by Lee, Nadia
I didn’t know if I wanted to do that. If I could face it again.
Because Grandma Donna hadn’t been just any grandmother. She’d taken us in after our parents’ deaths almost twenty years ago. She’d raised me and Mir, guided us, encouraged us. She’d done everything in her power to ensure we wouldn’t continue to feel the lingering pain of losing our parents.
I resented the heart attack that had taken her, even though I understood she’d been old and none of us live forever.
After a few deep breaths, I turned back to the living room and picked up the next one of Emily’s books, then lay on the sofa. I didn’t have to go through Grandma’s things right now. I might rush, throw out things I shouldn’t. And then where would I be?
Besides, I wasn’t planning to rent or sell this place, unlike Mir, who’d rented the beach cottage. And I’d been performing and touring fine before, even with Grandma’s things still in the basement and attic and a few closets. Going through them wasn’t an urgent matter, and it wasn’t the problem.
What I should be focusing on was finishing Emily’s entire backlist and resting so my muse would return. Then my creativity would flow again. I was sure of it.
* * *
Emily
After Killian had left with the two tubs of Bouncy Bare Monkeys, I sat down to work. But I couldn’t seem to focus. My skin felt too…sensitive. And the flesh between my legs… It was tight and tingly. Probably from having my thigh muscles stretched, I told myself. I’d ended up straddling Killian, and he was a large guy. And I hadn’t even warmed up for the little stunt.
Because there was no way this was sexual attraction. The guy was… Okay, so he was hot, but I didn’t get all tingly and slick over somebody I didn’t know well. And who would likely be a disappointment in the end. I should know. I’d dated pretty guys before, albeit none of them as hot as Killian. They’d all ended badly. I needed to look at what was inside, not the packaging.
I’ll bet his package is impressive.
Okay, I had to pull my mind out of the absolute gutter it was in. The gleam of my phone on the table caught my eye and reminded me of the bet I had with Skye. Woohoo, a distraction from thinking about Killian and being on top of him!
Doing my best to push aside how my blood still seemed warm from that, I texted Skye the result with a taunting emoji.
–Skye: No. Way.
–Me: Way. You owe me two tequila shots.
–Skye: How do you know? Who did you try it with?
–Me: My next-door neighbor.
–Skye: The one who’s using your shower? Give me more details.
–Me: Yes. He came by to make me breakfast again.
I added the last bit for an extra friendly taunt and to steer Skye from asking for more information about how the catch-the-girl experiment had gone. She had a thing about men cooking breakfast.
–Skye: Why can’t I have that too?
–Me: You have a husband.
–Skye: He doesn’t make me breakfast, though.
–Me: Make him borrow some hot water, then.
I smiled as I sent that last message. Skye often complained her husband didn’t always understand romance or what she wanted. But I’d met her husband, and the man was solid. A good, salt-of-the-earth American man with a heart of gold who was blind to every woman except Skye.
That was worth more than anything. Ask my mom, and she’d say the same. Or not, I thought with a scowl. If Mom agreed with me, she would’ve dumped Dad years ago. Probably when I was in junior high—or even earlier.
I shook off the annoyance and exasperated resignation over my parents’ marriage and started to work. I didn’t stop until I’d wrapped up four more chapters. I needed maybe two or three more chapters to finish Molly and Ryan’s story. It was amazing how fast the writing went. Normally, I would have needed the two whole weeks.
It probably meant the book was either smoking hot or a complete mess. I’d know when I sent it off to my editor for feedback. It wasn’t possible for me to go over what I’d written so far and tinker to make sure the story was as good as I hoped, as I didn’t have the luxury of time. Also, I hadn’t given myself enough distance from the work to be able to judge my writing objectively.
Since I was way ahead, I decided to take a break and look up Killian’s band. Although he’d played me that supposed hit from last year, I was distracted by his nearness and hadn’t paid as much attention as I should have.
