by Kathy Love
“Vepar?”
The cat cocked its head. “Yes, in the fur.”
Poppy stared at the page of dry, technical writing, red pencil in hand. But she didn’t mark any changes, nor did she really even see what she was reading.
Finally she dropped the pencil in defeat, watching it roll across the desk. Her work was pretty tedious on the best of days, but today, it wasn’t holding her attention for even a paragraph.
She glanced at the clock on her computer monitor. Four-thirty. Rather early to start dinner, but puttering around in the kitchen was bound to be more distracting than the edits of Milton’s Business Law, Eleventh Edition.
She pushed away from her desk, an antique piece made from mahogany, with carvings of swirls and ivy along the bottom and down the legs. It had been her father’s, and she loved it. Even though she never really enjoyed her work, she did like sitting in the very place where her father had done his research, or corrected papers, or written his essays on great pieces of art and their artists.
Usually that gave her a sense of peace, but not today.
She wandered through the living room to the kitchen. The whole apartment was filled with things from her parents’ house. Pictures, dishes, pieces of furniture, even her mother’s pots and pans.
Poppy went to the cupboard where she stored those very items and pulled out the stockpot that her mother had used for her specialties like fish chowder and chili and her amazing lentil soup.
Lentil soup. That’s what she’d make tonight, since she was starting dinner early enough. She began gathering the ingredients she needed, placing them on the soapstone countertop. Twice, she went to the pantry, only to stand staring at the stocked shelves, trying to remember what she’d been about to get.
It wasn’t like her to be so preoccupied. Over the last four years, she’d trained herself to be task oriented, organized, to live on a set schedule. She’d had to have routines to create a stable, healthy environment for Daisy.
But since the girls had told her about Killian’s disastrous love affair, her mind seemed to be skittering all over the place. To her own lost love. To losing hopes and letting go of dreams. She rarely allowed herself to consider what might have been. There was no point. But Killian’s story had triggered those thoughts.
Yet, as much as she thought about her own past, she spent even more time thinking about Killian. Had his losses changed him? Made him the kind of callous guy he seemed to be now?
No, callous wasn’t the right word. He was more tactless than outright unfeeling. Did that sort of thoughtlessness stem from hurt? She didn’t have an answer, but that didn’t keep her from mulling the idea over and over.
He could be quite nice, which made her think that maybe his moments of insensitivity weren’t the real him.
And much to her dismay, all of her musings seemed always to return to one place. How good looking he was. His tall muscular build. His broad shoulders. His amazing golden eyes. His disheveled hair. His mouth, how it looked when he smiled, when he’d been eating that cinnamon roll.
She moaned in frustration as, yet again, his lips appeared in her mind, but this time, to her utter consternation she found herself imagining how those lips would feel against hers. Smooth and strong, moving over her.
She jumped as a clattering sound of something, many things, falling on the floor rained down behind her. She turned from the pantry and her heated imaginings to see lentils scattered all over the vinyl checkerboard floor.
“Satan is not pleased.”
Killian stepped farther into the room, skirting the cat, which was still perched on the back of the reclining chair, but this time not because he was afraid the animal would attack. But because it was talking. With his coworker’s voice.
“Vepar?”
The cat actually rolled its one yellow eye. “I thought we’d already established that.”
“What … what are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” Vepar countered, the movement of the cat’s lips somehow looking remarkably like the expression of the demon himself. Although, in his normal form, he was tall, lanky and had two eyes. But he did have bad teeth—so maybe that was it.
“It’s a long story,” Killian said.
The cat/Vepar lay down, arranging himself in a sphinxlike position. “Well, I’m here via a cat. I think I have time to hear it.”
Killian nodded, then much to his humiliation shared the story of how he’d been conjured by a group of teenage girls and was stuck here until he could find Poppy a boyfriend.
Vepar sighed, which sounded remarkably like a purr. Although Killian didn’t think in this case it was a sound of pleasure.
“So get this female mortal a boyfriend ASAP. And get your ass back to Hell. You’ve got damned souls backing up, and frankly I’m sick of picking up your slack. You know how Satan gets when his business isn’t running smoothly.”
Yes, Killian did. And there was a reason Satan was known as, well … Satan.
“I’ll have this finished right away,” he assured the possessed cat. Even though he wasn’t sure how exactly he would accomplish it.
“Darn it,” Poppy grumbled, realizing that in her preoccupied state she must have set the bag of legumes too close to the counter’s edge.
Proof that she did not need to be letting her thoughts go in such ridiculous and inappropriate directions as the attractiveness of one Killian O’Brien.
She’d just reached for the broom when a knock on the apartment door stopped her. Picking her way through the mess, she went to answer it.
“You forgot it again, huh?” she said as she opened the door, expecting to see Daisy. Her sister was terrible about remembering her key.
But instead of Daisy, she was greeted by a tall, muscular male. The object of her recent fantasy. And, she added, a wee bit irrationally, the cause of the current mess in her kitchen.
