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“We could have another lapse of bad judgment,” he says, sliding his fingers over my stomach, and I’ve never been as grateful to be wearing a shirt as I am right now. “Harknett doesn’t have to know… and my uncle doesn’t have to know, either.”

I move his hand away and step back, giving us both some breathing room. “Speaking of Arthur… how is your relationship with him?”

Cillian frowns, confused by the sudden shift. “Arthur? It’s fine. He’s always traveling, but he never misses an important date. He was always there when my grandfather needed him, and he’s the same with me.”

“Would he have an issue knowing he got passed over for the inheritance?” I ask.

To my surprise, Cillian laughs. “Arthur? Absolutely not.”

“Your great-uncle seems too good to be true, Cillian. Rich men who are that kind always have an angle.”

Cillian shakes his head, his expression a mix of frustration and sadness. “You’re projecting, Knox. You just hate what he represents.”

“Cil, I’m being serious. He should’ve been next in line. Would he do anything to get his hands on the company?”

“Actually, it’s the exact opposite.” he sits down at the table and takes a sip of his coffee. “Arthur is happiest being the second prince.”

“Second prince?”

“You know, the prince who gets to enjoy all the perks of having money without carrying a shred of the responsibility that comes with being the heir.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“A week after the lawyer gave me the inheritance, I tried to sign the whole thing over to Arthur,” Cillian says. “He laughed in my face for an hour before telling me he was leaving for Monaco and to text him if I wanted him to bring back some chocolates or a bottle of L’Orangerie.”

Wow…

Okay, so Arthur is definitely not a suspect.

I nod. “Fair enough.”

GROOOAWWWNN!

I stare at the ceiling as the entire house groans on its foundation. “That’s… a concerning sound.”

“It’s an old cabin,” Cillian says dismissively. “It has quirks.”

“That’s not a quirk; that’s the sound of something breaking down.”

“Shhh!” Cillian gasps, slapping a hand over my mouth. “Pickles can hear you.”

I pull his hand away and laugh. “What the fuck is Pickles?”

Cillian gestures around the room. “You’re standing inside him.”

“You named this cabin Pickles?”

“Yes. The first night I spent in it, I was free, happy, and eating pickles, so…”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Were you drunk?”

“Extremely,” he smiles.

“Fine, I won’t criticize Pickles.” I grab a plate of eggs and bacon and sit down across from him. “So… what is there to do out here for four days?”

“Well…” Cillian grins mischievously, and I can tell I won’t like the answer… or, more like, I will like it a whole lot.

Which is a huge fucking problem.