Press Release, page 19
“I’ve heard apology goes down smoother with a whiskey chaser.”
“You’ve nothing to apologize for.” Except for stomping off like a child and standing me up at the panel where he promised to support me. Mercy, I sound like a neglected wife. This man owes me nothing. Cian’s got his own show and business to attend to, not to mention I was a rare tosser to him first.
He stares at the whiskey in his glass, giving it a swirl before he drinks. “There’s something I haven’t told you, Meg.” He stares me down. “I can be a real ass.”
Ass or not, a part of me that should be locked up tight so it doesn’t get me in any deeper with him than I already am is very glad he’s here.
I pour more whiskey into my glass, and slowly inhale its healing aroma. “Ah, there’s another bit we have in common.”
Cian’s eyes stretch into two perfect circles under raised eyebrows.
I swallow more whiskey. “I led with a bite over the name tag switching before giving you a chance to explain, then went cold on you—something I promised I’d stop doing. There’s the apology I’ll be washing down with more of this fine stuff.”
We stand like two eejits in a staring contest.
Cian breaks the standoff and collapses into the chair lately vacated by Gilly and drops his head into his hands. “It was a slap in the face you thought I was trying to pull something on you. My reaction was completely over-sensitive.” He scratches at his hair before looking at me. “That’s not me. Shit usually rolls off my back. I don’t allow anyone to make me feel the way you did, especially over a less than nothing issue.” Cian shakes his head. “It blew my mind you could so easily throw me off my game.”
I drop into the chair across from him. He’s speaking a language I understand, one I can translate. “We’re sharing a problem here, Cian. I’ve already told you I’m much better as a ‘me’ than a ‘we.’ I sense the same tendency still lingering in you even if you’ve come farther from it than I have. We’re nearsighted fools.” I laugh, focusing in on a truth. “Here we’ve cozied into a bit of a ‘we’ situation.”
His shoulders droop. “Nearsighted fools? Were we lonely and pathetic before?”
“Neither. Me is how I raised up The Chieftain’s Son. I learned not to depend on anyone but myself, and I’m blazing dependable.” I shift my gaze to the window. “It’s too easy for others to let you down.” I meet his eyes. “Or take you down.”
He adds another splash of whiskey to our glasses. “To clarify, we’re paranoid instead of pathetic?”
“Let’s leave it at…we prefer to set the pace instead of following it.” I raise my glass and Cian clinks his against it.
“What do you Irish say?”
“Sláinte.”
“Sláinte,” he says, savoring the toast as much as the whiskey. “And how do you say ‘I’m sorry’?”
“Oh, that’ll do fine.”
I hadn’t realized how heavily the spill of bad blood between us had weighed me down. Relief lifts the rock from my chest.
“You didn’t need to come here with your fine spirit and spirits, but I’m glad you did.” I turn the glass in a circle on the table. “We’re game pieces an ocean apart, serving the same master. Let’s drink to our moments together here at Cali Con.”
“What if we had the chance for more moments?”
I give him a sad smile. “During the weekend?”
Cian lays his hand on mine. “I came to The Chieftain’s Son panel.”
My body gives a little shake of surprise. “Why?”
“I promised.” He twines his fingers through mine and squeezes. “Even an ass can keep his promise.”
“What are you on about? Asking after chances to be more and keeping promises?”
He leans forward until his forehead touches the tabletop. “I have no idea.” Cian slowly lifts his darling face to look me in the eye. “It may sound idiotic, but you need to know you mean something to me, M-Squared.”
His blue beauties continue to peer up at me. “I’m not the type who genuinely clicks with people right away even though I’m excellent at giving that impression. It’s part of the game, but it’s not true in most cases.” He slides a hand up my thigh. “This thing between you and me… You can’t deny it’s an honest-to-God click.”
“Click, huh? Is that the California term for falling into bed?”
He squeezes, sending a jolt from his fingers straight under my skirt. “I’m not kidding, Meg. I make a conscious effort to avoid clicking, and I think you do too. Yet here we are.”
