Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door

by Nadia Lee

  “Where’s your shirt?” I demanded, doing my best to ignore the fact that my face and neck were heating up for no good reason. I’d seen topless men before, even if none of them had looked as sexy as Killian.

  “What, you forgot already? My chest hair.” His expression was positively shameless.

  I crossed my arms. “You don’t have enough hair on your chest to need to air-dry it.”

  “Didn’t realize you were looking so closely.”

  I did my best to ensure my face didn’t go red, but that turned out to be as feasible as a teenaged boy trying to control an erection, so I gave up. Of course I’d looked at his chest. It was a damned fine chest. Bet he knew that, too. He was much too smug for his own good.

  “Did you use my shampoo and body wash?” I asked, getting a whiff of minty scent from him.

  Yay, you guys are like a couple living together. That’s so cute and sexy!

  Shut up, hormones!

  “Yup,” he said. “They weren’t floral. I like ’em.”

  Floral perfumes generally gave me a headache, so I didn’t use them. I always ordered the same mint and lime toiletries from a specialty store in San Francisco after Lucy had recommended them to me. But I’d never noticed their scent could be so mesmerizing—clean like a gust on the night of the first snow of the year—or so starkly masculine. Maybe I should look for something different. I didn’t want to smell like a man…

  Or think about how awesome Killian smelled after using my shampoo and body wash every time I showered, which would then make me think about him standing naked under the water spray. Holy shit, stop! I told myself. My brain did not need to go there.

  Killian chose that moment to step forward, dramatically reducing the distance between us. I inhaled sharply, my whole body frozen. He lowered his head near my neck, close enough that his breath tickled my bare skin.

  My pulse went erratic. Goosebumps broke out, sending shivers down my back and ending between my thighs.

  I stiffened, trying to ignore the sensations, which had to have been from shock. Shock could end between the legs, right?

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, attempting an affronted tone. But it came out in a squeak. Shit. Talk about a cut to my dignity and self-respect.

  Killian straightened, taking a step back. Was it my imagination, or did those blue eyes look a bit darker? “Just wanted to know if it smelled as unisex as I thought. But it’s actually kind of feminine.” He frowned a little, but it didn’t feel genuine. No, he seemed like he was acting, except I didn’t know what the hell it was all about. “Maybe I should bring my own body wash.”

  “You should,” I said, the picture of ungraciousness. My pulse was still jumping. I didn’t like it one bit, because if I hadn’t known better, I might’ve thought it was from attraction. But how could I be attracted to a guy who annoyed me so much?

  Acting like he hadn’t heard me, Killian moved to the kitchen, pulled out the eggs and cheese and set them on the counter. “Hey, where’s the frying pan?” he asked.

  “Behind you,” I said quickly, glad I wasn’t within smelling range anymore. I needed some distance to get myself under control again. This was what happened when you hadn’t dated in over a year. Actually, my last boyfriend had been a year and a half earlier, a nice but boring doctor who had a practice near Arlington National Cemetery. I probably just needed a quick orgasm or three. I made a mental note to take care of that later when I could find some free time.

  Killian turned around and grabbed a Teflon pan. “Perfect. Oil?”

  “In that cabinet. Anything else you need?”

  “Salt and pepper?”

  I pointed to the ceramic shakers, which were on the counter in plain sight. To be fair, they looked like Sydney Opera House.

  “Those are cool.” Killian picked up the salt shaker and looked at it more closely. “Where’d you get them?”

  “They aren’t for sale, as far as I know,” I said, torn between pleasure and guilt.

  “How come? Discontinued?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Then?” His gaze took on a stubborn gleam. The bastard wasn’t going to give up until I answered him.

  I sighed, feeling my face heat again. Maybe I should lie, but that’d be doubling the shame.

  “Because I got them from Virgin Australia,” I said super fast.

  He stared at me like he couldn’t believe it. “You stole these from an airline?”

