Page 37 of Ruthless Claim

I have a nighttime routine.

I have a silk pillowcase.

I have always considered the concept of “sex hair” to be something that happened to other, less organized people.

Then there are the hickeys.

Holy shit, the hickeys.

A gasp escapes me as I twist my neck to survey and count the damage.

There’s one on my neck that’s positioned in the most inconvenient way.

It’s too high for a crewneck but too low for a turtleneck to not be obvious.

There are two on my shoulder.

One on my collarbone.

And a number of them elsewhere on me that I am going to document in my internal record and never mention to anyone, including myself.

Cillian Brennan is a menace.

I already knew he was, but this is simply new evidence of his depravity.

I get into the shower and turn it cold for the last three minutes just to shock my system awake.

I do my hair then tackle my makeup.

I make sure to put on extra coverage foundation on the neck, powder, concealer, then powder again.

I survey the result.

The neck situation is passable but requires backup.

Tapping my finger against my lip, I head into the closet and survey my accessories.

I select a deep red gauzy scarf and tie it artfully around my neck.

I’m going for a French look today, and this scarf perfectly compliments my navy and white striped shirt and navy trousers.

No one will ever know that the scarf is for a cover-up operation.

I look at myself in the mirror.

Acceptable.

Nobody would know unless they were looking.

I open the bathroom door and stop short.

Cillian is sitting on his side of the bed with his forearms on his knees and his head slightly bent.

He’s still shirtless and his hair sticks up wildly.

He looks up when I come out and we make eye contact across the room.

The silence that descends is so deeply uncomfortable that I briefly consider going back into the bathroom and just living there.