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)
“Well…we had a few bumps, but we got there.” Chuckling, Brendan lifted a bag of oranges, squinting at them as if he didn’t trust Cillian had picked ripe ones, before he started piling them into the crisper. He jerked his chin toward the package. “What’d you pick up?”
“Huh? Oh.” Cillian blinked, looking down at the parcel. Right. “It’s from Sophie. Looks like it’s another script.”
Brendan groaned. “She’s not getting me into a corset again. My spine didn’t unkink for a week.”
Cillian laughed and picked up the hefty pegbound manuscript, flipping through it quickly. “No corsets. This looks like a meet-cute contemporary.”
“…in other words, another fanfic about us.”
“Probably—but she’s having fun, she’s keeping us in work, and the films do well in box office, so where’s the harm?”
“Doing a dozen movies where we’re just playing another version of ourselves because we’re the director’s favorite daydream?” Brendan arched a skeptical brow.
“Oh, c’mon.” Cillian laughed and slipped around the table to kiss Brendan’s cheek. “Say you’ll at least read it with me and think about it.”
“Nnngh.” Brendan leaned into Cillian. “Fine. Help me put everything away, and then we can take a look. Pitch it by Drake.”
Cillian plucked out a handwritten, bright blue Post-It from the interior cover page and held it up. “Says he’s already on board.”
“…I—!” Brendan scowled. “Of course he is, that opportunistic fuck, of course she went to him first, all he cares about is money and not artistic integrity—”
“I’m sure your artistic integrity will survive this, dear.” Struggling not to just pitch everything aside and kiss that scowl right off Brendan’s face, Cillian laughed and dropped the script on the counter, then tackled the bags.
Working together, they finished putting everything away in a matter of minutes, balled the bags into the recycling, then dropped down onto the quilt-covered sofa to read by the last light coming through the tall windows and filling the cottage with shimmering amber. They took a brief break only to turn on the lamps and light the fireplace as the evening cold descended, before Cillian snuggled himself back into his favorite space curled up between Brendan’s legs and tucked against his chest.
They said little, only exchanging a few murmurs over a particularly sharp line of dialogue or awkward-funny setup, but by the time they reached the last page Cillian could already tell Brendan was softening on the idea. Cillian had learned all it took was a young Asian aspirant in film and Brendan would do just about anything, even if it meant risking his reputation on camp films. Though Sophie’s films weren’t camp—and with a little boost from their fanbase, she was rapidly blazing trails as a director using unorthodox film styles directly inspired by the tenets of traditional Chinese theatre, even in American-set contemporaries.
Brendan would never admit out loud that he enjoyed shooting them.
But Cillian could tell.
Hell, the stubborn old asshole wouldn’t bother if he wasn’t having fun.
“Well?” Cillian asked into the silence that followed, leaning up to nuzzle Brendan’s jaw. “What do you think?”
“It could be an interesting project,” Brendan mused. “I’m just not sure we have time to fit it into our schedule.”
Cillian frowned. “You’re almost done wrapping the Casablanca reboot, aren’t you? They just need you to reshoot a few things in post? And I’m only lined up for a few modeling runs, and that won’t get busy until spring in Paris. We could fit it in.”
“Well, yes, but it’s hard to fit a new production around planning a wedding,” Brendan said blandly.
“…what?” Cillian’s mind went blank. He blinked. “What…wedding?”
“I knew I forgot something.” Brendan clucked his tongue, shaking his head with slow mock gravity. “I really am getting absent-minded in my old age. Let me up, it’s in my pocket.”
While Cillian stared, uncomprehending, Brendan shifted under him, nudging him and sending Cillian tumbling off to sit next to him on the sofa, quilts falling down to bunch against Cillian’s side. He couldn’t mean—Cillian’s brain just wasn’t catching up, but there was a feeling like a fragile iridescent bubble growing and swelling inside him as Brendan lifted himself up and reached back to rummage just a little too dramatically in his back pocket.
That bubble burst in a shower of tiny bright droplets as Brendan dropped a little black velvet box into Cillian’s lap.
Cillian scrambled to catch it in both hands instinctively, heart giving a wild tha-THUMP, the floor swirling a little past his knees before jerking to a halt.
Uh.
Th-that…that…
“Brendan…?” he asked faintly, then looked up as the sofa creaked and Brendan stood, sauntering toward their bedroom, the casual strength of him seeming to flow like liquid through the pools of lamplight. Cillian stared. “Brendan!”
Then he looked down at the box, opened it with numb, shaking fingers, and his whole body moved to the rhythm of his pulse in swaying vertigo as the light caught on the gleam of a simple platinum engagement band with an embedded diamond setting.