Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door

by Nadia Lee

But I should’ve known that three days of peace was all I would get. The trouble started on the fourth day.

  I rolled out of bed at six. Went out to run for an hour, since the town didn’t have a gym and I’d go stir crazy if I didn’t exercise several times a week. It was peaceful outside, and the sky was beautiful as the sun rose and changed it from black to deep navy to the gold-infused blue of early morning.

  I went home, chugged a cup of black coffee—real men didn’t do cream and sugar—and ate a bowl of cereal. Then I dragged myself into the shower, luxuriating under the hot water spewing out of the faucet with the perfect pressure. Aaaah. Heaven. I considered myself a tough guy, but I’d also accepted a long time ago that I’d prefer to die if there was some dystopian apocalypse. Not because I couldn’t hunt or cook or fix cars. But because I couldn’t stand a cold shower. Cold showers were right up there with sociopathic groupies and fame-hungry exes.

  I shampooed my hair, lathering it until there was a huge mushroom of suds. I moved, positioning myself under the shower head.

  Was it me…or did the water actually feel a little cool?

  I moved away from the spray and stuck my hand out. Shit. Now it was outright cold. I twisted the faucet to the point where the cold-water tap was cut off. But it remained frigid.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  I stepped out, suds still clinging to my hair. Some were sliding down my body, making a mess. After wrapping a towel around my waist, I went over to the bedroom, grabbed my phone and strode to the kitchen. Grandma’s emergency phone number list was on the fridge.

  “Come on. Water heater… Water heater…” I muttered, going down the list.

  There. Billy’s Plumbing and All Things Water.

  I called. It should be open. Today was only Thursday. This Billy person—or his minion—should be able to fix it today. Preferably within the next hour. This was an emergency!

  “Billy’s Plumbing and All Things Water,” a bored female said. “How can I help you?”

  “My water heater isn’t working anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. What seems to be the problem?”

  Could she sound any more uninterested? “Water heaters have only one job.”

  “Right. So…”

  I sighed, running my hand impatiently over my forehead to get the water off. It ended up covered in white, foamy froth, which I wiped off on the towel. “The water. It’s cold.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  You think? Also couldn’t she come up with something better than “Oh, that’s too bad”?

  “Where are you?”

  “Two fifty-two Oak Street, Kingstree. Can you come now?” I decided to make the direness of the situation crystal clear. “I’m not getting any hot water at all. Nada. Zip. Can’t even shower.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. But it’s going to be two weeks.”

  No way I’d heard that right. “How long?”

  “Two weeks,” she repeated in a tone a high school senior must use to read Moby-Dick out loud in class.

  “Two weeks! Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  She didn’t bother to answer my question. She probably hadn’t heard anything. “Billy’s busy, and so is Junior. They’re booked solid.”

  “I’ll pay extra.”

  “All the after-hour slots are booked, too.”

  Fuck this. “Can you tell me if there’s another company I can call?”

  “Far as I know, we’re the only one serving Kingstree. You want to set up an appointment?”

  Jesus. She was droning like she was fighting to stay awake. Or couldn’t even bother to fake some interest. This was what happened when you let an evil monopoly dominate an entire local area. But I needed them more than they needed me, so I kept that to myself. “Yes!”

  “Okay. Thursday the twenty-first good?”

  “I guess.”

  “You’re all set.”

  “Wait, what time are you coming?”

  She paused, then sighed. “Whenever Billy gets over to you. Just be home.” She hung up.

  “You gotta be shitting me!” I yelled at the phone like she was still on the line. “I’m not doing cold showers for two freakin’ weeks!”

  Nor was I going to forgo showering for two weeks. That would be disgusting.

  And what was I going to do about my current shower interruptus? I still hadn’t washed my body. And I could feel the suds fizzing in my hair.

  There was a simple solution to my problem. If you could borrow sugar from a neighbor—I’d never done that, but it happens all the time on TV shows and in porn—surely you could borrow a little hot water as well. And luckily, my neighbor lived within walking distance.