“I must have,” Killian said with a slight smile, “because I don’t seem to recall what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed you were Daisy.”
He nodded and neither spoke. Then he seemed to realize he should probably say something just at the same time she did too.
“I was—”
“Did you—”
They both snapped their mouths shut. After a moment, they both laughed.
Poppy couldn’t help noticing how deep and musical his laughter was. As attractive as the rest of him.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, “I just couldn’t hang out in that apartment anymore. So I thought I’d come see what you’re doing.”
“Ah,” she said. “The girls getting to you with their practicing?”
She suspected there was more giggling than practicing. Three teenage girls—there had to be lots and lots of giggling. And boy talk. And fashion talk. And hair talk.
Yeah—totally no man’s land.
Killian frowned, confusion flashing in his golden eyes. Then he said, “Practicing. Yes.”
She smiled at his muddled expression. “I know it’s hard to tell, but they are getting some work done, aren’t they?”
His brows drew closer together, but he nodded. “Yes. Some.”
“Good.” She stepped back. “Come on in. I can’t say there’s anything terribly exciting happening here, but if you are looking for some quiet, I can offer that.”
“Thanks.” He stepped into the room, his body not touching hers as he passed, but she swore she could feel heat radiating over her. Her body tingled as if her skin was finally feeling warmth again after being cold far too long.
Taking a deep breath and willing her silly body and mind to behave, she gestured toward the kitchen. “I was just making some dinner.”
As he strolled into the room, she recalled the lentils scattered all over the floor like some makeshift booby trap à la Home Alone.
“Oh! Be careful—” she called, but it was too late. Before she could get out the rest of her sentence, Killian had not only walk
ed into the legumes but also slipped, sliding on them like they were marbles rolling under his feet.
With a loud thump and a grunt, he landed on his rear end.
“Oh!” Poppy cried and hurried as quickly as the slippery mess allowed to his side.
“Are you okay?” She kneeled beside him.
He didn’t respond for a moment, then to her surprise, he chuckled. “I seem to spend a lot of time on the floor in this place.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just getting ready to clean this up when you knocked.”
“Sure,” he said with another amused smile.
She braced a hand under his arm to help him up, but as soon as her finger connected with the warm, hard muscles under the cotton of his shirt, her body reacted, and she forgot what she was trying to do. All she could focus on were her nerve endings, each one sizzling to life as if every cell in her body suddenly became aware of him and only him.
Killian tensed too as if he felt that same strange sensation snapping between them.
She lifted her head, realizing just how close his face was to hers. The lips from her fantasy were just inches from hers. Instantly, she jerked her hand away from him, her sudden action causing her to lose her footing and slip too. She joined him in the scattering of legumes with an “oof.”
But unlike him, she didn’t stay down. Hopping right up, she tried to hide her awkwardness.
“I’d better sweep this up,” she said, rushing toward the broom, slipping once, but catching herself before she fell again.
Killian watched Poppy busy herself with sweeping as he rose to his feet, bemused by her reaction. But more than that, he was mystified by his own reaction.
He’d had a totally visceral response to the woman’s touch. An innocuous touch at that. Just her fingers curled around his arm. Something he’d have found impersonal from most others, but from Poppy it had been completely—sensual.
Hadn’t his plan been to come down and charm her into trusting him? He was on a deadline here. But he certainly hadn’t planned on being oddly charmed by her in return.
“Can I help?” he finally managed to ask, actually dazed by her touch.
“No,” she answered, her tone and her movements both brusque. Was she shaken too? Then she glanced at him again, offering him a small, tight smile. “Just have a seat before you hit the floor again.”
He smiled back, telling himself he wasn’t noticing how cute she was in her agitation. Obediently, he took a place at the kitchen table, watching her work. She bent over to sweep the lentils into a plastic dustpan. Killian’s gaze lingered on the way her jeans tightened to cup her butt. A perfect little butt.
“Is Ginger at work?”
He blinked, not immediately following her question. When his eyes lifted, he found her looking over her shoulder at him. He wasn’t sure if she realized where his attention had been focused or not. Her expression revealed nothing.
“Umm … Ginger?” he asked. Shit, who was Ginger again?
“Oh, right, I forgot you call her Ginny.”
Ginny? Ginny? That’s right, his supposed cousin.
“Yes, she’s at work.” She could be, right?
“Well,” she said with a sigh as she dumped the legumes into a silver trash can. “I guess I have to find something else for dinner.”
She opened a cupboard, peering at shelves of canned and dried goods for several seconds.
“Do you like tacos?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Does that mean I’m invited to dinner?”
“Of course,” she said, “unless Ginger—Ginny’s going to be home and she’s planned dinner for you.”
“No,” he said. There was no chance of that. “No plans here.”
She smiled, this time the gesture more natural, less strained. And even more attractive.
“So,” he asked before he thought better of it, “have you forgiven my bad behavior at lunch?”
