But…why was I thinking about relationships in conjunction with Killian? I wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend, long-term or otherwise. If I needed to scratch an itch, a collection of nice sex toys that had never let me down was waiting in a drawer next to my bed.
“I don’t do research,” I said finally. “And you can borrow my books if you’ll keep cooking me breakfast.” If I wasn’t going to bother with lunch and dinner—he was right about that point—so I should have a decent breakfast every day.
The dimple appeared again. “That’s a deal. Oh, and my sister is a huge fan and wants to buy all your books. Autographed. Can I buy them from you directly?”
I nodded, happy he wanted to talk about more harmless things. I told myself the heavy, languid feeling settling in my gut was something other than longing.
Chapter Thirteen
Emily
When breakfast was over, Killian put the plates in the dishwasher. He was surprisingly capable in the kitchen when it came to cleanup, too. It was a bit of a shock, since he’d acted like he was somebody famous in Sunny’s Mart when we’d first met. Maybe he wasn’t that famous, because…did really famous people even know how to open dishwashers? Didn’t they have maids and people who took care of everything like that for them?
While he was cleaning up, I signed my backlist for him. He left with the autographed books and a second copy of Working for the Filthy Billionaire—the one he wanted to read today.
Once I was alone, I threw myself into work. After about an hour, I got a text.
–Skye: So, are you dead?
I laughed and texted back, No.
–Lucy: I knew it.
Both of my friends seemed entirely too pleased with themselves. So I decided I should tease them.
–Me: How can you be sure it’s not the killer responding to your text?
–Skye: Because you only said no.
–Lucy: Exactly. The killer would’ve added something like how the guy was nice or hot or the food was amazing, etc. to reassure us. That’s usually how bad guys get caught. They try too hard to cover up the crime.
They knew me too well.
–Skye: Was the food good?
–Me: Yes.
Then—since I knew they would continue to question me until all their curiosity was satisfied—I sent another text.
–Me: I love you girls, but I really have to go back to writing. I gotta get at least four more chapters done today.
–Lucy: Got it! You go, girl!
–Skye: You can do it!
Smiling, I went back to my manuscript. As long as I could maintain my production quota for each day, I’d hit the deadline. Molly and Ryan were fantastic characters, and I knew they would resonate with my readers.
They had to.
Ryan wooed Molly by making her breakfast and giving her a massage. I paused as I ended the chapter, realizing that Killian had been exceptionally sweet, and my subconscious probably recognized that even if I hadn’t wanted to admit it.
Wonder what he would do next if he were in Ryan’s shoes…
Stop thinking about Killian. The book is about Ryan and Molly!
Shit. I gently slapped myself to pull out of the ridiculous daydream. Ryan wasn’t anything like my neighbor, and I shouldn’t confuse the two.
Must. Focus. On. My. Couple!
When I was finally done, I closed the laptop and placed it on the coffee table. I tried to get up, then plopped back on the sofa with a soft groan. Ow… My damned back. My vertebrae seemed to be permanently set in the slightly rounded position I’d been in for hours, and they did not want to move.
I checked the time. Five thirty. Since I’d finished the day’s word count, I needed to give myself a break and recharge. In case tomorrow didn’t go as well as today and required pulling an all-nighter.
I slowly rose to my feet, bones creaking and popping. Damn. I should book a celebratory massage session for after I send the manuscript off to my editor. Since I was starving, I opened the fridge, then paused.
Nothing to eat. And after the delicious, real food Killian had made in the morning, I didn’t want to settle for crackers again.
For a split second, I didn’t feel like eating alone. My head swiveled toward Killian’s house, but I caught myself before I did something stupid. Like going over and asking him to eat with me. We’d only agreed on breakfast. Dinner was too much. Too much like a real couple or something. Although he was easily the most eligible bachelor in town, I wasn’t in Kingstree to date.
Okay, I was being ridiculous. I was hungry and my brain didn’t function well on low blood sugar. Once I had some decent food in my belly, I wouldn’t be thinking about Killian that way—I was certain of it.
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.