Page 31 of Ruthless Dream

I stuff my phone in my pocket, trudging back to my dorm. At least he hasn’t asked for any nudes yet, like all the other men who message me.

Seeing Ciaran again is like being greeted by the daylight once more. This isn’t a dream. I didn’t wake up from a nightmare.

This—whatever it is—is still happening.

I take the opportunity to really study him.

There’s all the stuff I noticed before—broad shoulders, thick brown hair, a beard, and his warm brown eyes.

There’s also a tiny scar above his right eye. The leather strap of his watch isn’t polished. He taps his thumb against the table when he’s in thought.

I like the accent, I’ll give him that. Not that he’s talked much even though we’ve been sitting at this table for roughly fifteen minutes.

The boutique bistro is Nat’s favorite, but we’re here so early the place is sparse. There are two women who look like they’ve just finished a session of private tennis lessons. There’s an old couple who appear to be regulars.

The navy suit Ciaran wears fits him well, but something is off. I saw the Irish at Mom and Dad’s party. They drank easily. Laughed and joked. This upscale restaurant is meant for people like Nat. Middle-aged women who read the Economist for fun. Rich stay-at-home moms who are grabbing lunch with their friends.

Hell, I’m sure if I asked the old couple across the room whose idea it was to come here for lunch, it’d turn out to be the wife’s.

Ciaran is trying too hard, but I have no idea why. He’s not bothered to look at me other than a kiss on the cheek when I spotted him right outside the restaurant.

“How old are you?” I ask.

He blinks, remembering that I am in fact sitting across from him. “Twenty-two.”

“Why are you in America? How long have you been here?”

“Since the day of the party your parents threw.”

“Since—” I choke on my water. He’s only been in the US for a couple of weeks and somehow already managed to fuck up my life?

“Any more questions?” he asks.

“Are you gay?”

He smirks. “Do you think I’m gay?”

He’d spread my thighs open and licked his lips when he eyed my cunt. I thought I’d die, flames flickered along my skin, and he’d barely touched me.

I toss hair off my sticky neck. “I think you’ve been staring at that guy over there for the past ten minutes.”

Some older businessman in a suit. He’s at a table alone, the staff treating him like a regular. He’s been on his phone most of the time. The bistro is a fancy spot to be working remote.

“Who is he?” I ask.

The waiter appears before Ciaran can answer. He orders the cheapest thing on the menu.

“The chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side.” I hand over my menu. “And a bottle of Caymus Cabernet. The fiftieth anniversary.”

Ciaran’s scowling before I even finish.

“Isn’t the drinking age twenty-one?” he asks when the waiter bows his head and leaves.

As if this place would bother to card me. My family has spent so much money here.

“What?” I ask, shrugging. “You don’t want to treat your girlfriend right?”

“That’s a four hundred dollar bottle of wine,” he growls.