Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door

by Nadia Lee

  Holy shit. What the…

  My mind went blank for a second as I took him in. Hot shivers skittered along my spine. What a face… And what a waste.

  Longish black hair that reached a little below his ears. Strong, bold lines. Brilliant, piercing blue eyes and a thin, straight nose. His lips were a little puffy, like he’d gotten really lucky in the genetics lottery or lightly cuffed in the mouth. Probably the latter. Anyone who’d snatch someone else’s ice cream…

  Regardless, I couldn’t help but acknowledge—only to myself—that he’d be amazing on the cover of a romance novel. Dress him in a wet white button-down shirt (unbuttoned, of course) that clung to his torso…a pair of dark jeans that hung a little low on his hips… Mmm. Maybe put him in a meadow and have him stick a thumb into his waistband and look at the camera like “I want to have my way with you, you sultry vixen…”

  Oh yeah. That would make readers one-click, just to own the damned shot of him.

  Better yet, have him in my bed, naked and ready. He seemed fit and looked like he could screw until I saw stars and turned into a puddle of flesh. A strong orgasm usually helped with insomnia. And I hadn’t had any—orgasms, not insomnia—in a while.

  Still, I reminded myself he was likely a terrible human being I shouldn’t fantasize about. Why else would he be holding on to my ice cream?

  “Let go,” I said in my no-nonsense tone, the one that used to put fear into people before I’d quit my corporate job to be a writer.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You let go. I touched it first.”

  His voice was low and a little husky, reminding me of aged whiskey with a smoky finish. I liked it, which was annoying. Actually, more than liked it. It made my insides hot, and I noted the flesh between my legs felt a little wet.

  Probably just sweat, I told myself. I was not attracted to this guy, no matter how stunning he looked. Men this gorgeous were always trouble.

  Just look at my dad. Pretty on the outside, completely rotten inside.

  I narrowed my eyes and tightened my mouth into a flat line. This bozo knew he was good-looking and sexy-sounding. And he wasn’t above using his charms to his advantage.

  “In your dreams.” I tried to hiss it at him.

  He ran his tongue over a row of perfectly straight white teeth and squinted at me. “Do you know who I am?”

  Was he serious? I let my gaze roam over him. It took a while because he was so damn tall. But I wanted to be thorough…from his head to the broad shoulders and lean frame with ropey muscles, the nicely formed chest peeking through the V of a slate-gray shirt, narrow hips and nice pair of legs encased in black jeans…then back up. He had tattooed forearms and one of those huge wallets on a chain attached to his belt.

  He looked at me like he was waiting for me to fall at his feet.

  Puh-leeeze.

  I, Emily Katarina Breckenridge, did not fall at any man’s feet. Seeing how Dad treated Mom was a one hundred percent foolproof vaccine against pretty men’s charms. Yes, it was true—my mom had married my dad for his face. Look how that had worked out. Dad was with another woman, and Mom was waiting for him in that huge, echoing house back in McLean. If he was feeling especially considerate, he’d shower at the hotel before heading home.

  “As it happens, I don’t know who you are. Do you know who I am?”

  The man pulled back a little, eyebrows rising. It was his turn to run his gaze over me. Slowly. Insolently. And the skin along my spine and chest felt weird, somewhere between a hot tingle and an itch. I grimaced. Probably dried sweat from the exercise. Back sweat and boob sweat were the worst.

  I was most definitely not thinking about him naked. Or in my bed. Or in me.

  His mouth started to purse. And almost immediately after that, his nose wrinkled. I recognized the evaluating, assessing look in his eyes. I’d seen it plenty of times in my dad’s, most recently when I became a romance novelist.

  How dare this ice cream thief judge me?

  “No,” he said finally.

  I gave him a fake smile. “So we’re even.” I tugged at the tub, but he still wasn’t letting go.

  I didn’t have all night to fight this guy. I needed to shower for the first time in four days, take a short nap and get back to work.

  How to make him back off…?

  I flicked my eyes down. “Oh my God!” I screeched, infusing the high-pitched yell with all the disgust I could muster. “There’s a cockroach on your foot!”

