Page 52 of A Love Most Fatal

“And how will you treat this basketball team of children?” I ask.

“Fairly.”

“How do you mean?”

“I won’t shield them from this life like you have our niece and nephew. I will teach them and treat them with respect. We all have obligations, and they must understand that. Petulance can only be tolerated for so long.”

“Before what? You hit them?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

Cillian shrugs. “Is the child a little boy or a 30-year-old menace? The man-child may need to be knocked around if he’s fallen too far from grace.”

“Hm.” I hadn’t considered my children as adults living and making decisions as old as I am now. They exist in my mind more as a concept than breathing things that will actually take my place. It’s not something I like to imagine too concretely.

Next question.

“And how do you feel about moving?”

He doesn’t laugh like I expect him to, and doesn’t scoff at the mere thought of relocating from his family home.

“Would I get my own office like this one?” He waves his finger in a circle.

“Maybe a bit smaller,” I say.

“Good, yours is too large. Who needs a fireplace in their office? Citizen Kane?”

I skip the three questions about sex because I do not want Cillian to think of me as a sexual creature on this decent Friday afternoon.

“What do you do if a beautiful woman propositions you?” I ask.

“I remind her of the beautiful woman I have at home.” His eyes snake for the barest moment down to my chest before returning to my face, which, so much for not thinking about me as a sexual being.

“What if your wife wants to do business you have no part in? What if you aren’t included in everything?”

“Will she extend me the same courtesy?” Cillian leans forward, his forearms on his knees.

I consider this. Too much outside business could lead to a loss of power, but Cillian has his own dealings to maintain, ones I’m glad not to have to manage, ones that are already pivotal to my own dealings.

“Some,” I say.

“Then, some.”

“Would you ever consider marriage counseling?” This is obviously a question added by my mother, who swears up and down it was the one thing that saved her and Dad’s marriage in the beginning after they had Willa.

“I don’t like it—someone having access to my most personal matters—but I would consider it.” This is more than can be said for the other men I’ve spoken to thus far who would divorce before they considered a counselor.

I look at the rest of the questions, many of them I already feel like I know the answers to. He has that going for him, I suppose; the years between us.

I make up my own question, “And what if she can never love you?”

Cillian doesn’t answer at first, but moves his hand over my knee, his fingertips barely brushing the bare skin there. I meet his eyes, so piercing blue with the afternoon sun lighting up his face through the windows.

“Consider this my hat in the ring,” he says, his voice low.

“Why?” I whisper.

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