by Nadia Lee
The air in the car seemed to grow thinner, and I squirmed. Must stop thinking about sex and orgasms with Killian.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I almost dropped my phone. “Writing out what I need,” I said, busily tapping the cool surface and pretending to be all nonchalant. Then I glanced up and saw his long, lean fingers again.
Bet they’d feel really nice between the legs, too.
I almost choked. Okay, hormones. I knew I hadn’t been laid in a while, but really? This was not the right place or time.
“I hate having to go back because I forgot something,” I added in an extra-smooth voice, as though my mind had never conjured up anything dirty. I stole a quick look at his face, wondering if he’d had any X-rated thoughts. But he looked entirely too calm.
Well, he probably kissed women all the time. I bet he’s forgotten about the kiss already.
The possibility peeved me. If I was thinking about it, he should be too. But since that didn’t seem to be the case, I decided to act like I wasn’t either.
“It’s been a while since I cooked, so I’ll have to pay more attention than normal.” Before he wondered if I could produce something edible, I said, “I’m good, but I might not remember to grab the parsley, for one. Cooking is almost like riding a bicycle. You never forget it, even if you might get a bit rusty and out of practice.”
“So why don’t you cook more often?”
I shrugged. “Too much hassle when it’s just me.”
“You can’t live on crackers and beer.”
Oh geez. He sounded like my mom. “I also eat ice cream for protein and fat.”
“And candy for carbs. I’ve seen the wrappers.”
“Are you judging me?”
“Just making an observation.”
I rolled my eyes. “I also eat TV dinners. They’re healthy.”
“Full of sodium and preservatives.”
“It isn’t like you’re some paragon of a healthy male specimen,” I said, then immediately shut my mouth. That was a dumb rebuttal because Killian looked so healthy that he practically glowed.
Instead of mocking me for being wrong, he merely nodded. “Exactly. I’m not as healthy as I could be because I didn’t take care of myself. It’s no fun getting wheeled off to a hospital and having a couple bags of IV pumped into your arm.”
I glanced at him. I hadn’t seen anything about that when I looked him up. But then, I’d been too focused on his basic information, his music and the women and everything that I could easily have overlooked other stuff.
“Did you…um…OD?” I asked, keeping my voice low and calm. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was digging for some lurid celebrity gossip. Artistic types often suffered from less-than-stellar mental health—depression, anxiety, insomnia… And lots of them tried to self-medicate.
He made a choking noise. “No, I didn’t OD. Despite the stereotypes out there about rock musicians, I don’t do drugs or indulge in other risky behavior.”
“You have to admit, it’s not just a stereotype, though. Rock music is littered with corpses. Even I know that.”
“Yeah, that’s true. But not me. What would I do if I screwed up my voice?”
That was a good point. And it relieved me that he didn’t indulge in risky behavior. “So…can I ask why you were in the hospital?”
“Just pushed myself too hard. Skipped one too many meals, had one too many shots of espresso to stay awake. My body kept going, then one day, it decided, ‘Fuck it, I’m done,’ and bam, I hit the ground. That was almost two months ago.”
I gaped at him. I would never have known, based on how strong he was now. But I could understand the need to drive oneself hard. I’d done that too when I first started to write, and had to take a couple of weeks off to recover after my body rebelled. “Did anybody catch you?”
“Dev did, which was the only reason I didn’t get a concussion.” We reached Sunny’s Mart, and Killian killed the engine. “Anyway, you should consider taking care of yourself better unless you want to collapse like me. What if you don’t have anyone to catch you?”
He climbed out of the car before I could reply. But he had a point. I was usually alone. I could theoretically crack my head open on the hardwood floor. My skull probably wasn’t harder than the oak.
He came around and opened my door while I was still fumbling with the belt.
“What?” he asked.
“I didn’t know rock stars opened doors.”
“This one does. I was taught to be a gentleman.”
Right. A gentleman surrounded by groupies. I swallowed that thought, though. I was here to pay him back for saving me from the giant snake, not obsess about his sexual history.
We headed into the store, where Killian grabbed a cart. As we walked by the produce section, I snapped up two bulbs of garlic and some parsley and dumped them in the cart, careful not to brush by him.
“Butter? Olive oil?” I asked.
“I have both.”
“Good. We need some good-sized shrimp, too. Ideally fresh.” I didn’t cook scampi with small specimens. What was the point?
“I don’t see any fresh ones,” he said, looking around the seafood section, which was composed of several feet of refrigerated area.
“Okay, then frozen.”
I led the way to the freezer, familiar with this part of the store because it had ice cream. But there was no Bouncy Bare Monkeys this time. I would’ve been shocked if the store had gotten another delivery so soon.
I grabbed a bag of deveined and shelled frozen jumbo shrimps and tossed it in the cart. “We also need some pasta. What kind do you like?” I looked around, wondering where all the employees were. I had no idea where Sunny’s Mart kept noodles.
“Pasta’s over here.” Killian turned the cart to our right. “Linguini good, or you want something else?”