  “What?” He looked down, flinching.

  And his grip on the ice cream relaxed. I yanked it out of the fridge and placed it firmly in my cart.

  “Hey!” he protested.

  “What?” I put a hand on my chest with all the innocence I could muster. “You’re the one who let go.”

  “That was cheating!”

  Cheating? He wanted to talk about cheating? All the frustration with my dad resurfaced, aggression boiling in my blood. “What are you going to do? Fight me for it?” I snarled, letting him see my teeth, and raised my clenched hands to signal that I was willing to bloody that pretty face to keep the ice cream I’d just earned. Hopefully he’d be intimidated.

  His expression twisted in distaste. “Fight some homeless alcoholic? No thanks.”

  “Ha. Call me whatever you like. I still won!” I fist-pumped the air.

  He was looking like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. It was obvious he’d expected me to hand over the tub of ice cream ambrosia.

  Over. My. Dead. Body.

  Triumphant, I sashayed up to the cashier to pay for my writing supplies. No asshole was going to get between me and my provisions…even if he was the hottest asshole I’d ever laid eyes on.

  Chapter Three

  Killian

  The ice cream bandit walked away, hips swinging to a rhythm only she could hear, blond hair bobbing. Her yoga pants had at least two holes, and some of the seams were coming apart. They had to be older than the oak in Grandma’s front yard. And her shirt wasn’t any better. Dingy white, wet with what I hoped was sweat…and it sported three holes, one of them right below her armpit.

  She was also muttering to herself again. I was sure she wasn’t aware of it, especially given all her weird tics. She’d gone on and on about Molly and Ryan while approaching the ice cream section—about how Molly owned a cat, and she and Ryan were going to hook up. But Molly Patterson was allergic to cats, and Ryan Johnson was sixty-eight years old—in addition to having been happily married for forty-seven years. Molly and Ryan were definitely not hooking up, no matter what this loon thought.

  But that wasn’t all that was weird about her. The entire time she’d been checking me out in front of the freezer, her right eye kept winking. It was unsettling, like some kind of alien Morse code.

  And that was too bad, because she had gorgeous green eyes with flecks of bright gold in them.

  I watched her make off with the last of the ice cream I’d been craving for the past three years. The temptation to grab it out of her cart had been hard to resist, but somehow I’d managed.

  Those fists she’d raised weren’t much of a threat. But the teeth she’d kept baring? Definitely dangerous. And who knew what she might be carrying? Her cart didn’t have anything except crackers and alcohol, plus the Bouncy Bare Monkeys I rightfully should’ve been enjoying tonight to celebrate surviving my twenty-hour flight.

  It’d been three years since I’d last visited my grandmother in Kingstree. What the hell had happened to the nice, quaint little town since then to have that? I asked myself as I watched her check out. At least she had some money, even if it was probably from panhandling. The folks in Kingstree were generous. And when she batted those eyes—or not, since she had that weird winking tic—and pouted that soft rosebud mouth, I bet people gave her whatever change they could scrounge from their pockets and car seats.

  An unsettling feeling came over me as she left. I shook my head and headed to the liquor section to grab a consolation prize—some of
Hop Hop Hooray’s specialty beer. Why did I feel so…perturbed? It wasn’t like I’d never seen a wack-case before. Being out on tour was like a magnet for them.

  But you’ve never felt a spark for one before.

  I pulled myself up short. A spark? For her?

  I mean, there was definitely a weird sensation. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and my skin prickled. But that had been annoyance and disbelief, not a spark. I hadn’t felt a spark in…

  Too damn long.

  My mood deflated further. My sister Miriam said I was burned out, and that was why everything felt about as exciting as a wet blanket in a rainforest. She would know—she was the queen of burnout, having gone through it three times already. I’d been busy, working nonstop for over a decade. And although my band had made a big splash five years ago, and the media still called us “an overnight sensation,” the actual work to get ready for our debut had taken years of dedication, day and night.

  Recently, I hadn’t been able to muster the energy or creativity to write songs or play music. And it had been scary as hell backstage after our final concert when my vision went blurry…then turned black. Since then, I hadn’t come up with a single new lyric or idea for where the band should go next, creatively and musically. And that was more terrifying than passing out. My brain had never been such a black hole of nothingness when it came to music.

