“You’re forgiving his debt?”
Cillian snorts. “We don’t ‘forgive’ anything,” he replies. “In any case, it’s not up to me to wipe out a debt owed to the Family. That power resides with the don alone.”
“Your father has no reason to forgive the debt,” I say slowly.
“Right. But like I said, the debt wasn’t forgiven,” he tells me. “It was… taken care of.”
I can see the truth in his eyes, but I can’t quite comprehend it.
I can’t let it go, either.
“You paid my father’s debt?” I say in a near-whisper.
“No.”
“No?”
“Sean did,” he admits finally. “He wired me the money with a message the day after he left.”
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “That’s…”
“My brother’s a good man, Saoirse. Too good for this life. It’s why he left.”
I glance at him. “But you’re still here.”
He smiles, the kind of devil-may-care smile that could make a woman weak in the knees. That’s making me weak in the knees.
“I’ve never been good,” he says with a wink.
He grips my hand a little tighter and pulls me hard against him. I slam into his chest, and he grins down at me.
His lips are right there. Right for the taking. Those eyes are bright and sparkling and he smells so good, masculine and crisp, and his hand on my hip is doing funny things to my head, so maybe I should just rise up on my toes and kiss—
I push him away and step out of the circle of his arms.
“Ass,” I mutter under my breath.
It’s loud enough for Cillian to hear, though.
He laughs. “Saoirse?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want me to take you back to the hospital?”
I’m not expecting the question. Which is probably why my face drops instantly, revealing just how little I want that.
The thought of leaving him feels physically painful at this point.
I shake my head, blushing. “No,” I murmur. “Please don’t.”
“Good. I wasn’t gonna let you go anyway.”
I can’t help but laugh and smack him again. “Then why ask?”
“Giving you the illusion of choice makes me seem like more of a gentleman.”
“Which you’re not.”
“Not in the slightest,” Cillian confirms with another wink. “Come along.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me towards the garden’s exit. Even once we’re past the low gates that separate the garden from the rest of the street, he never lets go of my hand.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Does it matter?”
I smile, feeling like a teenager for the first time in my life.
“No,” I tell him. “It doesn’t matter at all.”