Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door

by Nadia Lee

  Okay, put on your big-girl panties and adult, I decided. Eat more than the junk I used to live on in college and my first job. Just look at Killian. There was a reason he looked so hot and healthy every time he came by. The man fed himself actual food.

  Hmm… Wonder what he was having for dinner. Probably he was planning on making himself something delicious. Did he cook dinner topless, too? Flex those forearms while he was shifting pots and pans? Maybe even admire his own tats?

  I would if I had arms like his.

  My stomach growled. The sound probably meant, Less fantasizing, more food!

  I grabbed my keys and went outside. The air was getting warmer, typical of this time of year, when spring was transitioning to summer. The breeze was refreshing, carrying the scents of grass and new leaves on the trees, and I inhaled it deeply. I didn’t know air could smell like this. I needed to open windows in my home and let some of it in.

  Deliberately not looking toward Killian’s house, I drove to Sunny’s Mart. Grabbed a big cart and pushed it into the store like a responsible adult who intended to eat healthily.

  But the piles of vegetables just weren’t enticing. Washing, peeling and prepping everything… Simply imagining the amount of work made me feel exhausted. I grabbed some strawberries and oranges. They required the least amount of effort. Since I was being so good, I went to the beer section, spotted two cases of Hop Hop Hooray raspberry beer lying in the aisle that nobody from Sunny’s Mart had put on the shelves yet and seized them. The raspberries used in the beer must count. Nobody ever said you had to chew your fruit.

  I went to the frozen food section to get some TV dinners. A few looked decent. Then I spotted the ultimate prize: a guy in a purple Sunny’s Mart apron stocking ice cream. And not just any ice cream, but Bouncy Bare Monkeys.

  Jackpot! This must be how Neolithic hunter-gatherers had felt when they discovered a giant mammoth stuck in a crevasse.

  He shut the clear freezer door and moved off. Excitement sparking through me, I hurried over to get the ice cream. But a loud scream rang through the otherwise quiet supermarket.

  Molly—not my Molly, but Kingstree’s Molly—was coming around the corner, while her son bellowed, “I said I want cookies, not stupid ice cream!” He was disheveled and his eyes were wild, like a cat being pushed into a bathtub full of water.

  What kid doesn’t want ice cream? Maybe he was lactose intolerant. My dad was, and he couldn’t have any ice cream, which was karmic justice.

  Instead of shushing her son, Molly was texting, her thumbs moving busily. He threw himself on the floor and started kicking like a toddler, even though he had to be at least eight.

  “We’re getting ice cream,” she said finally, not even looking up, which only seemed to make her kid’s face redder. Now he looked like an overripe tomato. Tears and snot covered his cheeks, nose and chin.

  I shot her my meanest look. Lady, rein in your out-of-control kid!

  She looked up from her phone as though she’d sensed my evil laser glare. “What are you looking at?” she demanded, moving toward me.

  “I’m looking at what I’m being forced to listen to,” I said, then snapped up every tub of Bouncy Bare Monkey. Partly to spite her and partly because who knew when the store would get more?

  All six tubs sat in my cart. I’d give one or two to Killian tomorrow morning. That seemed fair, since he was paying for the eggs and cheese for my portion of the breakfast.

  “Wait, are those Bouncy Bare Monkeys?” Molly said, coming rapidly toward me in her heels. She hadn’t looked at her kid, not even once.

  He was still throwing a fit, although he’d somehow rolled around in the aisle to follow her. It looked like he had a lot of experience sticking close to his mom and pitching a fit at the same time.

  “Give me that!” she said, reaching into my cart with both hands, each on one tub. “George, stop hollering and come help me!”

  Rude, much? “Don’t even think about it.” I shoved my cart away, while her son completely ignored her.

  Red mottled her face. “Don’t be a selfish bitch!”

  “Selfish? At least I’m not imposing my kid on everyone in the store. Buy your son the damn cookies.”

  She nodded, somehow making the movement sarcastic. “Oh, I see. A lot of experience with kids?”