  My spine prickled with embarrassment. I wasn’t exactly proud of what I’d done, but they had been just too damned cool to ignore. And the part of me that loved fun and funky things patted myself on the back every time I used them.

  “Hey, I sent them a check for twenty bucks after I got home. And given how much I paid for the business-class ticket, they could’ve given them to me for free.” But okay, I probably shouldn’t have done that. It had been an impulse, especially when they popped up with every meal. There had been a lot of meals between Sydney and the States.

  Still, Killian was looking at me like my hair color had suddenly changed right before his eyes. “I didn’t know you traveled.”

  That was what he got out of the story? Well, at least we wouldn’t have to talk about the shakers anymore.

  “I also drive from time to time. I’m not a complete hermit,” I said. Mom still wailed about my refusal to leave my house unless I had to, saying I’d never meet the perfect guy if I didn’t get out more. She refused to accept that that was the absolute last thing I was worried about. Killian’s reaction reminded me of the call I’d had with her the month before. She’d wanted to discuss how her friend’s daughter was getting married, like I should do something about the fact that I wasn’t even dating, much less getting engaged. She didn’t understand I’d moved to Kingstree to avoid the meat-market scene. “I travel for conferences and book signings.”

  “Huh.” He turned his attention back to the salt and pepper shakers. “Don’t feel bad. I might’ve done the same. These are really cool.”

  That made me feel better…until I realized I was giving his opinion of me way too much weight. It was irksome. I never cared much about what strangers thought of me. The only thing that mattered was how my readers felt about my books. And my friendship with Lucy and Skye.

  But apparently, Killian was finished admiring—or judging—my salt and pepper shakers. While I stood there with my arms crossed, watching him—to make sure he didn’t do anything funny to the food—he cracked eggs into a huge bowl I’d left in the dish rack days ago and forgotten to put away, then whisked them with a fork. He turned on the stove and poured some oil into the pan. He looked at home in my kitchen.

  I couldn’t decide if I liked that or not. I also couldn’t decide if I should let him continue to parade around topless. The morning sun shone over his body, making him glow like an angel…except I knew he was no angel. Maybe one of the fallen variety at best. And his forearm tats shifted as he moved. The entire effect wasn’t exactly giving me the calmness I wanted to achieve.

  “You should put on a shirt,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “That oil might spatter and burn you.” And what a shame would that be on such a fine torso. Not that I’d ever say it out loud.

  “Still drying my chest hair, remember? Oil and water don’t mix. It can’t hurt me.”

  Must be some type of man logic, because it made zero sense. Probably the same sort of thinking that made men do stupid stuff. “Don’t sue me if you get hurt.”

  “I won’t. Now go away and let me work my magic. I’m a pretty decent cook.”

  That remained to be seen, although if it tasted half as good as it smelled, it’d be all right. I sat at the island and pretended to fiddle with my phone, although I watched him surreptitiously. I told myself it was for self-preservation, because my presence might discourage him from sprinkling arsenic all over my eggs. The fact that I noticed how broad his shoulders were…how hot it was to see his back muscles flex… Well, all that
was just going to be there, no matter what. Very much like the irritating side effects you had to put up with while taking a life-preserving drug.

  As he started to place omelets on plates, I took out a couple of icy lemon-flavored sweet teas from the fridge, because first, I needed one, and second, he probably wouldn’t complain, since it was that or water. Even I thought it was too early for beer, even if it was Hop Hop Hooray. When he brought the omelets and forks to the dining table, I quietly switched our plates.

  “What’s that about?” he asked, sitting down.

  “Yours looked bigger,” I lied, not wanting to tell him about my suspicions. I’d been watching him, but there was that distracting bare torso. I might’ve missed something.

  “I made them the same size.”

  “Why?” Didn’t guys usually want to have more food?

  “Because you don’t seem like the type who’ll stop to eat lunch or dinner.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He gave me a look. “I’ve seen your fridge. And your cart at Sunny’s.”

  I shrugged. “Eating is overrated.”

