So Killian drove us in his SUV. The inside was surprisingly clean and tidy, and the radio played some music I didn’t recognize, not that I’d expected to. Some woman was singing, so it wasn’t his band. I snuck a peek at Killian from time to time, just moving my eyes sideways so he wouldn’t know. His long, lean fingers were wrapped around the wheel, the index finger drumming steadily to the beat of the song. My mind went back to what happened between us that morning. It had felt amazing, his hand wrapped in my hair, trapping me, while his mouth moved coaxingly over mine. Like he couldn’t bear to let go… Like he’d wanted me to want him with the same intensity.
My lips tingled. I placed three fingers over them, as though that would stop the sensation. But it only intensified the throbbing, and I pulled out my phone to pretend I wasn’t still affected by that kiss.
You know, if that kiss and the snake rescue had happened in your book, your heroine would be totally doing the hero by now, an unhelpful voice pointed out.
Yeah, but this wasn’t one of my books. In real life, women didn’t just sleep with men for that, especially when the man was a neighbor she had to see every morning. Things could get awkward real fast.
He’d said he’d need at least two hours. But what if he didn’t get to use up all one hundred and twenty minutes? What if the sex was just okay? Not that I wanted to make assumptions, but he was a rock star, and his groupies had undoubtedly told him he was a sex god no matter how he performed.
Although, based on how my body had throbbed every time we touched… Maybe he was better than average. But experience had taught me that there was no such thing as “mind-blowing” sex in real life. Just some nice orgasms here and there.
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.