  “None at all. But I’m certainly not going to have one and let him roll all over a grocery store while screaming.”

  She tried to stick her hands into my cart again, and I quickly turned it so she couldn’t grab the ice cream.

  “I’m buying these for a neighbor,” I said. Only a couple were for Killian, but she didn’t need to know such an inconsequential detail. “Now cut it out or I’m calling the manager.”

  Before she could stop me or try to steal my ice cream again, I went over to the checkout. A cashier who I’d seen a couple of times sighed and shook his head at the antics of Molly’s kid.

  “Does he do that often?” I asked, despite my firm resolution not to gossip with the townsfolk.

  “Yeah. We have special cookies for seriously lactose-intolerant people, so that’s what he gets when he gets an A on a test. But every time he doesn’t get an A, she buys ice cream, knowing he can’t have any.” He frowned.

  “That is shameful,” I said, hating Molly even more. What she was doing to her kid reminded me of my dad. He’d used his affection as a weapon when I was growing up. When I did well in school or made choices that he wanted me to make, he’d praise me and shower me with attention and love. Otherwise, he’d be a complete bastard. I’d wasted so much of my life trying to please that son of a bitch.

  Shaking off the memory, I went home and made myself an extra-healthy TV dinner. Extra-healthy because I added a small salad with extra ranch dressing to it. Afterward, to reward my adulting effort, I had two scoops of Bouncy Bare Monkeys. Then I told myself I was happy I’d seen the light and was living a life of my choice, not anybody else’s.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Killian

  –Jenny: New deliveries of Bouncy Bare Monkeys and Hop Hop Hooray just got here. Just letting you know.

  Shit. The text had hit my non-family-and-friends phone yesterday at five. I’d been engrossed in Emily’s book and missed it.

  I checked the time. A quarter to seven, and the sun was barely coming up. There should be still some left. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours.

  I rushed over to Sunny’s and into the store to the ice cream freezer. And shoved my fingers into my hair in dismay and outrage.

  What the hell? Not a single tub of Bouncy Bare Monkeys. I went over to the beer aisle. No Hop Hop Hooray, either.

  Argh!

  I spotted Sunny and went over. “Hey, Killian. Find everything you need?” she asked with a friendly smile.

  “That’s the problem. I thought you had some Bouncing Cows in, but…” Then a thought struck me. “Maybe in the back?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. Benny put out everything before he left last night.”

  “You gotta be shi—uh, kidding me.” Sunny was old enough to be my mother, and she’d taken soap to my mouth once when she heard me cuss as a kid. I hadn’t said a bad word in front of her since.

  Sunny gave me a sharp look, then shook her head with a small laugh. “You’re too old for that these days. And before you ask, no, I don’t know when we’ll get more.”

  My shoulders slumped. Damn it. If I told my band mates I was this hung up on ice cream, they’d give me a huge ration of shit. But it really was the best. If Bouncing Cows could mass-produce its Bouncy Bare Monkeys, nobody would be doing drugs. It was that amazing.

  Since I was there anyway, I did a quick grocery run, buying some eggs, cheese, spring veggies and meat. I got extra because Emily seemed to enjoy my eggs, and the woman needed some protein in her diet. Then, on sheer impulse, I also paid for a bottle of tequila and a bag of limes. Why not?

  I was still morose when I went over to Emily’s for a shower, breakfast and t
he next book to read. Maybe I should’ve hired a teenager to watch the freezer for Bouncy Bare Monkeys…

  I was so preoccupied that I almost didn’t see the pink sticky note on her door:

  Killian,

  Don’t knock. Just come in quietly without disturbing me. I’m too inspired.

  –E

  Good for her. That meant more stories for me to read, since, at the rate I was going, I’d be done with her whole backlist before the year was over. But at the same time, a pang of despair lanced my heart, because my own creative well was drier than Mir’s so-called home-baked cookies.

  If I could just drum again… But then, maybe not. I’d held the drumsticks, run my hands over their smooth length…but felt nothing. No excitement. No flash of insight. It was like I’d lost something inside. Whatever fire had been burning had gotten doused somehow.