  My mind made up, I strode out of Grandma’s and walked over to Emily’s pink-roofed buttercream house, one hand on the towel around my waist.

  Chapter Seven

  Emily

  Killian wasn’t just an asshole, I decided as I glared at the Word document. Its cursor blinked mutely. He was a Class A asshole. If he were a romance hero, he would’ve been beyond redemption—the type of hero who would earn your book half a million one-star reviews.

  I hadn’t been able to finish writing the dirty sex scene for Molly and Ryan. Not when Killian started banging on the damned drums and cymbals again like the fate of the galaxy depended on it. Then he also spent some time on an electric guitar and a piano that badly needed tuning. I hadn’t realized until then that music could actually induce a person to want to commit murder. If I thought I could get away with it, I would have. But I knew the cops were too damned good at catching half-assed amateur murderers, based on numerous late-night chats with romantic suspense writers at bars in conference hotels. Goddamn advances in forensic science…

  I hadn’t been able to escape to a café to write, either. There was only one café in town, and the owner had refused to let me monopolize one of its four tables. Said it wouldn’t be fair. I even offered to buy a latte every hour, but that hadn’t persuaded her.

  “Other people have the right to sit and enjoy our café, too.”

  She hadn’t cared that other people didn’t have to endure excruciating noise pollution from Killian Axelrod. Just like the dispatcher lady, everyone I encountered seemed to think I was lucky—lucky!—to listen to an obnoxious ruckus that not even a noise-canceling headset could block out for the entire day.

  I picked up my phone and texted my writer friends, Lucy and Skye. I needed some genuine sympathy and understanding.

  –Me: Are you sure there’s no way to get away with murdering an obnoxious neighbor?

  –Skye: Nope. Trust me on this. There is no perfect crime.

  I glared at the text. What did Skye know? Her genre of choice was heartwarming contemporary romance.

  –Lucy: Exactly. Especially in a town that small. People are gonna know if somebody’s missing.

  Damn it. Lucy wrote gritty romantic thrillers and suspense. If anybody was creative enough to come up with a plan to pull off an unsolvable murder, it’d be her.

  –Me: I just can’t write the sex scene with all this noise!

  –Lucy: Just put SEX in there as a placeholder and write the other scenes.

  I wanted to bang my head against the table. Better yet, I wanted to bang Killian’s head against it.

  –Me: I’m a linear writer. I can’t skip around like you do.

  –Skye: But it’s just one sex scene, right? You can skip it for now and come back later. I promise. I do that when my kids are home and won’t leave me alone. Trying to write sex with kids around? IMPOSSIBLE!

  Point. Her kids were rambunctious. Still, I wanted to whine, because if I couldn’t whine to my friends, who could I whine to?

  –Me: I can’t write anything romantic with all that damn drumming. And it’s hard to intuit how the relationship should morph and evolve when I haven’t written out the first sex scene! It has a big impact on the rest of the story, you know.

  I added a sobbing emoji.

&
nbsp; –Lucy: Why don’t you check into a hotel?

  –Me: There aren’t any in this town.

  –Skye: Drive to a bigger town, maybe? You only need a few days of quiet to finish the book. Hotels are nice. You can order room service.

  True. And I could take my Hop Hop Hoorays with me. Leaving the ice cream behind was sad, but it’d be waiting for me when I came home with the completed manuscript.

  –Me: That sounds like a fantastic idea. Thanks, girls. I knew I could count on you.

  –Skye: Anytime.

  –Lucy: Yup. Sorry we don’t live closer. If we did, I’d let you stay at my place.

  I smiled at her offer. Lucy lived in Colorado. A little too far for a sleepover.

  –Me: Thanks. But the hotel idea is fantastic. I’m going to look for one right now. Ciao!

  Filled with renewed determination and hope, I opened my laptop and looked for a decently priced hotel not too far away. Oh, look at those. There were several within a hundred-mile radius. Not that I really wanted to travel, but it was a workable distance. I could drop by any one of them and get to work in peace and quiet.

