"I knew your husband was rich," Lana said, turning in a slow circle in the middle of the living room. "The suits. The car. The whole vibe. But Evie, this is a different tax bracket. This is 'I have people who have people' money."
"It's temporary," I said from the bed, where I was propped up against approximately nine pillows like a wounded queen.
"Temporary," Elena repeated. She was opening and closing the kitchen cabinets with the reverence of someone visiting a museum. "Evie, there's a wine fridge. There are two ovens. Why does anyone need two ovens?"
"In case one breaks," Nik offered from the armchair, where he was watching the whole thing with open entertainment. "Or in case you want to bake two things at different temperatures. It's really very practical."
"And who are you again?" Lana asked him.
"Best man. Family friend. General keeper of secrets." He raised his coffee mug. "Nik."
"He's the fun one," I said.
"I'm the fun one," Nik confirmed.
I still didn't know how they'd found this place. Then Elena had shown me the text on her phone. A message from my number, sent an hour ago, with the address and "come over, I miss you guys." I hadn't sent it. Which meant Cillian had picked up my phone while I was sleeping and texted my friends because somehow, without me saying a word, he'd known I needed them.
I didn't know what to do with that. So, I filed it away under "things about Cillian Volkov that make my chest hurt" and moved on.
Lana lowered her voice. "Evie. Your head. What happened?"
"I slipped."
"You slipped?!"
"In the restaurant. The floor was wet."
Elena crossed her arms. "You slipped so hard you needed a bandage the size of a credit card on your temple?"
"I'm a dramatic faller. You know this about me."
Neither of them looked convinced but before the interrogation could continue, the bathroom door opened and Cillian walked out.
He was in dark trousers and nothing else. His hair was damp and pushed back from his face, water still sitting on his shoulders and chest, and he was holding a shirt in one hand like he'd been planning to put it on but had gotten distracted by the sound of voices in his apartment.
The room went very quiet.
Elena made a sound like a small animal being stepped on. Lana's mouth opened, stayed open, and forgot to close. They'd seen him before, at the café and in the hallway, but apparently suits had been doing the Lord's work because neither of them had been prepared for this version.
I understood. I had been on the receiving end of shirtless Cillian before. There was no preparation for it. You just had to survive it.
He took in the scene with one sweep. Me in bed. Nik in the armchair. Elena and Lana in his kitchen looking like they'd forgotten how breathing worked.
"Lana. Elena." He nodded at them, easy and familiar, and pulled the shirt over his head. Which somehow made things worse because now we all had to watch the fabric slide down over his stomach. "Good, you came."
He crossed to me, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to the top of my head, right next to the bandage. His hand rested on my shoulder, thumb brushing my collarbone. Casual. Intimate. Like he did it every morning.
My skin burned where he touched me and I smiled up at him with the frozen expression of a woman whose brain was experiencing technical difficulties.
"Coffee?" he asked them, already moving to the kitchen.
"Yes please," Elena said, too quickly.
"He makes good coffee," Nik added. "It's his one domestic skill. Everything else is outsourced."
"That's not true," Cillian said. "I can also open wine."
Nik looked at me. "You've married a very talented man."
I was going to kill them both.
Lana settled on the edge of the bed beside me while Cillian made coffee and Elena hovered near the island trying very hard not to stare at him and failing completely.
"Okay," Lana whispered. "I have questions. Many questions. Starting with: this apartment?"
"His family owns property," I said. My scalp tingled. "For business."
"And the injury?"
"I told you. I slipped."
"In a restaurant."
"A very nice restaurant. The lamb was excellent."
"Evie."
"Lana."
She gave me the look. The one that said she loved me and would absolutely not be letting this go.
Elena came back with coffee, handed one to Lana, and sat cross-legged on the floor like we were having a sleepover. "Okay. You promised us the full story and we've been very patient. How did you two actually meet?"
I opened my mouth. I had a whole script prepared. Long distance, mutual friends, boring stuff.
Cillian beat me to it.
He leaned against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, and looked at me while he spoke. "Her father introduced us. I walked into a room full of people and she was standing at the top of a staircase in a white dress looking like she was planning someone's murder."
My heart stumbled.
"I said something forgettable," he continued. "She said something that made half the room uncomfortable. I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out if she was the bravest person I'd ever met or the most reckless." His eyes held mine. "I still haven't decided."
The room was quiet. Elena had her hand over her heart. Lana was looking between us with an expression that had gone from suspicious to something much softer.
He was talking about the night we met. The real night. The engagement. The stairs. My father's hand on my elbow and the white dress I'd jumped out a window to escape. He'd taken the truth and wrapped it in just enough warmth to sound like a love story.
The worst part was, standing there with morning light on his face and his eyes on mine, it almost sounded like one.
"That's disgustingly romantic," Elena said.
"He left out the part where I insulted him within the first three minutes," I said, finding my voice.
"She compared being married to me to being a houseplant," Cillian added.
"A valid comparison at the time."
"She asked if I watered my wives weekly or only when they started wilting."
Elena choked on her coffee. Lana buried her face in a pillow. Nik raised his mug in a toast.
I looked at Cillian and he looked at me and the corner of his mouth curved and something in my chest expanded in a way that felt dangerous and warm and completely out of my control.
The visit lasted another hour. Elena asked about Paris. Nik invented an elaborate story about a sunset proposal on a bridge that never happened. Lana grilled Cillian on his job. He said "private consulting" with such conviction that I almost believed it myself. By the time they left, hugging me carefully around the bandage and promising to come back tomorrow, the apartment felt quieter and bigger and I felt the absence of normal like a physical thing.
Nik excused himself to make a call. Cillian was clearing the mugs.
I touched my hair. It was stiff and matted on the left side where the blood had dried. I'd been avoiding it all morning but now that the performance was over, I could feel it. Crusty and wrong against my fingers.
Cillian set the last mug in the sink and turned to look at me. His eyes went to my hand in my hair, to the dark stain at my temple, to the grimace I couldn't quite hide.
"You still have blood in your hair," he said.
"I know. I'll deal with it."
"You can barely lift your arms above your head without going dizzy."
"I'll manage."
He walked toward me, slow and deliberate, and stopped at the edge of the bed. He looked down at me with that expression I was starting to recognize. The one that meant he'd already made a decision and was giving me the courtesy of thinking I still had a choice.
"I'm going to run you a bath," he said. "And wash the blood out of your hair."
My brain went completely blank.
"You're going to what now," I said.