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)
Because this time it was a date.
A fake date, perhaps, but still a date, and he should not be this breathless; this anxious.
This was just part of the game.
Part of the act, because for some reason Brendan had decided to go through all this trouble to protect Cillian.
And Cillian still didn’t understand why.
“Is this going to be a thing now?” Brendan’s voice came over the intercom. “Is this a ritual for you? Ten minutes of standing in front of the security camera before you actually knock?”
Cillian closed his eyes.
Deep breaths.
He was pretty sure his attraction to Brendan was only his overeager hormones paired with a little starstruck glamour.
Because when he wasn’t thinking much too hard about those large hands or that hard body, he typically wanted to sock Brendan in the mouth.
“I still want to know where that camera’s hidden,” he muttered, before the door unlatched and swung open on Brendan’s tall frame.
Goddammit.
Why did a man so infuriating have to look so good?
Even in modern clothing, Brendan practically looked like royalty—red carpet casual in a half-buttoned steel gray silk shirt over a white cotton sleeveless shirt cut to hang loose and low, leaving a broad swath of his collarbones and upper pectorals bared save for the soft, cream-colored cashmere scarf swept neatly across his chest. With his sleeves cuffed to his elbows, the heavy accent of his wristwatch drew the eye to the cut and definition of toned, veined forearms arcing with a light furring of black hair. Deep, dark blue-black jeans fit to him as if they’d been shaped and tailored precisely to make his legs look longer and his hips look trimmer, giving him a sharply rakish profile further enhanced by the deliberately tousled sidesweep of his normally neat hair. The slight flare of the cuffs of his jeans fell at the perfect inseam length to complement a pair of slickly glossed black leather dress shoes, the entire thing coming together until Brendan looked ready for a street-level photoshoot on a breezy, sunny day.
Cillian’s heart gave a single rough beat.
He suddenly felt like he was dressed for a school dance.
And he ducked his head, staring down at the toes of his shoes. “…I should go home and change.”
Brendan blinked. “Why?”
“I…uh…I don’t know if I’m under-dressed or over-dressed, but…” He flicked a hand at himself—black slacks, white button-down shirt tucked into his waist, loafers. “I, um…you know, I don’t know how to dress for dates. This is more like I dressed for church.”
A frown wrinkled Brendan’s brow. “Have you not dated before?”
“I—no, okay? Just hookups.” He smacked a palm over his eyes. “This is fucking mortifying. Look, you’re not the only one who knows how it feels when people don’t see you for you. Just who they think you are. So no. I haven’t really gotten a chance to date.”
“Even before you debuted? Hm.”
Yeah. Because this is about way more than my acting career.
“But,” Brendan continued, “you look fine. Dress code optional tonight. If you’re not comfortable, though, we can swing by your place for a change. Or you can raid my closet.”
Cillian parted his fingers and peered at Brendan. “Your clothes would be way too big for me.”
“I’m not that much broader than you. Just taller. And you make the oversized, slouchy look work well. Besides, I think I’ve got a pair of skinny jeans I couldn’t squeeze into that would look like normal jeans on you.” Brendan smirked—and Cillian glared. But that just made Brendan’s grin widen, eyes glittering devilishly as he stepped back from the door, smoothly toeing out of his shoes and leaving them in the entryway. “Come on.”
Cillian balked for a moment, then slumped and trudged in after Brendan.
Arguing with him was pointless.
He was really starting to figure that out rather quickly.
“…are you really going to dress me up like a Ken doll?” he muttered, as he slipped out of his loafers and lined them next to Brendan’s.
“Me? No. I’m just going to turn you loose on my closet and let you dress yourself. Find something you’ll be comfortable in. Nothing’s off limits.” Brendan gestured toward one of the doors on the inside wall, already striding past Cillian and into the kitchen. “Just don’t try to steal my underwear.”
“I have my own underwear!” Cillian spluttered.
Brendan’s only answer was a low, softly mocking chuckle as he opened a tall standing glass and wood cabinet in the kitchen, and withdrew a slim gold-and-blue labeled bottle of Glenfiddich Reserve Cask. He set it down on the glossed black marble counter, retrieved a tumbler, and plucked two large ice balls from a small black machine, dropping them into the tumbler with tongs—then pointing them at Cillian.
“You’re gawking. Not dressing. We’re going to miss the show.”
“…um! Going, I’m going!”
Dark eyes trailed him as he skittered across the expansive loft, blushing fit to burst. He risked one glance over his shoulder; Brendan had poured two fingers of whiskey and leaned his hips against the counter with his ankles crossed, gaze thoughtfully drifting. Cillian lingered on the languid, effortlessly graceful figure he made, then tentatively called,