  Someone knocked on my door.

  I frowned. One of many good things about Kingstree was that the town didn’t have door-to-door salespeople. Nor did it have anyone concerned about saving my soul. So unless I was getting a package, there shouldn’t be any knocks on the door…and I hadn’t ordered anything since getting the headsets.

  Screw it. I wasn’t going to answer. Who cared if some clueless travelling salesperson had decided to grace my doorstep?

  I turned my attention back to the search results. Marriott had a property about an hour away that looked promising. Good price on the room, too. Still, an hour away…

  A fist slammed my door with enough force to shake it. “Hey, Emily, I know you’re in there!”

  I froze. That husky baritone… It sounded just like Killian, number one on my personal hit list—which I would never be able to act on. What the hell did he want?

  Actually, so what if he wanted something? I leaped to my feet, rage boiling over. Wasn’t it enough for him to endlessly bang on drums and other instruments with the damned windows open? Now he had to bang on my door?

  Hands clenched, I marched to the door and yanked it open. “What the hell is your problem?” I yelled in my meanest voice, then promptly ruined the effect by letting my jaw go slack.

  Oh my God.

  Killian was standing there in nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. It hung so low that I was afraid it might slip and show me an accidental Full Monty. He was also wet. His hair stuck to his skull, and water droplets beaded and sparked all over his sinful face…not to mention the most gorgeous torso I’d ever laid eyes on.

  Forget the wet shirt and low-slung jeans I’d considered earlier. This shot would totally make the most sellable romance cover ever…and push the book to number one in the entire Amazon Kindle store.

  For a moment, I wondered if I should ask him to model. Then I decided no…it would only inflate his ego. And I had already bought a photo I liked for my cover.

  Regardless of my personal feelings for the man’s personality, my mouth dried. He was sex personified. For a moment, I couldn’t even recall why I was so mad at him.

  “Trying to trap flies with your mouth?” Bright laughter twinkled in his blue eyes.

  I snapped my mouth shut so fast that my teeth clacked. Now I remembered why I was pissed off at him. All he’d had to do was to say something.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” My tone bristled with aggression because that was what he deserved. Based on the smug expression on his too handsome for everyone’s own good face, he knew the effect his almost naked body had and was enjoying it. Son of a bitch.

  “Can I borrow some hot water?” he asked.

  What kind of question was this? Was he trying to prank me? “What’s wrong with your stove?” I demanded, my hand still on my door. He couldn’t possibly expect me to give him anything, not after what he’d pulled.

  “Stove’s fine, but the water heater’s broken. I can’t get any hot water.”

  Aaah, I thought with petty satisfaction. Karma got him. I smirked.

  “Billy’s Plumbing can’t come for two weeks, so I was thinking I could shower here until then.” He smiled and stepped forward as though it was a foregone conclusion that I’d agree to this lunacy.

  It was already bad enough he was harassing me with his so-called music. Now he wanted to “borrow” my hot water? Ha! I blocked him by moving into his path. “Hold it, buster.” His smile slipped a little, and I shot him a bland look. “Why should I let you in? You could be a serial killer.”

  Both of his eyebrows went up. “You’re worried about that now?”

  “Of course I’m worried about it now. You’re here now. It’s a legitimate concern.”

  “Yeah, but…you already opened your door. So it’s kinda too late.”

  He had a point. But all the reasons I shouldn’t kill him also applied to him, and he probably didn’t like going to jail either.

  “I have a gun,” I said finally. Mom had bought me a handgun, saying a woman living alone needed protection. She hated it that Kingstree was a small town, and the cul-de-sac my house was on was at the outskirts.

  “But not on you.” He gave me a why don’t we compromise and be nice smile. “Look, I’m not a serial killer. You can ask the sheriff.”

  My teeth clenched. Kingstree’s most unhelpful sheriff’s department. If they’d been more useful, I would’ve already been done with the sex scene and more. “Then borrow hot water from him. I’m not letting you use my shower. It’s a free country.”