But now that I knew more about what he did, I was curious about his career. He’d asked me twice if I knew who he was, and that meant he was somebody well known, whether I recognized him or not.
Let’s see… I typed in “Killian Axelrod,” and Google came back with over a quarter of a billion articles and photos.
Okay, so he really was famous. His band, Axelrod, had sold tens of millions of albums. And he was rich, too. Net worth estimated to be north of five billion. Damn. Did music pay that well? His band had taken off five years ago. That was a billion or so dollars per year. It almost made me wish I sang better.
Interestingly, though, his band mates didn’t seem to be as wealthy. Did he get all the profit because he was the lead vocalist? Or maybe it was something else. I couldn’t imagine them giving Killian billions while they took comparative peanuts. I took a quick look at the profiles of the other three members, including that Dev guy Killian had mentioned. It turned out to be short for Devlin. The band also had a guitarist named Max and a bassist named Cole. Hmm. What the heck was a bassist? The picture showed Cole holding a guitar, just like Max. Ugh, bands were so confusing.
Google also gave links to Axelrod’s music videos on YouTube. I clicked on one of them and recognized the opening immediately. It was the one Killian played during breakfast. Chin in hand, I let the music flow over me. The vocals were hauntingly sweet, with a hint of masculine rasp that tickled my senses. A tingle ran down my back as he sang, and I listened to the whole thing, mesmerized. I closed my eyes to better immerse myself in the sound.
YouTube automatically played the next song, “Eat Your Heart Out, Baby.” Here, his voice was edgier—sharp enough to cut—as it sang of stark anger and pain due to infidelity. Shivers went down my back, and I nodded to the lyrics. Yeah, I totally felt this, deep in my soul. Not just because of my parents, but because one of my exes from college had cheated on me. He’d been dating two other girls at the same time, and actually thought he’d be smooth enough to get away with it. Asshole.
As YouTube played more and more of Axelrod’s music, I realized none of the songs felt recycled or the same. But they all had one thing in common—the most amazing vocals with good color to it. I was certain “color” wasn’t the right term, but I couldn’t think of any other way to put it. It was what made Killian’s voice husky in one song and mellow in another. Depending on the lyrics and mood, he sounded different. At the same time, there was something distinctive about it that said it was him. Like the way I recognized an author’s writing, whether she was writing romantic suspense or romantic comedy. Even when he spoke, it was there—a sexy resonance that made my mouth dry.
As the songs continued, I opened a new tab and looked through his pictures. Some were staged for promotional photoshoots or magazine covers. Photographers generally emphasized his piercing blue eyes and chiseled looks. Many of them also had him in a shirt with buttons undone, showing off his spectacular chest and abs. My fingertips prickled as I remembered how hot and hard his muscles had felt when I laid my hands on him. I put my fingertips over my mouth, as though that would help me taste him.
You are a sad, sad woman…
Ignoring the judgmental voice in my head, I scrolled and noticed many pictures of him with a mic or guitar. Other shots were candid and likely snapped with somebody’s phone—at parties and tours. Many of the latter showed him with at least two or three hot young women hanging on him like jungle vines. Something sour and bitter rose within me. The pictures reminded me of my dad—and his women. Dad was more discree
t—he was married, after all—but if he were single, he would’ve flaunted his popularity. As a matter of fact, he was probably sad and morose that he couldn’t show off all the women he’d been cheating on my mom with. Just thinking about it made me want to puke. Ideally on his face.
I looked back at the pictures of Killian surrounded by fawning women. A seed spewer and his farm. Men had an innate urge to spurt their seed everywhere. There was a reason porn often had men ejaculate all over the women, ruining the sole purpose of seed spreading. It was like a farmer who threw all the seeds into a stream next to his land, missing the fertile field ready to accept and nurture and grow those little kernels.
For some reason, the image was beyond irritating.