“That’s fine,” I said, relieved he’d made the choice. Otherwise, I’d have debated for a while wondering what he liked. “Need some wine and bread now. I know where the wine is, but where are all the workers? I don’t want to look through all the aisles.”
The store usually had at least one or two clerks around stocking shelves, but now that I really needed them…
Killian sighed. “The bread’s right there with the wine.” He gestured to the open area.
Oh yeah. I noticed the bakery in the open area with all the wines and liquors. I probably didn’t know because I never bothered to eat bread. Crackers had plenty of carbs.
“Grab me one good French bread, will you?” I moved over to the wine racks. Since scampi wouldn’t be as good without some decent wine, I picked out a nice Sauvignon Blanc from Napa. It’d be about thirty bucks with tax. And a bottle of Pinot Grigio to share over the meal. Might as well splurge a little, I thought with a small smile. This wasn’t just a “thank you for saving me” dinner. It was also a small, personal celebration for finally finishing the book.
I turned around, a bottle clutched in each hand, and ran smack into Killian’s chest. I lost my balance, falling back, and he caught me, one strong arm looping around my waist. The breath whooshed out of me, and I stared up at him, feeling his hand on my back like a brand. A weirdest thrill sizzled over my skin, goosebumps breaking out.
“Sorry about that. You okay?” Killian asked.
“My fault. I’m fine,” I said, my mouth dry. I righted myself, then inhaled, trying to be all cool.
He made a general sort of gesture, indicating the store. “Anything else?”
“Nope. We’re all good.”
He took the Pinot Grigio from me and studied it. “This is an excellent choice.”
I smiled, relieved he wanted to discuss something as innocuous as wine. “I know. If we were having cheeseburgers, I might’ve offered the beer, but it’s Italian.”
“You do burgers, too?” he asked, raising both eyebrows.
“Yeah, but shrimp scampi is faster.”
Chapter Twent
y
Killian
Emily tried to pay for the groceries, but I was faster. I swiped my card before she could.
“Hey!” she said.
“Too slow.”
Her mouth pursed. “I don’t want you telling me I owe you something else because you paid.”
“I won’t. You said you’d make me dinner, not pay for the groceries.”
“Okay.” She shrugged.
Besides, contrary to what I’d told her, I couldn’t have her pay for all this. Technically, I’d lied about the snake nest. Thankfully, Emily hadn’t realized that because she hadn’t Googled the truth yet. My guess was she probably didn’t want to see any photos of snakes on her computer. Mir refused to look up anything whose image she didn’t want to see on the Internet. She’d also called me an “unforgivable asshole bastard” when I sent her an article about cockroaches’ ability to live without their heads for a week.
At the same time, I didn’t feel guilty enough to fess up. I wanted to spend more time with Emily, especially now that she was done with her book, and figured she’d set aside a few days to take a break. If the weather was nice, we could have a picnic. Or go to the lake. It was an hour away, but the view was spectacular. It was prettier in the fall when the leaves were red and gold, but it was nice in spring, too. Best to avoid places with lots of crowds, since she seemed to hate that. Better for me, too.
When we arrived home, I carried the groceries in and set them on the kitchen counter.
“Need help with anything?” I asked, hoping she’d say yes. A kitchen was a great place for a couple to get closer. All that innocent accidental brushing of bodies as you grabbed one thing or another for the other person. We could even start drinking while we cooked.
“Nope. You just go chill over there and stay out of the way. It’ll go faster that way.”
I arched a skeptical eyebrow, slightly disappointed that she wasn’t thinking about all the kitchen touching. But she ignored me and started to take things out of the paper bags, putting the Pinot Grigio in the fridge to keep it chilled.
“You want some music?” Nothing set the mood like a good piece of music, and this was the second-best option, since she didn’t want me in the kitchen with her. Since she wasn’t writing, it shouldn’t bother her.
She looked up from turning the oven on. “You want to bang those drums now?”
“No,” I said, laughing at her expression. She could be unexpectedly adorable. “I meant we should listen to something.”
“Why?”
I searched her face. She was genuinely perplexed. She’d told me she didn’t listen to music, but…how could she not listen to something while she was making dinner? “Because it’s relaxing?” And it would be fun and sexy and…
She shrugged. “If it makes you happy. Whatever you want is fine.”
I put on something jazzy and smooth on the Bluetooth speakers.
“How come you aren’t playing your music?” She minced garlic using a knife, with an expertise and precision that surprised me, then tossed it into a pan of olive oil. Contrary to what she’d claimed, I didn’t expect her to be good at it. She’d said she rarely cooked, so when would she have practiced?
“It isn’t really, you know, dinner prep music.”
“I want to listen to it anyway.” She slathered warm butter and the lightly cooked garlic and olive oil inside the French bread.
I was flattered, but also wondered why she was insisting on it. “I thought you wanted me to decide.”
She rolled her eyes. “Because I assumed you’d play yours. What rock star wouldn’t?” She wrapped the bread in aluminum foil and put it in the oven, which was now hot.
“One who understands time and place?” Also, as much as I loved my band, we didn’t exactly put out date music. We had maybe three songs that could be termed romantic, but I didn’t want to just loop those three forever.
