inconveniences. Or, worst of all, at work.
I blinked rapidly, forcing the moisture back as Cillian grabbed a nearby rag and handed it to me. “You okay? That’s hot.”
“I should be asking you the same thing,” I said as I blotted the front of my dress.
“I have more layers on,” he said, waving down at his suit.
Objectively, Cillian Murphy was hot. All of the Murphy brothers were. They were all tall and fit with dark, dirty blond hair and different shades of blue eyes. In Cillian’s case, they were a light, almost translucent blue.
They were even my type: successful, gentlemanly, and well-dressed.
But they’d just never done it for me.
Maybe it was just because they were my bosses; who knew?
“You okay?” he asked. “You’ve seemed a little… off since you got back.”
“Off?” I asked, playing dumb. “Frazzled, because no one is spending ten hours a day pampering me?”
“Off like… unhappy.”
My head jerked back up before I could stop it, and I just knew I looked like a deer in the headlights right then.
“No, of course not,” I insisted.
