Page 79 of Playing Dirty
He looks at me and smiles, his hand coming to rest steady on the small of my back. "Hi."
I look up at him, a slow smile spreading as I catch his gaze. "Hi."
"You're looking lovely tonight," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, private register meant only for me.
"Really?" I laugh, striking an exaggerated little pose in my huge hoodie and fluffy socks, one hand on my hip like I'm working a runway. "This aesthetic is doing it for you? Messy bun and all?"
"Oh, it definitely is." He grins, leaning down to press a lingering kiss against my temple.
We eventually migrate into the warmth of the living room,where Sabrina has staged the couch: blankets distributed, candy decanted into a bowl, the good candles lit. The evening settles into a rhythm that feels shockingly natural. Cillian slots into our household dynamic with ease, trading quips with Sabrina and jumping up to top off wine glasses before I even think to ask.
It's the kind of domestic bliss I could easily see myself wanting every single night.
I'm tucked firmly against Cillian's side, warm and content, the rain washing steadily against the windows, when a violent metallic crash echoes from the back of the house.
We all bolt upright. Out on the back porch, curtains of water are sheeting off the roof. The gutter has wrenched itself loose from the eaves and is dumping a torrential waterfall directly onto the built-in cedar planters I just finished stocking on Sunday.
I rush to the window and press my hands to the glass, watching my brand-new dahlias get pummeled flat. "Oh my god, my garden!"
Cillian and Sabrina crowd in behind me.
"It's the omen!" Sabrina says, wide-eyed at my shoulder. "I told you the sandals were just the beginning."
I nod helplessly at my poor little plants. The planters are bolted into the porch frame. There's no dragging them out of the line of fire.
"I'll go sort it," Cillian says, already turning for the entryway and his boots. "Ace, do you have a ladder or a stepstool? And some tools?"
I catch his arm. "Cillian, you'll be soaked to the bone in seconds."
He glances back over his shoulder and laughs. "It's just a bit of rain, love."
I smile and fetch the folding stepstool from the pantry while Sabrina digs a few tools out of the junk drawer. A moment laterhe's out in it. The rain flattens his dark hair instantly as he balances on the stool at the edge of the porch, reaching up for the hanging length of metal.
The grey cotton of his tee goes translucent in seconds, clinging to the hard muscle of his back and shoulders as he works. God help me, he looksunbelievablygood in the rain.
Focus, Margot. Now is not the time.
Sabrina and I huddle in the open doorway, a fine mist of rain cooling our faces. Cillian appears entirely oblivious to the storm, and Sabrina lifts an invisible microphone toward her lips.
"Here we witness the wild Irish male in his natural environment," she murmurs, deploying her most dramatic documentary voice. "Observe how the fragile Californians retreat from the downpour, while the hardy Irishman thrives in the torrential damp. Simply remarkable footage."
"Sabrina, this is very serious and my flowers' lives are at stake," I whisper, already giggling into my hand.
"Well, David Attenborough would approve."
With a low grunt of effort, Cillian heaves the bracket upward. The whole line of his body goes taut, heavy shoulders bunching under the soaked fabric and forearms flexing where his sleeves are shoved back. The wet shirt is doing himeverypossible favor.
"Oh," I breathe, the sound escaping before I can catch it. Sabrina snickers beside me.
"Control yourself, woman." She laughs, nudging my shoulder. "At least wait until I've retired for the evening."
"Shut up." My face goes hot instantly.
He gives the gutter one final, wrenching shove. The waterfall finally shifts, redirecting off the far end and onto the lawn, sparing my flowers at last.
"Alright," he says over the wind, wiping rain from his eyes. "It'll need a permanent fix once the sun's out, but that should hold through the night at least."
He knocks the bracket in with one last, solid strike of the hammer and offers a satisfied nod.