I closed the laptop, not wanting to see the photos anymore. The living room plunged into an abrupt and heavy silence as the music cut off, and I let out a tight breath. Why did I care who Killian was seen with? A handsome, young, single man with fame and fortune was bound to wrap his arms around every female shoulder he could. Then if the vaginas attached to said females were in a consenting mood, he’d also stick his dick into them. It was par for the course.
You don’t have to be so crude about it, though.
When did honest observation become crude? It was what everyone did.
True love happened in romance novels. That was why I wrote romance. But I’d never dated with the expectation that the relationship would last. And my attitude had served me well. For me, dating was something fun to do with guys I didn’t mind not seeing again if I became too busy or distracted.
Obviously, Killian was of the same persuasion, so I shouldn’t be annoyed. As a matter of fact, I was certain I wasn’t annoyed. Probably just surprised he shared my philosophy.
I’d spent enough time thinking about him. It was time I threw myself back into finishing the manuscript, to give Molly and Ryan the kind of everlasting love they deserved.
Chapter Sixteen
Killian
When I showed up the next day, Emily had the same sign on the door she’d had from yesterday. It could be that she’d just forgotten to remove it. Or she could’ve left it there for a reason.
So I walked inside silently, trying not to disturb her, since she was working on her computer. I showered quietly too, then left my shirt on the back of a dining chair and made eggs Benedict.
Emily typed away on her laptop until I was finished cooking, then joined me at the table, but something felt a bit off. She didn’t say anything except “Good morning. This looks good.” She also didn’t hold my eyes.
Not that she was overtly avoiding eye contact. She was too smooth for that. But every time our eyes met, she’d turn her head just an inch further to focus on something beyond my shoulder. It was like she’d discovered her favorite candy taped to the wall behind me.
The back of my neck bristled unpleasantly. Mir also did something similar when she was upset with me for some reason, but didn’t want to say anything because she was hoping I’d broach it first.
For some bizarre female reason, Mir thought if she broached the topic, she was giving me some kind of advantage. But I couldn’t imagine Emily was doing this for the same reason. I went over what had happened yesterday, and… Nope. Couldn’t recall anything that would elicit this kind of reaction.
I took a bite of the food, thinking while I chewed. As I swallowed, it hit me. She was embarrassed about how she’d treated me because she’d finally realized who I was. She’d probably looked me up, just like I’d looked her up after reading her book for the first time. There was tons of information about me and the band all over the Internet.
But she shouldn’t let that bug her. She’d said she didn’t listen to music, in which case she probably hadn’t heard any of Axelrod’s songs. I wouldn’t hold that against her, any more than she would begrudge me not recognizing her pen name.
“How’s the food? As tasty as it looks?” I asked, trying to start a conversation to let her know I was fine, so she should let go of whatever weirdness she was harboring.
“Yeah, it’s good.”
“Thanks.” I beamed, pleased at the compliment. And she would’ve seen my smile if she’d just glanced up. I tried not to let my frustration show. I was trying to smooth things over, which isn’t easy when the other person won’t look at you. “It’s my first time making eggs Benedict, so I didn’t know how they’d turn out.”
She looked impressed, her gaze still on the damned eggs. “First time, huh?”
“My grandmother’s recipe,” I explained, pretending I hadn’t noticed her singular determination to stare at the eggs. Did she think there was an ant or something on the yolk? “I found it in the kitchen last night while I was rummaging around trying to find some dried pepper flakes. So I knew it’d be pretty good as long as I didn’t mess up.”
“How can you mess it up when you’re following a recipe?” she asked, finally giving me a glance.
Ah ha! My “act normal” plan was working! “Because it didn’t specify exactly how much to put in. Just, you know…a pinch of this, a dash of that, an appropriate amount of blah blah blah. Which is so much like Grandma.” I sighed with affection…and longing. I missed her terribly. “So I had to wing it a little.”
“Your grandmother would be proud.” Emily gave me a small smile.
