Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Something in Cillian’s eyes, the way they darted from Brendan to Maxwell, said to keep a lid on anything else. Fight. Okay. So not a hookup, in the Maxwell-safe version of the story.
“Wait.” Cillian canted his head toward Maxwell, peering suspiciously. “How did you know Brendan and I had gone out? Did you stay, after you dropped me off?”
Maxwell folded his arms and lifted his chin, looking away rather pridefully. “I’d only meant to remain for a short while, in case you changed your mind and needed me to bring the car around.”
“So when you saw us leaving, you decided to follow us?” Brendan asked incredulously, then eyed Cillian. “Is this your parents’ doing?”
“Yeeep,” Cillian muttered.
“They don’t just have you on apron strings. They have you on a leash.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Pardon you,” Maxwell sniffed with an offended glare. “I’ll not have you speaking of their ma—of Mr. and Mrs. Tell that way.”
“Listen, bodyguard, I don’t know them from Adam and when someone is following me with clear intent—”
“Okay—okay.” Cillian thrust himself between them, blocking off Maxwell and looking up at Brendan; he rested his long, square-knuckled hands to Brendan’s chest, looking up at him beseechingly. “He didn’t mean anything by it,” he said softly. “Maxwell’s an old family friend. He’s just overprotective. Let’s go where you wanted to take me. I’m looking forward to it. And Maxwell—” He turned his head partially over his shoulder, but those pale brown eyes remained on Brendan, soft and begging. “—is going to go home, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir,” floated grudgingly from behind Cillian. “But turn your phone back on.”
Brendan looked down into those long-lashed, glimmering eyes. If Cillian wasn’t so sharply handsome he’d almost be winsome right now, all pouting, pleading lips and wide, searching eyes. It shouldn’t be working on Brendan. He didn’t like being stalked, and he sure as hell didn’t like having weird surprises dropped on him in the middle of the street.
But the longer Cillian looked at him, the more Brendan felt his resistance fading away, and he sighed, trailing into a groan and resting his hand over the pale ones against his chest. “All right,” he said, then pitched his voice past Cillian’s shoulder. “I’ll get him home before he turns into a pumpkin.”
Maxwell’s only answer was an offended sniff.
Cillian turned, one hand still resting to Brendan’s chest, and looked at Maxwell. “I’ll text you when I’m ready to leave, or if I’m staying over.”
Staying over.
That quiet thing that always hovered between them. That sense of intent, knowing half the reason they were together was because Cillian needed and Brendan had answered. Just casual sex.
For casual sex, they were taking their time working up to it.
And doing just about everything else along the way.
Brendan looked away from the hints of silent byplay taking place between Cillian and Maxwell, before he looked back as Maxwell took a retreating step and then swept a stiff bow.
“Good evening to you both, then.”
“Yeah,” Brendan said faintly. “Nice to meet you.”
Maxwell only turned and walked away on the straight-legged strides of wounded dignity. Cillian sighed—then thudded his forehead to Brendan’s chest.
“…sorry.”
“That was a little odd.”
“Yeah.”
“No, that was very odd.”
“Yeah.” Thud, thud, thud, light, just barely thumping against Brendan’s sternum. “He’s…paranoid. Something. My parents are convinced I’m going to turn into a drug-addicted, sex-addicted heathen in Hollywood. He’s like my parents by proxy. And I am twenty-nine-years-old and have a fucking chaperone.”
Brendan curled his hand lightly against the back of Cillian’s head to stop the thudding, holding him there against his chest instead. “Remind me again why they have such a hold over you at your age?”
“…it’s just…really complicated.” Sagging against him, Cillian turned his head to rest his cheek to Brendan’s chest. “I really am sorry about that. He won’t keep trying to follow us. If he said he’ll go home, he’ll keep his word.”
“I’ll have to trust you on that.” Even though there was clearly something Cillian wasn’t saying, and it was starting to eat at Brendan.
What was with that accent?
“So,” he continued. “How much does he know about the Newcomb thing?”
“Just that Newcomb tried something, and you and Mr. Anderson interrupted.” Cillian sighed. His fingertips toyed lightly with the low neck of Brendan’s shirt, soft touch now and then flitting against his bare skin above it, the lightest graze of blunt nails. “He knows someone got rough with me, but doesn’t know what we were doing. He doesn’t know Newcomb threatened me. Or about our…um…arrangement.” Brendan could feel Cillian’s blush burning through his clothing. “Or that us dating is fake.”
“All right. I’ll remember what to keep straight if I run into him again.” Looking down at the messy top of Cillian’s head, Brendan stroked his fingers down through his hair, fingering the shorter crop of locks at his nape, then curled his hand against the back of Cillian’s neck. “Do you still want to go out? Or did that ruin it? We’ve passed enough paparazzi just walking this far that we’ll be all over the internet by midnight. So if you’d like to go home, you can.”