  “It’s essential for survival, but go ahead and humor me. Do the overrated activity.” He gestured with his fork.

  Ha! Sarcastic bastard. I bit into the omelet. Holy cow. It was good—fluffy and gooey, with melted cheese in the center. The man knew how to cook. And with the first bite in my mouth, I suddenly realized I was starving.

  “How’d that taste? Overrated?” he asked after I’d swallowed.

  “Good,” I said. The man already knew it. There was no point in lying.

  “So. Mind if I borrow the rest of your books?”

  I regarded him, wondering what he was really getting at. “Why?”

  “I liked the one I read.”

  I looked at him, stunned. Since he’d brought the one from yesterday back so fast, I assumed he hadn’t been able to read more than a few pages. “You did?”

  “Yeah,” he said, shoveling down food.

  “What did you like about it?” Men sometimes said that they liked my books after they’d found out what I did for living in order to hook up. Killian could avail himself of my shower, but he wasn’t availing himself of my vagina.

  “The humor, mainly. And the emphasis on community and people just being decent and good to each other. Oh, and the glitter bomb Erika sent her boss at the end.” Killian grinned. “That was hilarious.”

  “So you really did read it,” I said, surprised and pleased. Those were the reasons I loved that book, too. And I appreciated that here was the first man I’d met who not only read one of my books but understood what I wanted to convey in my writing world: good people finishing first and living happily ever after. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t lie about it, not when I’d get found out in a second.” He washed down his latest bite with the tea. “Could’ve used more sex, though.”

  I almost choked on my eggs. Should’ve known he’d go there.

  “But the three sex scenes it did have were hot as hell. Erika came ‘over five times’”—he was making air quotes with his fingers—“in the first one. How many times did she really come, though? It wasn’t clear from the text.”

  I bit my lip to contain a laugh. Of course he remembered that detail and wanted to know more. It was such a guy thing!

  “If the book didn’t say, it means you don’t need to know.” I tried to say it with a touch of prim asperity but the truth was that I didn’t recall every detail of the story. It’d been months since I’d finished it, and right now, my mind was focused on Molly and Ryan’s romance.

  He grunted. “Too bad. Your readers would definitely want to know that level of detail. So tell me, do you write the kind of sex you want to have?”

  Here we go. I inhaled deeply so as not to lose patience. For some reason, every time people learned I wrote sex scenes, they considered it completely acceptable to ask personal, sex-related questions. Even my now-former dentist had asked me how much “research” I did while getting his tools ready and having me inhale laughing gas.

  At least Killian had cooked me an excellent breakfast. And he wasn’t being overtly condescending—or asking with an unhealthy leer, like the dentist. “Are you going to ask me if I research them in person, too?”

  “Do you?” His blue eyes sparked, a smile curving his lips. The dimple popped on his cheek, and he looked more tempting than a ripe strawberry dipped in chocolate. “If so”—he raised a hand—“I volunteer as tribute!”

  I burst out laughing at his homage to The Hunger Games. His questions were predictable, but he just seemed curious. And I liked the way he’d made a joke with my question.

  “Tribute? As in the Roman sense? Like a slave?”

  “Hey, whatever you’re into. I’m an equal-opportunity kind of guy.” The smile went up about two thousand kilowatts.

  I laughed again, the exchange lightening my mood. I took a swig of tea and looked at him speculatively. The sex scenes in my books weren’t necessarily my fantasy. The kind of sex my characters had largely depended on their personalities and the couple’s dynamics. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be fun to research some of them in person for the first time in my life, especially if the partner was as fine as Killian.

  On the other hand, he was very aware he was just oozing sex appeal, and men like that were bad bets for relationships. Exhibit one: my father. He charmed the panties off every pretty twenty-something he ran into. It was gross and humiliating.

  But…why was I thinking about relationships in conjunction with Killian? I wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend, long-term or otherwise. If I needed to scratch an itch, a collection of nice sex toys that had never let me down was waiting in a drawer next to my bed.

