Page 18 of Playing Dirty
"I’ve meetings all throughout the next month here, so just grab me anytime," Cillian replies easily.
"I should get back to the desk too." Janelle turns a final, dazed look back to Cillian. "It was so nice talking to you."
"You too." He smiles up at her warmly. "And tell your mother about that Redbreast whisky I mentioned; she'll love the stuff."
"Oh, I will!" She laughs and practically floats out the door, leaving us alone in the sudden quiet of the room.
I shake my head and look at Cillian. "You're twenty minutes early."
"Didn’tyoutell me I used to be late for every single meeting?" He tilts his head, studying my face. "I'm trying to turn over a new leaf. Grow a bit of character, become the best version of myself, all that. And you strike me as the sort who thinks on time is late, so I thought early would be safer."
I narrow my eyes, feeling a prickle of annoyance. "I honestly can't tell if you're being rude or just surprisingly observant."
He laughs, a low sound that vibrates through the small room. "I just wanted to get on your good side, seeing as how we're going to be spending a lot of time together."
"Hmm," I murmur, already tapping my iPad to scroll through the campaign notes.
"So, been up to much lately, Ace?" he asks.
"No. And what's with the Ace thing, by the way?" I keep scrolling.
"The card everybody wants. Best there is at whatever they do." He grins. "And with how well you seem to run this place, the name just fit."
I feel a familiar prickle of annoyance. It's clear he believes he can simply deploy that charisma and watch every woman—and man, apparently, if Antonio is any indication—all fall apart likea house of cards. When the reality is that he's just a serial heartbreaker who gets paid to slam into other men for a living and likely possesses the emotional depth of a puddle.
God, I wish we'd gone with literallyanyoneelse for an ambassador. He gets under my skin like nobody else.
"If you're under the impression that a bit of flattery is going to loosen my professional resolve, you're going to be deeply disappointed," I say, without looking up. "This is strictly business and we have a lot to cover. The launch windows, the full marketing strategy, and the entire social media rollout. So let's be serious and focus on workonly."
He nods. "Oh, aye. Deadly serious over here."
"Good,” I say. “Glad to hear it."
"Of course. I mean, with that stick so far up your ass, I imagine it's hard for you to focus on anythingbutwork."
My head snaps up. "Excuse me?"
He leans forward. "I've tried being nice, but you're so wound up you can't even make small talk without finding a way to bristle at it."
"Maybe we should have some quiet time before the meeting," I hiss. "Since you're clearly incapable of being remotely professional."
"Fine by me."
"Good."
I go back to the notes on my iPad, or at least I pretend to. The clock ticks through the silence, and I glance up just as he stretches back in his chair and twists around to the bookshelf behind him, running a finger along the spines like he owns the place. Then he tugs a worn hardcover free and cracks it open on his knee.
I scoff before I can stop myself.
"I thought it wasquiet time," he says immediately, not looking up.
"It is. I just didn't take you for the bookish sort."
"You know, this prejudice of yours is quite the issue." He flips a page, unbothered. "You're a regular Lord Henry Wotton over there. 'It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances.'”
Shit. He clearly reads, since he's casually quoting Dorian Gray at me, which is irritating enough, but even worse, I've got absolutely nothing loaded to fire back with.
"So you've actually read Oscar Wilde?"