I’ve been feeling the fool but sitting right here is a man who’s fallen down the hole alongside me. We’re not playing a game with each other. Given the choice, I’m certain neither of us would sign up for this. “Dare I say the term you might be looking for, Mr. Malley, is kindred spirits.”
He rolls the idea around. “While I like the sound of that as I sit here, thinking how much I want the opportunity to talk with you every day, spar with you, pick your brain and…” A smile sneaks onto his lips. “Slip into bed with you, it also unnerves the shit out of me.”
Unnerving is the perfect word for the skitters inside me. “Like you’re breaking your own rules?”
Cian lets go of me and raises his glass. “Sláinte to that.”
I clink my glass to his, and we drink.
Cian relaxes into his chair. “Does the appearance of Deidre LaRochelle bode well for our Ship of Dreams panel?”
We’re back to our. I shouldn’t be as happy as I am. Cian and I have a big red expiration date stamped across our asses. Working together is a one-and-done. “She’s in. What about your folks?”
He’s up and pacing the room. “Malakai Bono is in, but I’m waiting for a green light from Sala Singh’s people.”
“When’ll you know?”
He rolls his shoulders and then shrugs. “Waiting for the call makes me crazy. Unfinished business is my kryptonite.”
I grin like a fool. “I believe we are cut from the same cloth, sir.”
He stands and lifts me to my feet. “That’s what makes us a winning team.” His hands slide down my sides to my hips. With a swift jerk, he pulls me flush against him.
As his lips brush mine, I whisper. “General wisdom warns matching personalities may rip each other to shreds. It’s the knowing of each other’s weaknesses that’s the danger.”
“Permission to rip you to shreds?” he asks before diving into the type of kiss I thought I’d forfeited after the way I’d treated him at the name tag incident.
I run my hands across his shoulders and into his hair as the kindling of our apologies burst into flames. His touch is everywhere, under my skirt, down my blouse. We fall onto the bed and roll with each kiss, trading the top spot. I’m so ready for him, the next switch may be our last.
Suddenly, Cian pushes up away from me. “Shit.”
I don’t bother to catch my breath before asking, “What?”
His face pinks up. “The necessary equipment for our current activity is in my room.”
My fingers trail down the alluring bulge filling the front of his slacks. “Not all of it.” The darling moan from his slightly puffy lips drives me closer to losing my own power of speech.
“I’ll grab them and come back.”
I roll him again so I’m top dog. “What do you say to a houseguest?”
He sits up so I’m in his lap. “I say, bust out the welcome mat.”
We jump off the bed, and he takes my hand. I grab my bag with the other and we make tracks to his room. Once the door slams, we leave a fine trail of clothing to his bed. Our bed.
I’ve never experienced a man being so gentle yet tantalizingly rough at the same time. I’m no demure, little flower as I match his grind and take him full in. Our lovely bout is quick but efficient.
Lying on our backs with legs tangled, Cian collects my hand and brings it to his lips. “You’ll spend tonight with me, Meg?” He leans his head on my shoulder. “I want another chance to see the way the morning light catches those lovely streaks of auburn hiding in your hair.”
I rest my head against his. “It might be very late when I come to you. I’ll be at Bobby Provost’s mercy on the cruise and after tonight.”
He kisses my temple. “I don’t care.”
Cian is like the first bite of food you take after you swear up and down you’re not hungry. As soon as flavor hits your tongue, you’re suddenly ravenous for the rest of what’s on the plate in front of you. I’m starving to give Cian more value than a brilliant weekend ride. “What’s your favorite book?”
He pulls back to look me in the eye. I see the question strikes him as odd, but then he laughs in his special way that says he’s enjoying me. “I never know what’s going to come out of these lips.” Cian presses his mouth to mine, initiating an I’ve got all the time in the world kiss. Somewhere in the middle, he says, “How to Think Like Leonardo DaVinci. Have you read it?”
I shake my head. “But I will.”
He drizzles kisses across my jaw to my ear. “Yours?”
“The Importance of Being Earnest.”
My answer brings him up short. “A play? Huh, I never expected you to favor the story of people pretending to be someone they are not.”
I tilt my head. “And why is that?”
