Page 107 of Wasted
Something dark stained the floor beneath the jeep. “Cillian.”
“Yeah?” He turned back, bending to see her as he held the door open.
“There’s something under the jeep.”
He left the passenger door open and headed to his vehicle, crouching to see underneath. Then he lay on the ground and reached below the jeep, directly above the stain she’d spotted. Was it a puddle of some liquid?
He quickly pulled back, got to his feet, and stalked to her car. He leaned in to meet her gaze. “He cut the brake lines. Drained the fluid.”
Her breath caught. It wasn’t really a surprise. But something about seeing it, being close to it, made this sabotage even more real than Cillian’s accident. These weren’t simply acts of sabotage. They were attempts on Cillian’s life. And he could’ve been killed by either one.
The thought turned her mouth to sandpaper. She had pushed it aside for a bit, able to do so thanks to the distraction of the attorney and the argument with Cillian. Anger and other emotions were a useful means of forgetting the more frightening, painful realities.
“There’s a guest stall at the end of the garage.” Cillian pointed beyond the elevator that marked the halfway point of the garage. “Why don’t you park there and come on up to my apartment while we wait for the tow truck to get here?”
He was asking her up to his apartment?
Heat flushed through her. “I should get back to Sydney.”
“Treese is with her.” A knowing glint shone in his dark eyes. “Besides, we need to plan our next move.”
“We can do that here.”
“Only if you want to keep holding up my neighbor.” He waved to someone behind her car.
She twisted to see a black SUV waiting for her to move. “Why didn’t you say something?” And how had she not heard another person drive in? Those eyes and Cillian’s unnerving proposal must have distracted her.
“I just did.”
She rolled her eyes. “Close the door.”
He laughed as he shut the door and stepped back.
She drove ahead, found the empty stall marked for guests, and parked. She might as well go up to his apartment. If they must talk, she would rather do it there than in a garage. And there had been nothing romantic about his invitation. Exhaustion must be the reason she had added the romantic interpretation to his casual and practical suggestion to move their conversation to his apartment.
Practical was her middle name. She held on to efficiency as her goal, along with dissuading Cillian to stalk the curator, as she rode the elevator to the third floor with him and followed him to his apartment.
The modest apartment was furnished with simple, casual pieces in plain beige and brown colors. Not the furniture she would have expected Cillian to pick. No boxes or clutter evidenced he’d recently moved. The apartment must have come furnished.
Though that wouldn’t explain the lack of boxes or items. Perhaps he was a better organizer than she thought and had finished moving everything in quickly.
He stepped toward her inside the door.
Her pulse spiked.
“Take your coat?”
“Oh.” She breathed again. “Thank you.” She slipped off her coat quickly enough that he didn’t try to help, her heart rate still matching the erratic dance of her nerves.
“Want some tea?” He hung her coat on a hook mounted on the wall. “I have your favorite, chamomile.”
Warmth touched her cheeks. He’d remembered. “Yes, thank you.”
“Have a seat anywhere.” He took off his jacket and hung it up before walking into the kitchen that was open to the dining and living room areas.
She turned away and looked at the loveseat and armchairs. Her stomach knotted. What was she doing, spending time alone with Cillian? It was one thing to do so when they were working to prove her innocence or when they were dodging danger.
But this was different. It felt like two people exploring a relationship. Dating. It would be wrong to give the impression she was open to that.