  “I don’t do research,” I said finally. “And you can borrow my books if you’ll keep cooking me breakfast.” If I wasn’t going to bother with lunch and dinner—he was right about that point—so I should have a decent breakfast every day.

  The dimple appeared again. “That’s a deal. Oh, and my sister is a huge fan and wants to buy all your books. Autographed. Can I buy them from you directly?”

  I nodded, happy he wanted to talk about more harmless things. I told myself the heavy, languid feeling settling in my gut was something other than longing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emily

  When breakfast was over, Killian put the plates in the dishwasher. He was surprisingly capable in the kitchen when it came to cleanup, too. It was a bit of a shock, since he’d acted like he was somebody famous in Sunny’s Mart when we’d first met. Maybe he wasn’t that famous, because…did really famous people even know how to open dishwashers? Didn’t they have maids and people who took care of everything like that for them?

  While he was cleaning up, I signed my backlist for him. He left with the autographed books and a second copy of Working for the Filthy Billionaire—the one he wanted to read today.

  Once I was alone, I threw myself into work. After about an hour, I got a text.

  –Skye: So, are you dead?

  I laughed and texted back, No.

  –Lucy: I knew it.

  Both of my friends seemed entirely too pleased with themselves. So I decided I should tease them.

  –Me: How can you be sure it’s not the killer responding to your text?

  –Skye: Because you only said no.

  –Lucy: Exactly. The killer would’ve added something like how the guy was nice or hot or the food was amazing, etc. to reassure us. That’s usually how bad guys get caught. They try too hard to cover up the crime.

  They knew me too well.

  –Skye: Was the food good?

  –Me: Yes.

  Then—since I knew they would continue to question me until all their curiosity was satisfied—I sent another text.

  –Me: I love you girls, but I really have to go back to writing. I gotta get at least four more chapters done today.

  –Lucy
: Got it! You go, girl!

  –Skye: You can do it!

  Smiling, I went back to my manuscript. As long as I could maintain my production quota for each day, I’d hit the deadline. Molly and Ryan were fantastic characters, and I knew they would resonate with my readers.

  They had to.

  Ryan wooed Molly by making her breakfast and giving her a massage. I paused as I ended the chapter, realizing that Killian had been exceptionally sweet, and my subconscious probably recognized that even if I hadn’t wanted to admit it.

  Wonder what he would do next if he were in Ryan’s shoes…

  Stop thinking about Killian. The book is about Ryan and Molly!

  Shit. I gently slapped myself to pull out of the ridiculous daydream. Ryan wasn’t anything like my neighbor, and I shouldn’t confuse the two.

  Must. Focus. On. My. Couple!

  When I was finally done, I closed the laptop and placed it on the coffee table. I tried to get up, then plopped back on the sofa with a soft groan. Ow… My damned back. My vertebrae seemed to be permanently set in the slightly rounded position I’d been in for hours, and they did not want to move.

  I checked the time. Five thirty. Since I’d finished the day’s word count, I needed to give myself a break and recharge. In case tomorrow didn’t go as well as today and required pulling an all-nighter.

  I slowly rose to my feet, bones creaking and popping. Damn. I should book a celebratory massage session for after I send the manuscript off to my editor. Since I was starving, I opened the fridge, then paused.

  Nothing to eat. And after the delicious, real food Killian had made in the morning, I didn’t want to settle for crackers again.

  For a split second, I didn’t feel like eating alone. My head swiveled toward Killian’s house, but I caught myself before I did something stupid. Like going over and asking him to eat with me. We’d only agreed on breakfast. Dinner was too much. Too much like a real couple or something. Although he was easily the most eligible bachelor in town, I wasn’t in Kingstree to date.

  Okay, I was being ridiculous. I was hungry and my brain didn’t function well on low blood sugar. Once I had some decent food in my belly, I wouldn’t be thinking about Killian that way—I was certain of it.