Page 23 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Rory

I spot Cillian as soon as I walk into the bar and grill, sitting at a table in the far back wearing a black long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows and the intricate tattoos on his forearms on full display.

It’s truly absurd how hot those tattoos make him.

Not that he wasn’t already hot, but there’s just something about the dark ink that seems to make him more intimidating, more intense. It makes something in my lower stomach clench.

He glances up from his phone when I pull the chair out across from him and sink into it.

The corner of his lip curves into a lazy grin when he greets me. “St. James.”

“Cairney.”

“Ready to do this?” He leans back against the chair and crosses his thick arms over his chest, those stupid tattoos rippling as he moves.

I shrug. “I think so, but I can’t be sure until we try. I tend to fold under pressure, as you know.”

A low raspy chuckle rumbles from his chest, and my grin widens.

I honestly thought it might feel a little… awkward? After the whole pretty-much-seeing-me-naked thing. But our rapport doesn’t feel any different.

The biggest difference is now I’m extremely aware of how attracted I am to him, and that I’m much more nervous than usual because of that.

The waiter comes by and takes our drink order, and when Cillian orders chips and queso, I stare at him from across the table with my brow lifted.

He ordered my favorite appetizer for me without having to even ask.

“What?” he asks.

“Ordering my favorite food is dangerously sweet of you, Cillian Cairney. Better be careful, you wouldn’t want to jeopardize the whole broody, dick-ish thing you have going on over there.”

My tone is light and teasing, so he rolls his eyes. “Never really been one to worry about my reputation, St. James. Not going to start now. I think I’m probably safe.”

Before I can answer, my ice-cold Cherry Coke is dropped off at the table along with what looks like the cheesiest queso I’ve ever seen in my life, and I swear to God my mouth waters.

I swipe a still-warm tortilla chip from the bowl, dipping it into the cheese and bringing it to my mouth. Flavor explodes on my tongue, and my eyes drop shut as I groan.

“Christ, Rory.” Cillian grunts roughly causing my eyes to snap open.

“What?” I ask around a mouthful.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know how you make eating a bloody chip sound so sexy.”

My eyes almost pop out of my head, widening. I swallow the chip down as I begin to cough, reaching for my Cherry Coke and sucking down a gulp to wash away the food lodged in my throat.

My God.

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’s devastating . 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, his shoulder 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 means I get to ask you questions 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 want to 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.

And also… what his lips feel like, or the face he makes when he comes.

But I can’t exactly tell him that, so I’ll keep that little piece to myself, locked away in my spank bank.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do it. You first.”

I rake my lips over my teeth, contemplating a safe place to start.

My stomach starts to do that flipping thing when I’m nervous, and I know that all the questions I want to ask are probably things he’s not ready to divulge, and I’m blanking, letting those nerves get the best of me the second he puts me on the spot.

I’m lost in my head when I feel Cillian’s fingers grasp my chin, tipping it up. He’s staring at me with an intensity that has a flurry of goose bumps erupting on my skin.

“Stop worrying, St. James. There’s no pressure. We’re just two strangers, getting to know each other,” he murmurs. “So, get out of your head. Introduce yourself and ask me a question.”

I nod and exhale shakily.

He’s right. It’s just him.

I can do this. He’s the world’s biggest mystery, and he’s giving me full access right now. This should be the easiest conversation I’ve ever had.

No pressure. Just like he said.

“Hi, I’m Rory,” I say with a smile, extending my hand toward him.

He gives me the same panty-melting smile that I already know he must use on all the girls and slides his warm, rough hand in mine, shaking it gently. I can feel the hard calluses on his palm from all the time he spends training and, honestly, it’s so sexy.

I know I probably shouldn’t be focusing on his sexiness right now, especially because it’s the reason behind the majority of my nerves at this point. But it’s impossible not to. His charm is magnetic, and he wields it like a weapon.

When he wants to.

He doesn’t immediately drop my hand, letting the handshake linger longer than would normally be acceptable if we were actually strangers.

“Hi, Rory. It’s nice to meet you. You look beautiful tonight. I love that sweater.”

I swallow as I glance down at the soft, baby-blue cashmere sweater that I picked out for tonight. “Thank you. It’s… nice to meet you too.”

Cillian smirks, shooting me a playful wink as he drops my hand and sits back in the chair. “How’s your night so far?”

Weird. Kind of… exciting?

I don’t say any of the things I’m thinking, and instead say, “It’s good. Really good. This place has the best food, so I love coming here. I’m a bit of a foodie.”

He nods. I swear I can feel the lightest stroke of his finger along the back of my arm, but I’m probably imagining it.