“Oh Lord, nobody cares if you’re single!” She’d laughed as she said it, waving a hand like my reply was the silliest thing ever. “Kids or no kids, we’d love to have you chip in and help out. There are so many things to be done. I mean, you’re home all the time, aren’t you?”
The unspoken message being: You can’t possibly be doing anything worthwhile—you’re home all day.
She’d continued, oblivious to my rising annoyance. “It’d be a fantastic opportunity to meet the people around here and use your time productively.”
“I’d rather eat bull—” I’d caught myself in time because her kids were listening. “I’d rather stick my face into a wasp nest.”
It was like I’d confessed to burning books and streaking naked under the full moon, drenched in Satan’s blood. “Why, I never…!”
Chin held high, she’d stormed away in a huff, herding her children like little sheep, before I was able to point out that it was rude to presume I had nothing better to do with my time. Readers were waiting for my next book. Just imagine what they’d say if I told them I had to delay the release because I’d been too busy helping out with a local PTA that had nothing to do with me.
“Are you friends with Molly?” I asked. He might’ve hung out with her when he came to visit his late grandmother. That could explain his defense of her and this Ryan Johnson guy.
Killian’s expression turned mildly annoyed. Was he upset that I was asking about his relationship with Molly? Or was he just annoyed that I wasn’t saying, “Yes, you’re right, of course. I’m so sorry I said things you thought were objectionable even though I wasn’t talking about your Molly and Ryan.”
“No,” Killian said. “But I know who she is. Everyone in town does.”
“So do I, unfortunately. And don’t worry. I wasn’t talking about her. Or your buddy Ryan. There are Mollys and Ryans other than the ones in this town, in case that’s never occurred to you.”
He blinked. Something crossed his intensely blue eyes, but he was probably just processing the shocking factoid.
“Isn’t your chest hair sufficiently dry now?” I asked, leaning back. “Maybe you should get going.”
“Just trying to finish my beer.” He lifted his bottle, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. The movement was mesmerizingly sexy. I needed to make an appointment to see a therapist, because a man’s throat shouldn’t be this hot. Thankfully, Killian was almost done. His gaze flicked to something behind me. “You must really love Emma Grant.”
Huh? How did he know my pen name? I hadn’t mentioned it in a haze of sexual fascination or something… Had I?
“You have a lot of copies of her stuff,” he said, as though he’d sensed my unspoken question. Then he spotted my latest book on the coffee table and picked it up. “A Wall Street Journal bestselling author, huh?”
“Yup. Hit the list four times,” I said proudly. I’d texted the screenshots to Dad every single time, too. It was an extra pleasure in life, since cutting him and dousing the wound with salt was likely illegal.
Killian gave me an oddly guarded look. “You follow her career pretty closely?”
Geez, did he think I was a stalker fan? “I should hope so, since I am her,” I said. I didn’t necessarily advertise the fact that I wrote, but I didn’t hide it, either, especially when somebody was in my home. And I had no reason to hide it with Killian. As a matter of fact, it would be a great chance to figure out what level of asshole he was.
Killian did a double take. “You’re Emma Grant?”
I nodded, then braced myself for a light dismissal—“Oh that’s so cute!” or “I always wanted to knock out a romance novel in my spare time!”—or mockery—“Mommy porn paying the bills?” or “I didn’t know people still read trashy smut!” That was the general reaction when people found out what I did, and there was no reason to think Killian would be any different. I decided to consider him a civilized asshole if he wasn’t as obnoxious and offensive as my dad, which was setting the bar pretty low. But since Killian would be coming over for half a month to borrow my shower, I wanted to avoid feeling homicidal rage at the sight of him. I still didn’t know how to execute a perfect murder.
“Huh.” Killian looked at the cover again, then back at me before placing the book back on the table. “If you’re such a famous bestselling author, how come I’ve never heard of you?”
I rolled my eyes. Lots of people said that when they found out that I’d hit the bestseller lists a few times. So I gave him the clichéd response I always handed out when I was dealing with them.
“Maybe because you don’t read anything except utility bills?” Which was most likely true. According to statistics, most people didn’t read for pleasure, and therefore didn’t know that many authors. And even those who read a lot usually only knew writers who released books they liked to read. Sort of like me—I didn’t know any musicians. I didn’t listen to music because I found it distracting to my creative process. The only band I really knew was Queen, because Skye and Lucy had said I had to listen to Freddie Mercury sing or I was missing out. And the Beatles, only because I’d studied them in modern American pop culture class in college.
“I read,” Killian protested, as though I’d accused him of not brushing his teeth every day.
I crossed my arms. “Like what?”
He started to tick titles off on his fingers. “Jurassic Park. The Martian. The Firm. Minority Report. Interview with the Vampire. Twilight…but that was only because my sister made me. Game of Thrones.” He gave me a triumphant smile. “That’s just a small sample.”
Huh. Surprisingly eclectic. Science fiction to high fantasy to young adult paranormal romance and a legal thriller… Then I noticed something. Game of Thrones was the title of an HBO drama. A Song of Ice and Fire, George R. R. Martin’s series that the drama was based on, kicked off with A Game of Thrones.
I snorted with amusement as I realized what Killian had done. “You mean you watched movies and dramas based on books.”
“So?” He shrugged and took a swig of the beer. “It’s like reading, but better.”
“Books are ten thousand times better,” I countered. “Trust me. Adaptations are pale shadows at best.”
“Says you.”
“That’s right. And I’m the authority because I actually read, unlike you. Also, I’m an author.”
“Being an author doesn’t mean you read.”
I sighed. “It was a joke.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Author. It’s the same root as authority— Oh, never mind! Are you done with that?”
Killian stood, put his empty beer bottle in the kitchen recycling bin and came back to the living room. He started to leave, stopped and returned to the coffee table, where he picked up my book and looked at it for a moment. “Mind if I borrow this?”
Mr. I Watch My Novels wanted to read my book? Seriously? He didn’t even like romance. He’d said he’d only seen Twilight because of his sister.