Page 29 of Fearless

“Here,” Cillian says, shoving me in the direction of a kitchen stool. It puts me with my back to the massive glass windows I saw coming in, which means I can’t be circumspect about checking out my surroundings.

But when Cillian turns his back to open one of the cupboards, I risk a quick peek over my shoulder.

There’s a dining room table nearby, and a lounge past that. The big flat-screen television is on, but muted. News.

The news!

There’s a crash in front of me, and I spin around guiltily, almost slipping off my chair.

Cillian’s leaning over the granite countertop, his fist an inch from my hand, as if he was about to grab my chin. There’s a box of cereal in the other. “Eyes on me, Meisie.”

I swallow down a snide response and drop my eyes, watching him through lowered lashes for another opportunity to glance over my shoulder.

Am I on the news?

Or is Mother keeping this out of the press until she’s decided how to handle this latest PR scandal her daughter’s gotten involved in.

Is that all I’ll ever be to her? A scandal? It’s certainly how she’s made it out to be since I set foot on this godforsaken island.

Cillian puts a bowl and a bottle of milk down and then slides a spoon over the counter. “Eat.”

“I’m not hung—”

He grabs the cereal box and thumps it down. “For fuck’s sake woman, does everything need to be an argument?”

So I pour some cereal into the bowl and splash it with milk. He watches me with hooded eyes, and I’m pretty pleased with myself when I manage several bites without a tremble.

He doesn’t seem impressed. Then again, I think it would take a lot to impress him.

“Is there coffee?” I ask.

I want coffee about as much as I wanted this cereal, but that’s not why I ask. The coffee machine is on the other side of the kitchen, and he’ll have his back turned while he—

“Thirsty?” he asks, almost kindly. But there’s a gleam in his eyes that would have been mischievous if he was just a guy and I was just a girl.

But he’s my kidnapper and I’m his ransomee.

“Yeah?” I hazard. “Please?”

“Sure thing, princess.”

He grabs the bottle of milk and promptly drowns my cereal. I watch grimly as the last survivors float on the top for a second or two before succumbing to a milky death.

“Asshole,” I mutter, but under my breath.

He laughs, and taps the side of the bowl. “Finish your breakfast.”

I scoop out cereal from the bottom, draining it against the side with a tilted spoon. Making sure to keep my head down, I don’t look in Cillian’s direction for a good few minutes.

Finally—finally—he looks away toward the television.

I take my time eating, watching him more than I’m watching my bowl.

Once you get past his handsomely rugged features—a strong nose, and that angular jaw dusted with dark stubble—what do you see?

I take in his clothes. I’m not a fashionista or anything, but they look well-made. Even the shirt he gave me is a Tom Ford and feels like silk.

Judging from the little of the house I’ve seen, this guy doesn’t need the money. At least, not the kind of money my mother has.

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