“You’re so straightforward and honest. My no-nonsense M-Squared.”
My alarm sounds. “Holy mother.” I’ve got less than half an hour to rinse off and change before I meet my people for the damnable True Time party boat. I’m up out of bed, diving for clothes.
Cian, sharing a similar timetable, tosses me pieces of my outfit from the floor as he rushes toward the bathroom. “I’m going to hop in the shower. See you on the high seas.” He plants a kiss on my lips, earning gold medals for both brevity and intensity before he closes the door.
Once I’ve covered the necessary bits, I reach for my bag next to Cian’s cell on the table. A text message buzzes in for him. I check it out of reflex before my brain registers the text is none of my business.
It’s from Sala Singh, Starry Night, to fans of Star’s Shadow.
Are we still on for the Sunday panel? Must chat re: script changes.
I stare at the screen. Still on for Sunday? That makes no sense. Cian said he was waiting for confirmation from Sala’s people. Why is the woman herself hailing him? Script changes? What script? Cian and I finished a rough outline for the panelists at breakfast. There’s no script.
A dark and twisty storm rises in my gut. Is Sala Singh, Cian’s leading lady, talking about Ship of Dreams or another scenario not shared with me?
I surge to the bathroom door with a plan to fling it open and demand clarification. As soon as I touch the knob, a gust of doubt blows Hurricane Meg back offshore. Here I go again, ready to jump down the man’s throat. I take three deep breaths. One for me, one for Cian, and one for good sense. It does the trick to help me see the logical and quite simple explanation here. Cian’s done the same as me after our rocky afternoon by rustling up a solo panel idea in case my people don’t come through for our joint Ship of Dreams. His Plan B. What else could Ms. Singh’s text possibly refer to?
I step back from the door and swallow the last drabs of suspicion burning my throat. “Cut from the same cloth indeed.”
Chapter 17
Party Boat
My Chieftain’s Son clan and I stare out the window of Bobby’s room at the gaudy replica of a Hawaiian luau venue docked in the marina.
Maureen barks out a laugh. “There’s the tackiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Will it stay afloat?” asks Grady.
The top deck of the ship is spotted with fake palm trees scattered next to Tiki huts with sun-faded palm frond roofs. The taco bar Cian took me to at the Hotel Joya Brillante is a five-star establishment next to this farce of tropical paradise. Mounted high on one end of the ship is a giant screen. Flashing against the dimming sky are montages from True Time’s most popular shows as well as teasers for next season’s new offerings.
“Aloha,” says Jack, emphasizing the “ha.”
Niks claps her hands. “We’ll do the hula dance up there, yes?”
I’d heard snippets of Dash bragging about his party boat at the meeting in his suite. Did he bother to preview this cheesy spectacle? If size matters, he got what he paid for. The tropical nightmare is massive.
Near the floating monstrosity where prop palm trees go to die, my scavenger hunters at #FindJack&Niks will have no trouble zeroing in on their favorite couple’s whereabouts. Spying a mob of spectators pressing against the circle of security, I brush the air with my hands to sweep our group out of the room. “Let’s get down there fast, before the crowd gets any bigger.”
From the lobby, we speed out a side door to where True Time rolled out a red carpet leading to the marina. We’re hustled through a trio of press tents where voices call out to our stars, as well as Bobby, Gilly, and Maureen, for quick photos or sound bites. Once we break cover onto the open-air portion of the carpet, cries of “I love you, Jack,” and “Marry me, Niks,” rise from the throng of fans.
Jack shouts in my ear so I can hear him over the commotion. “Are we to stop and sign autographs?”
“God, no. You’ll never make it on board the Isle of Dash if we do that,” I say and herd everyone down the red carpet, running along the marina to the party boat. “Once we’re on the ship, you two’ll pop to the top deck for a nice wave and smile.”
To my relief, both Cali Con and True Time’s security are out in force. We’re hustled through a tunnel of muscle adorned with True Time wristbands and past two checkpoints before reaching the bobbing venue.