  Granted, my band mates had their own ideas, but I’d never failed to provide some kind of opinion—some meaningful contribution.

  Being back in Kingstree should help, though. This was my true home, with friendly folks treating me like a person rather than some celebrity to hassle. They were too familiar with my teenage shenanigans to be awed by my current fame.

  I stopped abruptly in front of the beer section, my jaw slack. Not a single bottle of Hop Hop Hooray beer. Are you kidding me?

  I spun around and marched to the cashier, Jenny. I tried to remember how old she was now…fourteen? Fifteen? She was the daughter of my junior prom date, who’d married the captain of the high school football team the next year when she found out she was pregnant. Because Jenny hadn’t witnessed my colorful history of teenage pranks and dares, she looked at me with half awe and half shyness. But unlike the people I encountered outside of Kingstree, she implicitly understood the proper boundaries, just like everyone in this town. She’d never take a photo and upload it on whatever junky social media kids these days liked to be on.

  “Hi, Mr. Axelrod,” she squeaked. “Or should I call you Killian?”

  “Killian’s fine. Do you have any more Hop Hop Hooray in the back?”

  She shook her head, her young face falling. “I’m so sorry. Gerry put everything out before heading home.” She cleared her throat. “I think Emily bought it all.”

  “Emily?” I didn’t remember any vagrant named Emily in Kingstree. And even though I’d been away, Grandma had kept me in the loop.

  “You know, the lady who checked out a few minutes ago?”

  “That cra—” I caught myself before I called her a “crazy hobo.” It probably wasn’t an appropriate thing to say in front of Jenny.

  “Yeah. Have you met her?” She blinked her big, owlish brown eyes, then continued without waiting for a response. “I’m sure you will soon. Sometimes she doesn’t leave the house for, like, forever. But she’s your next-door neighbor.”

  “My what?” I asked, stunned.

  “Next-door neighbor. She bought the old Thompson place. You know.”

  “Yeah,” I said slowly.

  She grinned, then leaned closer with an eager light in her eyes. “When she bought it last year, the roof needed to be replaced. And she chose pink! I heard it was a custom job. Cool, huh? Told Mom we should do the same to our house, but she’s totally not into spending that kind of money, which seems crazy to me. Pink is such a cool color!”

  I nodded, not paying attention to the rest of the gossip pouring out of her eager mouth. I left the store dazed and empty-handed as my brain tried to work overtime to find a way to digest what Jenny had just shared.

  Grandma had mentioned the neighbor who’d moved to Kingstree a year and a half ago several times.

  A nice, sweet girl. A true Virginia lady.

  Her job must be important. She’s always working. It’s impossible to catch her for tea or even a neighborly chat. Since she moved next door three months ago, I think I’ve run into her twice. Exceptionally polite. Such lovely bearing.

  Oh, did you know she attended UVA? And Harvard for some kind of master’s degree. A smart child. Wonderful, isn’t it?

  She has the most elegant name. Emily. I always wanted to name my daughter that if I’d ever had one. I wish you could meet her. You would love her.

  I invited her to dinner. She’s all alone, and she could use some company.

  My mental picture of “Emily” had consisted of a lady because Grandma had said so. Elegant, too. Maybe in a pale dress and slim-heeled shoes, her hair perfectly done, nails flawlessly shaped and lacquered. Speaking with precise, proper diction. And her manners impeccable.

  Not some ice-cream-thieving maniac in dumpster couture who walked around muttering to herself.

  I drove to the house Grandma left me when she passed away last September, then slowed down as its pink-roofed neighbor came into view. The same neatly trimmed lawn and small pine tree in front. But the walls were buttercream-colored now, and colorful gnomes held giant lollipops.

  It was…pretty. Like the candy house of the old witch from “Hansel and Gretel.”

  You should never judge a person by their home. It was the moral I must’ve missed when my mom read me and Mir the fairy tale when we were young.