  And I had no clue how to get it going again.

  Emily had been right to call my drumming noise. Because that was the only thing uninspired music could be.

  Feeling doubly morose, I opened the door quietly and walked into her home. The area around the coffee table had grown even messier. More empty bottles. More wrappers. A few wadded-up sheets of paper.

  She didn’t glance up, her eyes on the monitor. Light reflected off her glasses, and she looked serious as she typed away, key clicks the only sound inside the room. She tucked a wayward tendril behind an ear with an impatient gesture, then immediately placed the hand back on the keyboard.

  I stood for a moment, taking her in. Although she wasn’t dressed any better—and her hair was a freakin’ mess—she was beautiful in her creative process. She seemed to shine, as though something was lit within her—likely the fire I didn’t have anymore. I wondered if I’d be able to rekindle the flame if I watched her long enough.

  Doubtful, I decided. It wasn’t that easy.

  Since she didn’t want to be bothered—and I was loath to pull her out of her work anyway—I left the bag of food in the kitchen and went upstairs for a quick shower. When I came down topless—since I refused to admit I’d made up the need to air-dry my chest hair to annoy and fluster her on the first day—she was still hunched in the same position, her fingers moving methodically.

  “No, you can’t do that,” she said suddenly.

  Huh? What did I do?

  “What are you talking about? How could you think I did that?” she said. “You knew…”

  I crossed my arms and watched, finally understanding. Maybe her hero didn’t perform well enough. The heroine didn’t lose count of the number of orgasms.

  “Oh, shut up, Molly. You knew this was coming.”

  I leaned my shoulder against the wall and watched Emily. She was cute when she got emotional over her characters and started talking like they were real people.

  “Yeah, yeah, bite me. Write your own book, Ryan.” Suddenly, she jumped to her feet. “Ah-ha! I knew it!” Fist pumping in the air, she jumped around in a circle like she’d just won history’s biggest jackpot.

  My lips twitched with amusement. She must’ve had a breakthrough.

  She stopped abruptly and blinked at me. “You.” The word vibrated with shock and embarrassment.

  “Yep.” I smiled, my amusement intensifying at the flush coloring her pretty face. “Me.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Five minutes?”

  Her cheeks turned pinker. “You should’ve said something.”

  “Why? It was great watching you. Besides, you told me to be quiet.”

  “I did not.”

  “The note outside…?”

  “I meant for you not to interrupt my flow. I didn’t mean to spy on me.”

  “Spy on you?” I laughed. “To what end? You were on your computer the whole time.”

  “I know.” Her lips pursed. “Did you, um, notice anything else?”

  “You mean like you muttering to yourself?”

  She rolled her eyes, but from the way she fidgeted, she was slightly embarrassed. “Don’t act like it’s weird. It helps me think.”

  “You think with your mouth?” I said, highly entertained. Being with her took my mind off the failed ice cream shopping and the fact that I couldn’t come up with anything for the band’s next album. She made me focus on the present.

  “I think with my brain and mouth. You should try it. Might work better than doing it with your big head”—she pointed at my skull—“and the small one down there.” She gestured at my crotch. Then she frowned a little, like she was slightly annoyed.

  Probably because she’d realized how wrong she was. I cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know it’s quite large.”

  Her gaze stayed on my eyes. “Not as large as your brain.”

  I pretended to consider, setting my features into an expression I’d seen on a neurologist in London who was studying my MRI. Emily kept staring at me like I was being nonsensical. Maybe she shouldn’t have said what she said about my dick. “Large enough, and it has never failed to rise to the occasion. Unlike my brain, which faltered a few times in trig class.”

  That got a laugh. I smiled too. As I took her in, in her work environment with her laptop, I grew a little wistful about not being able to drum away. But since she’d gotten a ton of writing done, maybe she’d take mercy on me now. “But you know, I obviously don’t want to overwork my dick. So I usually think with my brain, and drumming really helps.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t even think about backing out on our deal. I can’t write if you’re going to be a noise polluter again.” She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward, a dark scowl forming on her face. “Did the plumber guy call and tell you he could come replace your water heater tomorrow or something?”