“Thanks,” I said. “She was a fantastic cook.”
She cleared her throat. “I ran into her a few times. She seemed like a really nice lady.”
“Yeah, she was. She was a hoot. I wish she were still here.”
Emily gave me the small, comforting smile that people give when they want to console someone but aren’t sure how because they didn’t know the deceased very well. As friendly as my grandma had been, Emily was too much of a hermit.
We ate in silence. Emily polished off her food, then licked her fork clean and took a sip of her coffee.
“I listened to some of your music yesterday during my break, by the way,” she said. “You sing pretty well.”
“Thanks.” I acted like I was happy with her assessment, although part of me was disappointed her reaction was so ho-hum. “Pretty well” wasn’t much of a compliment, especially when spoken in the tone Emily had just used.
It bugged the hell out of me that she didn’t absolutely love my music. Granted, it wasn’t for everyone. Some critics had given us shitty reviews, and it wasn’t like I hadn’t seen nasty comments online. But Emily’s assessment got to me anyway. It felt personal. I wanted her to like our music, at least, even if she couldn’t outright love it the way I loved her writing. It seemed only fair.
Except that too was an outlandish expectation. I didn’t enjoy her books in the hopes that she’d do the same with my music. I just…
I wanted to give her pleasure with my music, the way she’d given it to me.
“What?” Emily said when I continued to gaze at her. “Do I have yolk on my face?” She licked her lips.
The gesture was quick, her pink tongue darting in and out. But somehow it mesmerized me, made my skin tight and hot, like it were a particularly arousing segment in a porn movie. And my body reacted.
Shit.
I shifted in my seat, annoyed with my lack of control. A woman had let me use her shower, let me feed her, then given me a half-assed compliment on my music, and I was hard. Okay, so there was the tongue thing, too, but that didn’t count. I’d seen far more seductive moves from women in skintight dresses with plunging necklines. Emily was in a T-shirt that read Virginia Is for Lovers that didn’t show any cleavage, and stretchy black pants that covered her legs from the ankles up. And unlike the day she’d confronted me to get me to stop drumming, she was wearing a bra. Compared to the groupies at parties and tours, she might as well have been wearing a nun’s habit.
And not a porno nun’s habit. The real deal. Like what you see in churches and…well, wherever authentic nuns hang out.
But Emily had been making me feel something I shouldn’t since the moment we met
in Sunny’s Mart. That spark was there, even though she’d been in hole-y clothes rather than holy clothes. That crackling sensation when she’d come to my place to demand I stop drumming. And the sizzle when I’d acted out the scene with her yesterday.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Emily squinted at me. “You didn’t like the book you took yesterday and you aren’t sure how to tell me?”
I frowned in confusion. How in hell was her mind going in that direction?
“Don’t worry about it. It isn’t my most beloved work,” she said in a small whisper, her cheeks pink, like she was confessing to something embarrassing. “I mean, some people liked it, but not everyone.”
I sat frozen for a moment, unsure how to tell her my mood had nothing to do with her book, because then she’d want to know why I was acting weird, and I didn’t want to tell her the truth. I couldn’t think of a good way to tell her without sounding like I was fishing for a compliment about me or the band. I didn’t want Emily to think I was desperate for a good word from her. That was pathetic, the kind of thing that could make her lose respect.
And her respect and good will mattered in a bizarre way.
“But I wonder why you keep reading romance. Don’t you have better things to do?” she asked finally. “I can’t believe it’s really your kind of thing.”
What did she think I read? “It’s not the first thing I’d typically pick up…but I wouldn’t be reading them if I didn’t like them.”
“Weird. There’s a reason romance is a genre for women, written by women. And you don’t seem like the type to like romance.”
I raised my eyebrows. What made her think that of all things? Her stories generally had nice guys, so… What was she implying? “Are you stereotyping me?”
“Nope. Just looked you up on Google.” Her voice cooled a little.