  I had no idea what Emily had done to con my grandmother into thinking she was a respectable lady. Even gotten invited for free food a few times.

  But I knew her true colors. And I was going to teach her a lesson as payback for the ice cream, beer…and lying to an elderly woman.

  Chapter Four

  Emily

  I rolled out of bed the moment my eyes opened. Unfortunately, the bedside clock informed me it was four in the morning. Damn it, overslept. I’d meant to get a four-hour nap, not five.

  After splashing some cold water on my face, I put a pair of pink-rimmed glasses on and headed downstairs. Crunch time meant glasses, since I needed to write as much as I could, then nap whenever I absolutely had to rest. Contacts got in the way of naps. Besides, it was a pain if I forgot to take them out every so often. I’d gotten an eye infection from that last year, and never would I put myself through that suffering again.

  I got the coffeemaker going, then scooped two big mounds of Bouncy Bare Monkeys into a bowl. Nothing could beat that combo for breakfast. The cold and creamy sensation mingled with the hot coffee in my mouth and somehow produced a repast for the gods. The gears in my head started churning faster and more smoothly.

  Once that was done, I took some water and a raspberry beer from the fridge and sat down in front of my laptop. The moment I flipped the lid open, the cursor blinked on the Word doc.

  Write, write, baby.

  I popped open the beer and took a long swallow. Then, after linking my fingers and stretching them, I started to type up the scenes that had come to me yesterday.

  “You go, girl,” I muttered to myself as my heroine Molly sassed the hero. I loved Ryan, but he needed to learn his lesson. He was a bit of an ass.

  It’s unfair. I never wanted to be an ass. You made me an ass! Ryan whined in my head.

  “Yeah, yeah. If you don’t like it, write your own book,” I whispered as my fingers moved across the keyboard. The tapping clicks sounded a little like rain on a roof…

  The only break I took was to go to the bathroom. And to grab more beer and water because I needed to lubricate my brain and hydrate myself.

  After about five thousand words, finally Molly and Ryan were about to have sex for the first time, and I needed to make it not only scorching, but funny and emotional.
No mere “his penis drove into her vagina” sex for my couple.

  Let’s see… “His tongue stroked mine,” I murmured as I typed. “An urgent, irresistible heat began in my—”

  A loud banging shattered my train of thought. What the hell? I jumped up, knocking over the bag of Animal Crackers. Shit! Two lions and a lot of crumbs ended up on the floor under the table, rather than—thankfully—on my laptop. Getting my keyboard gunked up would not be good.

  After putting the lions next to my beer, I looked up, wondering where the noise was coming from. I’d bought a detached single home for a very specific reason: to not hear noise from my neighbors. Mrs. Axelrod had been quiet. And not overly nosy compared to others in town.

  But the silence returned. I shook my head. Part of me was curious what it was about, but I slapped myself mentally. No time to procrastinate! Got to refocus. Molly and Ryan had some banging of their own to do.

  Bang bang clang!

  There it was again! The muscles in my shoulders and neck tightened up, and I growled under my breath. How could my couple have hot, funny, emotional sex when there was this clanging ruckus outside?

  Not just clanging, I thought as I jumped to my feet. Some asshole was banging on a drum set. Didn’t they know what time it was?

  I glared at the clock on my laptop. Ten thirty. Early enough for this to be noise pollution. What if somebody wanted to sleep in?

  Actually, this was a cul-de-sac with only two homes. Mine and Mrs. Axelrod’s, and she’d passed away last year. So, okay, nobody wanted to sleep in, but somebody—me!—wanted to work!

  The mannerless jerk was banging around like he was a drummer at a rock concert. I had to admit—grudgingly—that he was pretty good. Okay, really good. But that didn’t mean the noise was any less irritating.

  I shoved my feet into flip-flops and marched out, determined to get the noise polluter to stop. The racket was coming from the late Mrs. Axelrod’s home. I stormed over, hands in tight fists. As I got closer, I noted the windows were all open. Totally inconsiderate. Just who the hell bought this house? I hadn’t seen a For Sale sign outside. If I had…and if I’d known some drum-banging jerk would be moving in, I would’ve bought the damn place myself!