“And?”
“And nothing. She’s forty. I’m twenty-eight. Dad is forcing us to get married because he’s a manipulative sociopath. That’s the whole story.”
“That’s not what your face says.”
A snort escapes my lips. “My face says I haven’t slept.”
“Your face says you think she’s hot.”
I cram more ice cream into my mouth to avoid responding.
Cillian leans forward. “I watched the TEDx talk, by the way.”
“She did a TEDx talk?”
“You read every article about this woman and missed the TEDx talk?” He rolls his eyes. “‘The Myth of the Seat at the Table.’Fourteen minutes long. It was all about why you shouldn’t fight for a seat when you can build your own table.”
“That’s…” I trail off. Fuck.
“Yeah.” Cillian studies me. “You’re really going to sit there and pretend you’re not into her?”
“C, I met her during a mass shooting. It’s not exactly romance novel shit.”
“And yet…”
“And yet nothing. She thinks I’m part of the trap. Which I am.”
He chuckles. “You’re already in over your head, brother.”
I flip him off just as the door opens and our youngest brother Gavin walks in like he’s the one who owns the place.
“What happened to your face?” I ask, pointing at the bruise blooming across his left cheekbone and his split lower lip.
“Bar fight.”
“It’s still light outside.”
“What can I say? Dumbasses walk the earth at all hours of the day. Don’t judge me.” He drops onto the stool next to mine, steals my spoon, and takes a bite of my ice cream before I can grab it from him. “So. You’re marrying a CEO.”
“Give me back my spoon.”
“Is she really forty? Because I looked her up and she looks thirty, tops. Like, have you seen the Bloomberg photo? The one of her in the red dress? Because?—”
“Gavin.” Cillian’s voice jolts him, and a mischievous smile lifts his lips.
“What? I’m just saying she’s hot. That’s a compliment. Loch should be thanking Dad for once.”
“Nobody is thanking Dad for anything.” I snatch my spoon back and point it at him. “And stop looking up my future wife. I don’t want you drooling over her. Orworse.”
“Your future wife.” Gavin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Listen to you. Getting all possessive already.”
“I’m not—” I stop and take a breath. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.” Gavin leans back, grinning through his busted lip. “You should’ve seen your face when you said, ‘my future wife.’ Like a bouncer guarding the fucking VIP section.”
Cillian slides a glass of water toward Gavin, who ignores it. “How bad is it, Loch? Really.”
The question lands heavy between us. I stick the spoon into the carton and push back my hair.