CHAPTER 10
Poppy wasn’t surprised by the directness of Killian’s question. She’d known him less than twenty-four hours, but she already recognized that was just part of his personality. She was, however, a little startled by the almost flirty quality in his voice.
Finally, gathering her wits, she nodded. “Sure.”
Now that she better understood his reaction to the blonde in the food court, she felt her reaction was over the top. Besides, what difference did it make to her if this guy had turned out to be genuinely shallow?
“I was in a mood, I guess,” she said.
Somehow taking the blame seemed like the easiest way to apologize without saying too much.
He studied her for a moment, those amazing eyes of his roaming over her as if he was trying to read her mind. Then he simply nodded, although his gaze didn’t leave her.
She suppressed the shudder, the overwhelming sensation that zinged through her body as if electrical pulses coursed through her. Breaking their stare, she looked back to the cupboard, not wanting those feelings. After all, what could she possibly do with them?
“So, tacos?” she asked.
“If you let me help.”
She hesitated without looking at him. Working closely beside him—bad idea. But they’d formed a truce.
“Sure.”
She pulled down a yellow box containing the taco shells and spices. Then she went to the fridge and got out ground turkey as well as tomatoes and lettuce.
Killian started to rise from the table, but she stopped him. Space was key if she was going to keep her silly hormones in check.
“Stay put. You are going to be the chopper.”
She set the ground meat on the counter, then brought the veggies to him. He frowned, regarding the common produce with an almost wary expression. She smiled slightly, but she didn’t say anything as she left to grab a wooden cutting board and a knife. She placed them in front of him, waiting to see what he would do.
Almost hesitantly he reached for the lettuce. Peeling back the plastic, he just stared at it.
“Cut it in half, and then just slice it fine.”
He nodded, still regarding the vegetable like it was an alien life-form that might attack at any minute.
“Better get it before it gets you,” she said with a laugh, then headed back to the stove to prepare the meat. She could have showed him what to do, but she didn’t trust her body being that close to him.
After a minute, the knife began clacking against the cutting board, and she hoped it wasn’t the lettuce that won.
“Killian O’Brien,” she said, not looking at him as she spoke. “That doesn’t sound particularly Swedish.”
The cutting paused for just a second, then continued.
“No, it’s not. It’s Irish, actually.”
“So your father is Irish?”
Again the chopping paused.
“Yes. My father. He’s from, um, Dublin.”
Poppy reached under the counter for a frying pan, keeping herself busy as she talked. The tactic seemed to be working. Her wayward body was under control. Well, mostly.
“Where in Sweden did you grow up?” she asked.
The knife was silent again.
“Um, Stockholm.”
Poppy got the impression there was almost a question mark at the end of his response. But she figured she must have imagined it. After all, why would the man be uncertain about where he lived?
“Is it very different to live in the States?”
“It is,” he said, this time without hesitation.
“Do your parents still live there?”
“Yes.”
Poppy nodded as she plopped the turkey into the pan and reached for a mixing spoon to break it apart.
“I can imagine it would be a big adjustment. Especially since you didn’t want to leave.” She nearly groaned when she realized what she’d just said. She hadn’t meant to bring up anything about his reasons for leaving—and she definitely didn’t want to reveal she knew the reason.
He
didn’t respond, and she glanced in his direction. He was turning a tomato over and over in his hand, a speculative look in his eyes. She wasn’t sure if that tentativeness was truly directed at the red veggie or if he was considering her words. Remembering what happened to make him leave.
“I’ve lived in Boston my whole life,” she said, deciding a shift in conversation might be the best thing.
She glanced at him again, and this time he was watching her.
“Did you always live in this apartment?”
She shook her head. “No, I got this place right after—Once Daisy moved in with me. I had a small apartment before that. But once Daisy came to live with me, I wanted a place that seemed more like a home.”
“How did your parents die?”
Again she shouldn’t have been surprised by Killian’s straightforwardness, but the question still gave her a moment’s pause.
“Maybe you’d rather not discuss it.”
“No, it’s fine.” More surprising than his directness was her desire to tell him about it. She never talked about that day. Not even to Daisy. “They were killed in a car accident. Hit head-on by a drunk driver.”
“That must have been devastating.”
She nodded, staring at the meat sizzling and popping in the pan but only vaguely aware of it. Absently, she stirred.
“It was. It was the defining moment of my life. Everything changed after that.”
“Tell me about it.”
She paused, the spoon forgotten in her hand as she looked at him. He did have an amazing ability to startle her. She returned her attention to her cooking, her thoughts swirling.
What was the point of talking about it? That had always been her philosophy. She’d never seen any point to lamenting what could have been.
But for some reason, a sudden longing to share pulled at her. She wanted to tell this man about how she’d felt that cold day almost five years ago. A day when her phone rang and changed her life forever.
“Poppy.”
She turned her gaze to him, expecting him to say she didn’t have to share. Not if she wasn’t ready or willing. But, instead, he just gazed back at her, his eyes golden and beautiful like a warm, flickering light. Drawing her in.