She smiled. “Yeah, but I want to listen to it. I was going to check out more of your music, but…got a little distracted.” Something flashed through her gaze, but it was gone when she blinked.
“Okay.” I swapped out the playlist to one I’d created for Axelrod. Our debut hit split the air, the fancy guitar solo by Max kicking off the song. “So. About work and sound.”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re done with your writing, is it such a big deal if I drum again?” I’d been pretty good about taking care of myself. I wanted to try to see if anything would pop into my head. An inspiration. A word. A note.
“Hmm. That depends.”
“On…?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t going to ask for a kidney.
“Your keeping windows closed and not doing it for hours on end.” She put a bowl of frozen jumbo shrimps under running water to defrost them and glanced at me. “You’re a vocalist, and your band has a drummer. Do you really need to practice for that long?”
“It helps me think. And I want to see if I got my creative mojo back,” I said, since it wasn’t like she was going to tell everyone on streets.
“What’s wrong with your mojo?”
“It’s been sort of MIA since my health incident. The one I told you about in the car.”
She looked me over, her eyes going soft. A warmth that had nothing to do with physical attraction unfurled. It was like…she actually cared about me as a human being, not as some hot celeb dude she could take selfies with to post on social media for likes and comments.
And I liked her. A lot. Not just for her body, not just because the kiss had been hot, but because she made me feel like a person. Somebody worthy of something genuine.
“Aren’t you completely recovered now?” she asked finally.
“Physically, yeah. But I have to be creative, too. It’s what I do. I don’t know what I’d be without it.” I didn’t want to be a parasite who didn’t do anything except live off a trust fund. Grandma had always felt that that was a despicable way to live, and I agreed one hundred percent.
“But your band has other people, like your drummer friend. Devlin. And the guitar guys. Max and Cole, right?”
I nodded, surprised she knew who they were. “We all contribute creatively. Not just to songs, but the direction of our next album, where we want to go musically… All that stuff.”
She tapped her chin. “So maybe you shouldn’t think about it.”
“What?” I let out a stunned laugh. She probably didn’t get it. She was a writer, not a performer. “I can’t do that. My career’s important.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. But thinking about it hasn’t been working, right? Did you have any inspiration when you were drumming?” she asked. “Like you had this amazing creation going on in your head and I ruined it when I knocked on your door?”
I wish. “No.”
“Well, there you go.”
“But you think about your stories all the time. You write all the time,” I pointed out, annoyed that she was telling me to do the opposite of what she did.
“I don’t, actually. You just saw the tail end of my flailing.” She looked around. “Paper towels?”
“Here.” I walked over, tore a few sheets from under the shelf and handed them to her. Our fingers brushed. My fingertips prickled, a small electric current running all the way up my arm, down my spine and gathering somewhere south.
Did she feel it too?
Emily stilled for a second, her teeth digging into her lip. Her gaze darted from my hand to my face, then to the paper towels she was holding, and her shoulders sagged just a tad. With a small sigh, she turned away and started to pat the shrimp dry.
I didn’t understand her reluctance. The women I usually hung out with didn’t play I didn’t notice any spark between us games. Fine, Emily could pretend she hadn’t felt it. But I wasn’t going to go with that, because I didn’t share her reluctance.
I started to move closer, but a soft clearing of her throat stopped me.
“As I was saying,” she began, “I was seriously blocked for two we
eks with this book, and I was freaking out because I really had to hit my deadline. So I read, I watched TV and movies and I slept. Oh, and had a nightly bubble bath.”
Okay, so she wanted to talk about my block. I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter space next to her, since figuring out why I was blocked was just as important as getting Emily to admit there was a spark between us.
“Did it work?” Bubble baths weren’t my thing, but…
“Nope,” she said. “That’s why I had to go run. It works wonders. You should try it.”
“I do run. As a matter of fact, I have a morning run at least three times a week. It doesn’t work. At least, not for me.” My mind usually stayed blank when I ran.
She turned around and stared at me in awe…or maybe terror. “What are you?”
“Uh… Is this a trick question?”
“Doesn’t the torture of exercise force you into creativity? I mean, so you can quit the self-abuse and go back to writing?”
I laughed. “Is that your motivation? Exercise is so bad that your mind has no choice but to come up with something so you can quit?”
“Yeah. It’s the nuclear option because it’s my absolute last resort…but it works. Just leaves me really tired and shaky. And definitely in need of a lot of sugar and fat. But sometimes I just have to accept that I need to let my mind work on something subconsciously. Trust the process even if I can’t feel it working.”
She tossed the garlic, butter and oil into the pan and started to stir everything around. The kitchen filled with the most amazing aroma. She then threw in all the shrimp, only using her wrist to flip and turn them.
“Did you ever work in a restaurant?” I asked as she drained the pasta and put it on plates in a swift motion. It was sexy as hell to watch her dominate the kitchen with such confidence. She could win one of those cooking competition shows that Cole and his fiancée loved so much.
“I waited tables in college. It was okay. College kids are usually too poor to tip well. Actually, they never spend enough in the first place.” She expertly put the shrimp and sauce on the pasta.