We enter onto an enclosed lower deck every bit as tropicalized as the upper deck. A rack of splashy Hawaiian shirts in as many colors as flowers in a Kauai rainforest sits between us and the stairs leading up top. Each shirt has a hibiscus decal where the breast pocket would be emblazoned with the True Time Network logo. We’re instructed to choose our favorite and “Go tropical.”
Past wardrobe, lovely lasses toss leis of silk flowers around our necks, kiss our cheeks, and wish us, “Aloha.” Our progress stalls when each girl takes her turn dabbing a kiss on Jack. He walks away with five leis to everyone else’s one.
Once past the lei gauntlet, Jack pulls the extras off his neck, adding one each to Gilly, Niks, and Maureen. “These itch my neck something fierce.”
Gilly starts to reach a hand to rub Jack’s neck but catches herself in time. Her instinct is as natural as if the two of them have been together for longer than a single year. Oddly, the sign of their intimacy validates the speed at which I’ve fallen for Cian. My life script always warned fast is not real despite the people in my life who’ve proved me wrong. In my experience, instant attraction is a buzz that only lasts until you’ve finished the glass in your hand. Jack and Gilly feed my experience into a shredder.
Our last stop before the stairs is a long bar draped in a green grass skirt with a brightly painted, miniaturized version of an outrigger canoe mounted on the wall behind. Pre-poured, on-theme drinks line up behind tiny tent signs advertising: Mai Tai, Piña Colada, Rum Runner, Bahama Mama, and a cocktail called a Killer Bee.
The bartender spreads his arms wide “Help yourselves. Two-fisted drinking encouraged.” He claps his hands and flicks his wrists, a Blackjack dealer leaving the table. “There’s an open bar on the top deck if you don’t find something here to your liking.”
I give the Killer Bee a go and am pleased with the mix of fruit, honey, and what I guess is rum.
“Jack!” None other than Cici Storm comes flying down the steps from the upper deck. She’s got her arm through his in a millisecond. “Come dance with me.”
Niks deftly captures Cici’s other arm to avoid being left out of the equation. “Dancing, pretty drinks, boats with palm trees…I love San Diego.” In a move worthy of a prima ballerina, Niks executes a twirl and shift to sandwich Jack between Cici and her. The shift effectively creates a tug-of-war with Jack as the rope.
I fall a little bit in love with Niks as she quenches Cici’s predatory attempt to separate Jack from his herd.
A nonplussed Cici quickly recovers. “I’d love a quick chat with the both of you for our Entertaining for You Cali Con live stream.” She runs a hand up Jack’s arm. “We’ve got a darling setup on deck, complete with luscious flowers and twinkle lights.” Ms. Storm rises on tiptoe to mock whisper in Jack’s ear. “There’s even a parrot.”
Good soldiers that they are, Jack and Niks look to me for permission.
I smile. “Sounds grand, Cici.”
Jack and Niks have dozens of duo interviews under their belts. I trust ‘em. Every bit of coverage, even from gossipy queen, Cici Storm, has potential to translate into more True Time streaming subscriptions on our show’s tally to gild my future.
I slip my own arm through Gilly’s and hold her back for a quick whisper. “I’m sorry to be selling him off again.”
She adjusts her pair of leis and trails a look after the retreating trio. “I’ll always hate it, but thank God, I’m getting used to it.”
The trust in her eyes for Jack makes my own heart thump a mushy beat. Bless me, I do envy the O’Learys. I’ve always considered the notion of soulmates a brew of bosh and bother, but watching Gilly look after her man spikes a bit of doubt on my long-held belief.
What if the rapid-fire attraction I harbor for Cian is elixir from the same well that gave rise to the love story of Jack and Gilly? I admire the man. He’s sharp with layers I’ve only caught glimpses of. I could never settle for a simple man. Cian’s galloping intellect is a siren’s song. The kindness at his core draws me as powerfully as the physical and cerebral attraction. Cian Malley is a sounding board I’m eager to keep playing.
My head drops back, inciting a muscle crack in my neck. I’ve gone mad. Why did Cian ever bring up the “more” question? It’s got my own galloping mind heading straight for a cliff.
Bobby steps up behind us. He lays a hand on Gilly’s shoulder. “Have your parents headed home yet?”