  “But it’s also a kind country. Neighbors let neighbors borrow water and stuff all the time.”

  “Not this neighbor.” I gave him a fake smile, deriving petty enjoyment from saying no. “Why should I? Maybe if you can’t wash for two weeks, you’ll quit trying to make me deaf with your drumming. What was it you said? Drumming is sweaty work? Maybe you could take up something less sweaty. Like reading. Or meditation. Or going comatose.”

  He threw up a hand in the air like he couldn’t believe my reaction. It made his abs stand out more. “I’m a professional musician. People pay to listen to me play. I really do have to practice.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that? Delusions aren’t meant to be shared, you know.”

  His face fell. He looked like an author discovering the first one-star review on his precious debut novel.

  I felt slightly bad at how upset he seemed, even though I was annoyed that I felt bad, since he was the one who’d made it impossible for me to write. But he seemed sincere in his reaction. Maybe he really was a musician. I remembered how much I resented my dad and strangers putting my writing down because I wrote romance. The arts were hard, and maybe I shouldn’t have been so harsh.

  On the other hand, he was the one sabotaging my effort to finish my work in progress. I had a deadline, not only on the manuscript but also on the bet with my dad.

  “Look, why don’t we compromise?” I said, as a genius idea struck me. “Why don’t you refrain from making any noise for the entire month? You can at least do that, right?”

  He looked at me like I was showing him an email from a Nigerian prince. “Oooo-kay… What do I get?”

  “You can use my shower until your water heater’s fixed, assuming it doesn’t take more than a couple of weeks.” Killian was a man, which meant it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes for him to do his thing. Ten minutes max. And that was a small trade-off for a month of silence. Much as I liked the idea of room service, I would prefer to be home with access to my favorite ice cream and beer.

  “Well.” He pulled his lips in and considered for a moment. “That seems unfair. I only get to use the shower for two weeks.”

  Oh, so you want to play hardball? “Well, if you don’t like the terms, you’re welcome to man up and take a cold shower every day.” I made sure to ad
d my sweetest, brightest smile. If he didn’t care about cold showers, he wouldn’t have trekked all the way over here in nothing but a towel.

  He stared at me, his eyes slightly glazed. Then he shook his head. “So…no noise at all?”

  I nodded. “I need my peace and quiet.”

  “That seems kind of impossible. I mean, can I watch TV?”

  I frowned a little at the ridiculous question. “As long as the volume’s low.”

  “How about cooking?”

  I gave him a long-suffering look at his pathetic attempt to find loopholes. He was an amateur compared to my dad. “Of course you can cook. I mean annoying noises.”

  “How about snoring? Can I snore? It isn’t annoying?”

  I gritted my teeth. “You know what I mean! Obnoxious, loud noise I can hear from my home! I don’t care if you snore, belch or fart, as long as I don’t hear it!”

  “Just wanted to make things clear. Keeping one’s word is important,” he said, his eyes innocently wide.

  “Don’t even try,” I said.

  “Try what?” This time he batted his ridiculously long eyelashes, which were gorgeous.

  And the fact that I noticed their gorgeousness annoyed me to no end. I was above being stupid over a pretty face and a hard body. I had brain that didn’t reside in my loins.

  I narrowed my eyes. “I’ll bet there isn’t an innocent bone in your body.”

  He gave me an enigmatic smile. “So. The shower?”

  “Fine. Upstairs.” I moved away from the door, permitting him into my home and praying I didn’t end up regretting it.

  Chapter Eight

  Emily

  While Killian was availing himself of my shower, I quickly texted my friends again.

  –Me: Don’t need to check into a hotel. The noise polluter caved.

  –Skye: Really? I thought he was uncooperative.

  –Me: He was, but karma is on my side.

  –Lucy: What happened?

  I summarized Killian and my bargain.

  –Lucy: Oooh. Is he hot?

  –Me: Is that what you got out of the story?

  –Lucy: Yes because you’re lending him your shower. You wouldn’t have done that if he was some gross old orangutan-looking guy.