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)
A groggy sound of affirmative came from inside, followed by an alarmingly raspy cough.
Maxwell swept a rather sardonic bow, then turned and walked away.
Leaving Brendan standing outside Cillian’s heavy oaken door and wondering why he’d gone tearing through the castle for a fling.
He pushed the door open, stepping into a suite nearly twice the size of his—the slate flooring and stone walls clean and well-swept, the room outfitted less as a private suite and more as a small studio apartment, with tasteful bits of white ash furniture with dark accents and delicate paintings.
The bed against the far wall was heaped so high with blankets Brendan almost couldn’t tell there was someone inside it. But as he closed the door, the lump of blankets stirred, that same groggy moan emerging.
Brendan smiled slightly as he approached the bed; Cillian was a mess against the pillows, his hair a sweaty tangle everywhere, his cotton sleep shirt clinging to him with a film of sweat, his face reddened and his nose and eyes puffy. As Brendan settled to sit on the edge of the bed, Cillian cracked open one bloodshot eye and then sniffled with a hazy smile.
“Hey,” he croaked.
“Hey,” Brendan answered softly, then reached over to press the back of his palm against Cillian’s burning-hot brow. “You really are just sick, then?”
“Huh…?” Cillian looked dazed, before a click went off behind his eyes. “Oh—yeah. I’m…I wasn’t hiding from him. Or them. Or you. It’s just a cold and I’ll be fine in a day or two.”
Brendan frowned, shifting his hand to push Cillian’s tangled hair back. “You don’t look fine.”
“This happens any time I travel to warmer climates for a while.” Cillian fell limply back against the pillows, looking up at Brendan with a sweetly foggy, feverish smile. “I’m a snowman. I like the cold. Then I go and spend time in the heat, and coming back to the cold shocks my immune system.” That sweet smile widened. “I look like death for a day or so, and then I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh. Fine. I think your fever is making you slightly delirious.” Brendan braced an arm over Cillian, leaning over him, looking down into dilated eyes. “Do you need anything?”
“Mn-nhh.” Cillian shook his head. “Maxwell already stuffed me full of chicken soup and Nyquil.”
“Then it sounds like you’re in good hands.” Bending, Brendan pressed a kiss to Cillian’s sweat-dampened brow, then pulled back, standing. “I’ll let you rest. Production can wait until you’re feeling better. The crew’s taking measurements and getting an overall feel for the environment anyway. Scouting a few sites that might save some work in post on CGI.”
“Mmnnnghhh.” Cillian just buried his face in the pillows.
Brendan turned away—but barely made it a step before something snagged in the hem of his thick double-breasted winter coat. He stopped, glancing back—to find Cillian with his arm outstretched, two fingers hooked in Brendan’s coat, one eye just barely peering out from the pillow.
“Brendan…would you stay?” Cillian asked plaintively.
Soft little tugs pulled inside Brendan’s chest, nearly reeling him back to Cillian. He sank down to sit on the edge of the bed once more, catching that lanky hand in his own and enfolding graceful fingers. He didn’t know what to say, in the silence…yet something remained unspoken.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured finally. “I’m sorry I lost my temper with your mother.”
Cillian smiled sleepily. His fingers twitched against Brendan’s. “…she was pretty rude to you.”
“I still shouldn’t have.” Brendan’s blood felt sluggish, slow, weighted down with some heavy thickness that moved achingly through him, and he held tighter to Cillian’s hand. “I just hate…”
“Mnh…?”
“…nevermind.” Brendan stole his hand back just long enough to shrug out of his coat, then shifted to lean against the headboard, stealing Cillian’s hand again and cradling it in his lap. Just let it be what it was, he told himself. It was never meant to be more than that. “Rest, Cillian. I’ll stay. I’ll stay as long as you need me to.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CILLIAN THOUGHT HIS MOTHER JUST might have deliberately put Brendan in the suite furthest from Cillian’s in the entire manor.
Which made actually keeping up with Brendan over the next few days entirely frustrating. Cillian had been back on his feet the morning after his cold—it was almost something of a ritual now, that twenty-four hour blip hitting him after he returned from a photo shoot in Bali or an indie film shot in the summer deserts of Arizona. But back on his feet meant back to work, no more curling against Brendan and daydreaming while he sweated out his fever that…that…
It didn’t matter.
He had a few days left, and he just…
Didn’t want to waste them.
But filming kept pulling them in different directions from each other. Different scenes, different dry runs, and after everything closed up for the day, the rest of the crew headed into town to crowd one of the only two pubs on the island, dragging Brendan along with them while Cillian’s parents monopolized him for dinner. He could simply show up at Brendan’s door, but…