Page 141 of Ruthless Claim

Five minutes.

I can do five minutes.

I take a deep breath and get out of the car.

The waiting room is exactly what you’d expect from a clinic that charges what this one does and caters to people who need their business kept quiet.

It’s decorated in neutral colors, good, comfortable chairs, a water dispenser in the corner, and soft music that exists only to fill silence.

I find it kind of amusing that this clinic tries so hard to make its environment soothing when the people who sit in here are anything but soothed.

At least they tried?

Cillian is already there and it makes my heart jump when I see him.

He’s standing near the window with his hands in his pockets and he looks—Jesus, he looks terrible, but also still incredibly handsome, which is so unfair.

His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, like he’s been running his hand through it.

There are shadows under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights.

The dark purple smudges really bring out the blue of his eyes even though the bags are as deep as my Hermes purse I’m currently clutching.

He hasn’t shaved for a few days and the reddish hair is closer to a beard now, darker along his jaw.

I really hate how much I like it.

It is genuinely, profoundly unfair that someone can look this good while also looking like shit.

He turns when I come in and his eyes find me immediately, roaming my body as if checking to see if I’m okay.

A look of longing crosses his face before he has a chance to school his features.

I bite my lip and busy myself by finding a chair and sitting down.

Placing my purse on my lap, I angle my body away, hoping he can read my body language enough to not approach me.

He’s either blind or obtuse because I hear him approach. His cologne invades my nostrils and I immediately turn my head away, not able to look at him.

He sits down heavily in a chair nearby and I feel his gaze on me. I stare resolutely at the door.

“Valentina,” he says quietly.

“No,” I bite out, still staring at the door. My fingers are clutched so tightly on my purse strap I can feel the blood leaving my knuckles.

The clock on the wall makes a small sound. To Cillian’s credit, he doesn’t push the issue.

Claire and Finn arrive eight minutes later.

I know the exact number because I’ve moved from staring at the door to staring at the digital clock.

They come through the door with Claire looking slightly wind ruffled. Finn’s coat is half-unzipped, his backpack on one shoulder.

He looks around the waiting room with those watchful eyes, and when he spots Cillian he freezes.

“There he is,” Claire says to Finn, softly.

A ripple of irritation courses through me. What an unnecessary comment.