I can feel my cheeks burning, so I imagine he sees my flush, which is why he’s wearing that stupid, hot, shit-eating grin.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
He only grins harder.
There’s one thing I’ve realized about Cillian: he’s ridiculously handsome even when he’s being his normal broody, closed-off self, but when he smiles?
It’sdevastating. To the point of almost pain. I feel an ache settling in my rib cage.
“Okay, back to the fake date, please,” I blurt out, trying to steer the conversation away from my embarrassment. “What’s the plan?”
Cillian leans in, placing his elbows on the table. “So we’ve established that your main problem when it comes to talking to someone is that you’re nervous, yeah?” When I nod, he continues, “And when you’re nervous, you tend to…”
“Ramble,” I supply with a wince.
Word vomit. Whatever you want to call it.
“So we’re just going to talk, St. James. Let the night go where it goes. No pressure, no expectations, just us,” he says simply, hisshoulder lifting in a shrug, and I try to keep my gaze away from the fabric of the shirt molded to the thick, corded muscles of his arms.
Obsessing over Cillian’s arm porn is not on tonight’s agenda.
Preparing me for the very real date that I need to be ready for is.
Focus, Rory.
My brow pinches. “That’s it?”
He nods. “Yeah, why not? We’ve figured out what you do when you’re nervous, but now you know how to handle a conversation without needing sports as a clutch. You know to take a breath and figure out exactly what you want to say before you say it. Just follow my cues, go with what feels right. Just like you would if I took you on a date. A real one. Just like you will…” Words trailing off, he swallows roughly before finishing, “With the bloke from the other night. This is just us making sure you’re ready. That’s all.”
Okay, when he puts it that way, it sounds easy. It’s just Cillian.
“I’ll help you along the way if you need it. Guide you in the right direction. C’mere and sit beside me.” He flicks his wrist and beckons me to his side of the table.
I swallow, rising from my chair and pushing it around to his side of the table before sitting back down next to him.
Cillian laughs. “We’re not in Sunday Mass, St. James. You don’t need to sit that bloody far from me.” He reaches beneath the seat and hauls it closer to him with one effortless pull, sliding me across the floor until we’re pressed nearly shoulder to shoulder beside each other.
Suddenly, my pulse begins to race.
It’s not nerves per se, but… I’m not exactly even sure what it is.
It’s like my body is recalling our proximity the past few nights, remembering the feel of his skin brushing against mine. Recalling how good it felt to have his hands on my body, to have his warm breath caressing the shell of my ear as he stepped closer.
“Now, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to pretend we’re strangers and start from the very beginning. And,” he starts, tossing his arm across the back of my chair casually, “no sports talk.”
“Like… none?”
His head shakes. “Nope. Not a word. I’m going to ask you things, give you shit to talk about that have nothing to do with sports. Just like any other bloke would.”
Right, and what… Mr. Talkative is going to be the one just asking questions, and sitting there with his silent, one-word answers? Yeah, no.
This is the perfect chance to try to get him to open up more, maybe stop keeping me at arm’s length.
“Okay, fine, but then that meansIget to askyouquestions too. And no grunts or one-word answers as responses. Fair is fair,” I say as my brow arches.
For a beat he’s quiet, those piercing hazel eyes holding mine in a stare. I know that answering things about himself is just as much out of his comfort zone than a date is out of mine. If not more. I know he’s not much for talking about himself or his past in London, which is a huge part of who he is. That much I’ve learned since he’s come to Prescott.
We’ve been spending a lot of time together lately, and even so, it feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface of who he is. I want to know more than the little crumbs he’s started to give me. I wantto know Cillian in more ways than I’m supposed to. I want to know all the little things that make him who he is. The relationship between him and Aisling, if he misses London, or if he’s just glad to be away from it all. More about his mom. I want to know what actually happened that made him come to Prescott. What his favorite food is, his favorite band, his biggest fear.
