A generic red sports car pulled in on the other side of the lot, and I took the excuse to break away from whatever this moment was.
The driver stepped out and slammed the door behind him, rubbing a hand on his worn jeans as he spoke into this cell.
“Yeah, I just got here. Nah, just a Netflix and chill thing with some chick whose mom set us up.” He laughed. “Oh, no way. Hopefully, I’ll get my dick sucked and come meet you guys later.”
“Oh shit,” I hissed, realizing who the obnoxious blond was. “Get in. We’ve gotta go.”
Cian’s brow furrowed, like he hadn’t heard a word the idiot across the way had spoken.
Worried we’d be spotted, I leaned in close, slapped my hands to his cheeks and spoke slowly. “Please get in the car right now. I don’t want to deal with that.” I turned his head in Scott’s direction and suppressed a shudder as he checked his breath and pressed my apartment’s call button.
“He’s here for you?”
“No, he’s here because my mother has control issues. Now, please.” I gestured at the driver’s door, and Cian finally got with the program.
“Thank you, God,” I muttered as my… work colleague slid into the truck. He reversed carefully out of the parking slot before peeling away from my apartment complex, leaving the asshole with big oral aspirations holding his metaphorical dick in his hand. The mental image was so absurd a giggle burst out. Cian glanced over with a small grin, and I lost it. Like an inmate pardoned from death row, I cackled at the close call. Relief flooded through my system, and I couldn’t even find it in me to hate that my salvation had come at the hands of Cian O’Leary. The man in question watched me with a bewildered little quirk to his lips as I did my best impression of a hyena.
Damn, my laugh was unattractive.
Cian navigated us smoothly through Austin traffic, and I settled into a content silence. It was weirdly comfortable sitting beside him in the truck, and I tried to discreetly study the hockey player I’d made it my mission to hate.
One of his large hands rested on the top of the steering wheel, altering our position on the road with little pushes of the heel that shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was. His other hand shifted between the stick shift and his knee, tapping out the rhythm of the song playing softly over the radio. His shoulders were relaxed, eyes flicking between the road and rearview with a calm confidence that made me want to sink further into the soft seat.
The growing peace was broken by a loud buzzing in my purse.
My phone.
It was my mom. I knew this without looking because I wasn’t complying with her directive for the night. Even if Scott hadn’t called her, she had a sixth sense for this kind of thing.
We coasted to a stop at a traffic light, and Cian glanced over.
“Are you going to get that?”
I kept my eyes forward and gave my head a small shake, hoping we would get moving again, like we could outpace the call if we had a clear run. Cars shot across the intersection in front of us. Everyone was in a rush to get somewhere, all those cars only impacted us so much as their passage hindered our own.
“It’s my mom.” I didn’t know why I felt the need to share that tidbit. Cian was a work colleague who I didn’t like, but in this space with him, I felt inexplicably safe. “I hate her.”
“Your mom?”
I nodded, and when that didn’t feel like enough, I gave him a tight smile.
“It’s okay, she hated me first.”
Cars slowed on either side of the intersection. The lights changed. His stare burned into the side of my head.
“The light's green.”
Without a word, he put the truck in gear and didn’t slow until we pulled into the parking lot of the function.
The event passed in a blur of hand shaking, sparkling wine, and fake smiles for deep pocketed patrons. By the time the silent auction was drawn, my feet ached and I’d developed a muscle tick in my right cheek.
I hated these things, but they were part of the job, and a vindictive part of me usually got enjoyment out of making Cian do them too. He was an action kind of guy who had no patience for the forced pleasantries. But tonight felt different. It could have been arriving together, or maybe that moment in the car, or perhaps how he had checked in on me so solicitously throughout the night, but as he grimaced his way through a conversation with an older couple whose eyes shone with an uncomfortable greed, I felt drawn to his side.
“Please excuse me,” I told them, tucking my hand into his elbow. “I need to borrow Mr. O’Leary.”
I pulled him away to a chorus of vaguely hostile agreement and well wishes for the season.
“Thank you. I’m pretty sure they were gearing up to ask for a ménage á trois.”