  Ha. I wish. Not having hot water was a pain in the ass, even if showering wasn’t an issue.

  She continued without giving me a chance to answer. “You said you wouldn’t drum for four weeks.”

  “I remember. So I’ll take the ‘thinking with my mouth’ method under advisement.” I was mildly disappointed that she didn’t want to give me a break. On the other hand, it had been a long shot. Women, in my experience, were grabby creatures who liked to hang on to things, even if they didn’t need them anymore.

  Emily gave me a long look and then finally said, “Okay,” like she was torn between fighting and settling into peace and satisfaction. Probably too much adrenaline. The woman seemed to be full of it.

  But I understood. She was in the middle of creating something. She’d slept on the couch and gotten up early because her muse wouldn’t leave her alone. Restless energy and ideas must be swirling in her head like a tornado. You had to be prepared to grab them and get them down on paper, or they vanished as quickly as they’d come.

  I envied her for it.

  She glanced at her monitor, then looked up suddenly. “Hey, can you help me with something?”

  The bright sparks in her eyes lightened her entire demeanor, and I stared at her, mesmerized. She looked like a mischievous pixie.

  “With what?” Pixie or not, I was a little wary. She looked entirely too pleased with herself, and that couldn’t be good, could it?

  “I’m trying to see if a particular scenario is possible.”

  “Sure. Shoot.” I was willing to give her an opinion. Ideally, she’d have a question about sexual positions.

  “Awesome.” She smiled happily. “So Molly is sitting here, perched like so.” Emily moved to the back of the couch and leaned her hip on the top, then squirmed around a bit until she seemed satisfied.

  I knew Molly was Emily’s book character, but hearing it was still a little jarring. My brain kept bringing up Molly Patterson. And she’d never “perch” on anything. The woman preferred to sit, her butt parked firmly on a flat surface.

  “And then she tips over backward. And Ryan has to catch her. Just so you know how it’s set up, he’s about three steps away from her.”

  Must. Not.
Think about Ryan Johnson. He’d throw his geriatric back out attempting this maneuver.

  “Why?” I asked. “You’re going to fall on the sofa.” Which looked incredibly soft and more than capable of keeping her uninjured. Actually, it might be more comfortable and safer for her to fall on it than to rely on some guy catching her.

  Emily wagged her index finger. “Because Molly’s not going to fall on the sofa in the book! She’s perched on a wall, trying to escape, and loses her balance when a dog barks and startles her. I want to see if it’s realistic for me to end up on top of you if you catch me and roll over or whatever to keep me safe and all that, like the hero you’re supposed to be, you know?”

  Ohh… Her on top of me. If I were a romance hero, how would I have this go?

  Would she be straddling me? Most likely. Better balance that way. On my belly…? No, that wouldn’t be comfortable. She should straddle me lower. Nestle against my dick. After all, where else should she be flush against except my cock?

  Yeah, that was perfect. And sexy as hell. I looked at her curves. Mmm, definitely hot. My blood started flowing faster. I shifted to hide my dick’s eager reaction to my imagination.

  “If Ryan’s as smooth as me? Sure, it could happen,” I said, as though stuff like that happened to me all the time. “Hell, I’d make it happen.”

  She tapped her chin with her index finger thoughtfully. “But I write contemporary romance. So it can’t have Hollywood-esque special effects action.”

  “There won’t be any special effects involved.” A real man didn’t need Hollywood to have a hot woman straddle him properly.

  Her lips tightened. “Let’s block out the scene. I want to make sure. Skye said it wasn’t physically possible, but I think she’s wrong.”

  “Who’s Skye?”

  “My writing friend. I asked her to act it out with her husband because her house has a fence she could use to set the scene, but he’s apparently out of town on business. She said it was more likely that Ryan falls on Molly while trying to catch her, but that won’t work because it isn’t romantic. Anyway, we bet two shots of tequila at a book signing we’re going to in San Francisco, so come on.” She beckoned me closer. “I have to prove her wrong.”