Page 19 of Playing Dirty
"Aye, my dad's a literature professor in Dublin. Wilde's practically a home county author. I grew up on the classics and plenty more besides. Does that not fit the dumb-hockey-brute image you've got of me?"
He smiles, slow and insufferable, and I genuinely consider throwing my massive bag at his head.
Instead, I swallow my pride and do the responsible thing. "No. It doesn't. I'm sorry for the assumption, it was unfair and rude of me."
"Aye well, we all make mistakes," he says. "I'll forgive you this once, I suppose."
I shoot him a dry look. "Lucky me. I'll be sure to mark the occasion in my planner."
"Berta was the previous one, right?" He tilts his head, eyes bright. "So what's the name of the new successor?"
I stare at him, thrown that he remembered the name of my first planner at all, then force my attention back to my iPad.
"My latest is named Wilson,” I say primly. “He's color-coded, and I’d bet significantly more organized than anything you've ever owned."
He laughs. "See, Ace, this is exactly why I can't stay annoyed with you. I enjoy the witty jabs."
"You're impossible," I say, rolling my eyes, though I'll admit a small, traitorous part of me is pleased I made him laugh.
Why am I even leaning into this? I hold every client I've ever had at a clean, professional arm's length without thinking twice.It's the easiest thing I do all day. But something about him keeps pulling bricks out of my walls, and the genuinely alarming part is that I keep handing him the next one.
The sudden vibration of my phone against the tabletop provides a needed escape from the conversation. I glance down and see a notification from my mother. I tap the screen open.
Mom:Just a quick update that Dad's knee rehab results came in. Looking okay so far luckily, though we got a referral to a specialist.
I tap back a quickthat's great, and add it to my mental list to follow up on the referral and make sure they actually get it scheduled. If I don't personally oversee it, the appointment will drift off into the ether of forgotten tasks.
"Everything alright?" he asks.
"Yes." I set the phone down. "Just parents stuff. I have to take care of any and all appointments for them otherwise they’ll never do it, despite this particular one beingessentialto my dad’s knee recovery."
I could bite my tongue the second the frustration escapes. He studies me for a long, quiet moment, his expression unreadable.
"So you're the one who keeps the world turning for everyone, then," he remarks. "Not just this estate."
"To an extent. Someone has to be the responsible one." I retrieve my iPad, desperate for a distraction.
"Because if you don't shoulder the burden, nobody else will. Right?" He smiles.
I tip my head. "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."
He laughs lightly. "That explains a fair bit, actually. Is that why you're wound so tight? Managing everyone else's lives on top of your own? The whole weight-of-the-world thing?"
"Last I checked, I didn't ask a stranger to psychoanalyze me over marketing notes," I say, shooting him a look.
"So, that's a yes, then," he murmurs, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.
Any rebuttal dies in my throat as I swallow hard against a sudden, frantic pulse, the air in the small room feeling uncomfortably thick and intimate.
The door swings open and a cluster of marketing staff spills in, their cheerful greetings shattering whatever that just was. Cillian holds my eyes for one more beat before he turns to greet the group, easy as anything, like he didn't just knock the ground sideways under me.
I drag my attention down to the project notes, ignore the heat climbing up my neck, and do not look at him again for the rest of the meeting.
5
Cillian
The last few weeks have been slammed. Practice has ramped up with the playoffs bearing down on us, and every free day in between keeps getting swallowed by the wine campaign—the shoot for the label, tastings, meetings after meetings. This morning's latest was a crack-of-dawn sit-down with Carol and Derek, the only slot my schedule allowed, and it doesn't wrap until nearly eight, a solid hour after I've mentally checked out.
