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)
“You’re not planning on drinking and driving, are you?”
“Where we’re going is within walking distance,” Brendan murmured against the rim of his glass. “Better chance for the photographers lurking in the bushes to get a few good shots, if we walk.”
Cillian didn’t like the quiet twist of hurt in the pit of his stomach, at that reminder.
This was just an underground PR campaign.
Every move calculated to reinforce the lie that kept him safe from Oliver Newcomb.
Not because Brendan actually wanted to spend time with him.
And that really shouldn’t bother him at all.
He focused on the closet, pulling the door open on a subtly lit walk-in lined with a surprisingly sparse collection of designer clothing—well, perhaps sparse when compared to most movie stars’ closets, when there were still ample things to choose from. Mostly neat, simple things that looked cut to flatter rather than designed for flash, all blacks and whites and grays with touches of color here and there, or the occasional natural shade. He recognized a few of the more unique couture pieces from a few of Brendan’s red carpet appearances, things like a shirred wraparound suit coat in gray herringbone or a waistcoat designed with slashes that pulled the shirt underneath through.
Cillian plucked at things here and there hesitantly; he was almost afraid to touch anything. He kept his clothing simple for a reason. He wasn’t particularly good at the fashion tricks of the rich and famous, so he stuck to what worked for him and let the costuming team make him look decent when he had to be presentable on camera. Maxwell had dressed him every time he’d gone to a red carpet event, what few he’d attended, but right now Maxwell was probably wondering why Cillian’s phone was off.
He'd already gotten the talk about dating Brendan when he’d gone back to the rental cottage this afternoon and found Maxwell in the living room, worriedly scrolling through his laptop.
You’re dating this Brendan Lau a day after meeting him?
I…it’s complicated. I’m not rushing into anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. As if he could tell Maxwell the truth—Brendan Lau promised to fuck me the way I need. His parents would land a private jet in his backyard and throw him on it in handcuffs if they had to.
That’s not what I’m worried about. Maxwell had given him a grave look above the sad hangdog droop of his rather long gray moustache and beard. You know better than to form too many attachments. You’ll only have to leave them behind. And you know your parents won’t approve of such liaisons.
So I can’t have friends? Maybe there are people who’ll want to stay in touch with me after I retire from acting. Maybe I can…can…
You can do as you please, your Highness, Maxwell had said. Just remember your promise to return home.
Why does it matter? Cillian had flared. I’m not a prince, I’m a jumped-up bureaucratic administrator. Mother and Father act like I have some grave responsibility to my station, but there’s no station when you’re a kingdom the size of a post office that no one’s ever heard of! We’re not important. I’m not important. No one would notice if some wayward third son fucked off to Hollywood instead of being the Marquis of a village with a population of two hundred on an island with a population of six hundred. They can elect a mayor. I hear democracy’s quite the in thing this century.
Maxwell had only looked at him, and in his heavy gaze was the expectation and disappointment not just of his valet, but of his parents—and his entire country.
So Cillian had just walked away.
And wondered what his life would be like if he didn’t have so short a leash.
The leash of time tugged on him now, though, as he realized he was just staring at a soft chambray work shirt, if a designer piece could be called a work shirt.
Right.
Brendan had said they’d be late to…wherever.
Couldn’t have that.
He flicked through a few more items, tugging one thing off the rack and then another, then another, put that back, no, not that—there were the jeans Brendan was talking about, hm—
Okay.
The back wall of the closet was made entirely of mirror, and Cillian glanced over his shoulder at the half-open closet door before stripping in front of the mirror quickly. The black skinny jeans were a little tighter on him than expected, and he wriggled and squirmed his hips into them before zipping them and shrugging on a black sleeveless shirt in translucent linen, its front laced in an open V with overlapping layers of far too many strings, offering glimpses of his chest. He tucked it in just a little, just enough to leave it loose and billowing around him, then stole the coat from a dark charcoal suit and draped it over his shoulders with the sleeves hanging loose. He’d found a clunky pair of military tactical boots that looked like a leftover costume piece from a film; Brendan’s feet were bigger than his, and Cillian had to steal two pairs of socks to triple up so they would fit, but he pulled the boots up to his calves and scrunched the skinny jeans into them, before leaving them half-laced and flaring open a bit at the top.