Page 40 of Playing Dirty
"What, the famous Cillian O'Rourke doesn't enjoy the camera? Talking about yourself to fans?" I lean in. "I assumed you were born to eat it up."
"I won't deny I've enjoyed the perks of fame," he grins, leaning closer. "But I could do without the constant scrutiny. People have this idea of the Irish being constantly outgoing, and while we're a friendly bunch, I don't think we naturally enjoy talking ourselves up all that much. Feels a bit unnatural."
I rest my chin on my hand. "Speaking of, do you get back to Ireland often?"
"Aye, as much as the schedule allows. I love it here too, so I'm happy to split my time. But I always get a bit restless if I'm away too long. My family is tight-knit, so I miss them. Though it's absolute chaos when we're all under the same roof."
"That sounds lovely, actually." I smile, thinking of my own quiet household. "My family is a bit more… formal. Except for Sabrina, obviously. My parents are the buttoned-up, middle-class Catholic types. We had a loving childhood, but they definitely subscribe to thequiet is betterphilosophy."
"I can picture that," he says. "Catholic, though? All that guilt must be quite the burden."
"Yeah, well, I'm not practicing anymore, but the constant sense that everything is somehow my fault has definitely made a lasting impression."
He nods. "I'm not especially religious these days either, but a Catholic childhood stays with you. I used to go to bed after seeing something tragic on the news and convince myself it was a direct consequence of something I'd done."
"Right?” I laugh, having done the same thing myself. “My parents have never quite forgiven me for the lapse in attendance."
He leans back. "Are you close with them?"
"Um, sort of? I was actually just talking to Sabrina about this, but they can be a bit… much. In the last month and a half alone, I've helped them downsize, organized their entire insurance portfolio, and handled several other administrative disasters."
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Given the crazy hours you work, that seems like a lot. Is there a reason they need so much help?"
"I do, and not really. Sabrina thinks they just enjoy leaning on me as a default. They had me young and I ended up helping a lot growing up. So I think they just never stopped expecting me to handle things. Sabrina is always reminding me about boundaries."
"Do you set them?" He tilts his head.
"It's a work in progress," I say with a soft laugh. "They actually nearly split up last year, and I somehow became the one-woman crisis hotline for both of them. Let me tell you, playing mediator while your mother vents about your father’s emotional unavailability is a special kind of eldest-daughter hell."
"That sounds hard," he says, his voice softening.
I take a cautious sip of my wine, wondering why on earth I'm volunteering all of this. He's just so easy to talk to, drawing confessions out of me like he's some sort of emotional siphon.
"It can be. But that's family, right?" I trace the rim of my glass. "You want to be there for them, and you also want a single weekend where no one needs anything from you. I'm either helping, or feeling guilty for saying no."
"I get that." He nods. "I'm the primary breadwinner for my lot now, which is a massive relief. I love being able to take care of them, especially after my parents and sisters sacrificed so much for me. But it means I never make a decision that's only about me. Which is fine." He gives a small shrug. "I'd never tradeit. Doesn't mean it's always easy. And then there's the family guilt."
"The human experience," I say with a small, weary smile. "Never quite black and white, is it?"
"True," he says, then leans in. "Listen, I don't mean to overstep, but I've been wanting to ask. Are you alright? At the gala the other night, you seemed… I don't know. Off."
The fact that he was watching me closely enough to notice is borderline mortifying, since the only reason I was off was because his proximity was a vivid, physical reminder that I'd spent the previous night coming to a shattering orgasm while imagining him fucking me senseless.
I wave a hand briskly, as if I can physically brush the memory out of the air between us.
"Oh, it was nothing. Just logistics and gala-related stress. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression it was personal."
Massive, world-class liar. I could not be a bigger liar if I tried.
And then, with zero warning, my brain serves up a startlingly high-definition image of him pinning me to the back wall of this very restaurant.
"Glad to hear it." Cillian smiles, dark blue eyes lingering in a way that is doing absolutely nothing for my composure. "You're usually so put-together. Had me a little worried, that's all."
His fingers under the lace of my underwear. His mouth at my ear. That low Irish rasp telling me to be a good girl for him, telling me to?—
I grab my water glass and take a big gulp.
No athletes. That's the policy. But for the life of me, I can't remember why I'm still clinging to it. And why do I hate him again? The lines keep getting blurrier. I'm not even sure he likes me. He flirts, sure, but he flirts with everyone.
