Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door

by Nadia Lee

  The gleam in her eyes reminded me of a stubborn goat. But far be it from me to leave a woman in distress.

  “Anyway, I’m going to tip over,” she said, rubbing her hands eagerly.

  “Well, the couch is too low to be a wall,” I pointed out.

  She straightened. “You think?” She stepped away from it and looked around. “You’re right. Now what? Is there an appropriate fence around here?”

  I thought for a moment. “Got a ladder?” I asked.

  “A small one. Why?”

  “We can set that up and you can get to the right height and then pretend to fall.”

  “Ooh, that’s smart.” She grinned. “We can even do this in the living room.”

  She ran to a closet between the living room and the foyer and pulled out a ladder. It was so small that I wasn’t even sure why she’d bought it. It might be useful if she wanted to clean the ceiling fans in the living room, but given the general condition of the place, I doubted dusting them was high on her priority list.

  While she set up the ladder and climbed a few steps, I placed cushions from the couch on the area where she was supposed to fall.

  She ended up with her butt about six feet off the ground, which was eye level for me and kinda nice. “Is that about the right height?” I said.

  “I think so. How high can a wall be?” She looked down at the cushions on the floor, then frowned a little. “I thought you said you could catch me.”

  “Of course I can. But these are just in case. Backup. For me, really.” I added the last bit so she didn’t get too anxious.

  Her lips pulled together. “I’m not going to break your back.”

  “It’s my hands I’m worried about.” But I was actually concerned about her. There was a small chance that things might not work out the way we envisioned. I’d rather not risk her getting hurt.

  “You should’ve insured your hands,” she said. “You can insure anything, you know.”

  “I’ll make sure to call my agent and add my hands to the policy,” I said. “Ready?” I got into position and waited for her to signal.

  “Yeah.”

  I pictured how this would go and tensed up, ready to spring into action.

  “You can’t half-ass it to make Skye win.”

  “I don’t even know Skye. But you owe me a beer if I help you win. If you lose, I’ll settle for a kiss.” I gave her a playful grin so she could tell herself I wasn’t super serious about the kiss. I didn’t want to force it out of her…but I wanted her thinking about it.

  Her tongue flicked over her lip, which heated my blood further. I really hoped she was out of beer.

  “Fine,” she rasped, then cleared her throat. “Okay, here goes.”

  The moment slowed as adrenaline spread through me. She started to tip over. I moved, extending my arms to catch her. Our bodies slammed into each other, which I hadn’t counted on, and my breath whooshed out. I ended up landing on the cushions on my back, then almost immediately, she fell on me, straddling my stomach, but too far above to cradle my dick. Her hands flexed on my shoulders, and all the blood in my body started to rush south. Her hair fell forward, tickling my cheeks and chin. It felt as soft as feathers and smelled like mint and lime. Her glasses sat crooked on her face. Her green eyes were wide and her pink lips were parted as she looked down at me.

  I stared up at her as electrifying excitement sparked through me. Was it my imagination, or did her skin seem soft and glowing? Actually, her entire being seemed to glow, like an angel. My pulse went into overdrive as something unfamiliar lanced through me. And my lower body felt uncomfortably tight.

  What the hell was with this reaction? We hadn’t even kissed.

  At least she wouldn’t notice anything, since she had no reason to wriggle downward. I stayed still, waiting for her to get off. Then had an immediate fantasy triggered by her “getting off”…

  She got up, pushing against my chest. Normally I’d consider it an obvious ploy to cop a feel, but Emily wasn’t looking at me that way. She just looked mildly confused as she nibbled on her lower lip. I wanted to put my finger on it to make her stop.

  You just want an excuse to put a finger on her lip…maybe even accidentally push inside her mouth—

  Okay, time to rein myself in before I did something really stupid. Like slide her body down then let her rock against me. I wasn’t a horny teenager, and I had more finesse than that.

  “It worked,” I said, needing something to cover up the weirdly loud heartbeat in my ears.

  “Yup. It did.”

  She climbed off, careful not to knee me in the process.

  “Thanks,” she said, then cleared her throat and slapped her cheeks a bit. They were red, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the slapping or something else. “I need to wrap up this scene before I forget…um…things. So the kitchen’s all yours.”

  Without looking at me, she tossed all the cushions back on the couch and dove straight for her laptop. Which worked for me, since I didn’t want her to see that I was I-beam rigid over that little PG-rated bit of playacting. I was most certainly not disappointed that she didn’t want to lean down and brush her lips across mine. Or wriggle her body lower…

  She sat in front of her computer and started typing away, keys clicking furiously, so I put away the ladder and went to the kitchen with a deliberately measured step. I took my time, so my body could calm the hell down, and my heart could find its equilibrium again. I hadn’t been with a woman in a while. My dick just wanted to spurt because it was primitive like that.

  But I hadn’t reacted like this to women in skimpy bikinis in Bora Bora. Actually, I hadn’t reacted like this to any woman, period, including Caitlyn.

  On the other hand, I’d never been around anybody like Emily. It must be the novelty. She was interesting and unique. And pretty. And smart. Contradictory at times, and unpredictable, too.

  That was it. Nothing special.

  Feeling much better after getting my thoughts in order, I made breakfast, then placed two plates on the table and set out utensils and syrup. “All ready,” I called out.

  She sat up and snapped her fingers. “Missed it,” she muttered as she joined me.

  “Missed what?” I asked. I parked my butt in my seat.

  “You cooking…” She shook her head. “Never mind. I can’t say it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’d have to rip a bigger neck hole in your shirt.”

  I laughed, pleased she was thinking about me in that way. “I don’t mind tearing up a shirt. Go ahead, compliment me.”

  “Absolutely not.” She looked over the food, then let out an appreciative sigh. Fluffy pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon. It never failed.

  “Fine. I’m going to use my imagination, then. ‘Oh, Killian, you are so big and stupendous!’” I said, breathing hard and fanning myself dramatically. “‘I take back what I said earlier. You can do anything with your dick.’”

  “There’s a difference between imagination and delusion,” she said with a sniff. But her eyes were twinkling.

  I winked. “It’s not a delusion if it’s true.”

  “Ha ha.” She took a bite. “This is really good. Since you went above and beyond, you can take two tubs of Bouncy Bare Monkeys with you when you leave.”

  My fork hit the table with a clatter. “You’re giving me ice cream?”

  “Yeah. You’re cooking for me, buying the ingredients and all…so I figured I should give something back.”

  “I think I’m touched. Wow. Thanks. Not even my own sister would give me a tub of that.”

  “Well, I got six, so…” She shrugged.

  “Six? Did you buy every last tub again?”

  “What do you mean again?”

  “You bought it all last time.”

  “They had one last time. Buying any was buying it all. Anyway, I happened to see them when I went shopping yesterday. But since there’s more than one, I decided to be generous.” Then sh
e added meaningfully, “With you.”

  “Generous, my ass!” I said, even though technically she was being much nicer than my own sister. But I was a little put out that I’d gone to Sunny’s for nothing. “You’re giving me two and keeping four. True generosity would be splitting it fifty-fifty.”

  “Or you could simply not take any,” she said. “There’s no ‘us’ in ‘ice cream.’ Why? Because it isn’t meant to be shared.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “If you learn how to spell ‘ice cream,’ you’ll understand what I mean.”

  “There’s no ‘us’ in ‘breakfast,’ either.”

  “Which is why I’m sharing my ice cream with you. It’s an even trade.”

  This must be some weird female logic. Like how women never order fries because they’re on a diet or some bullshit, but always filch one—or half the carton—from their men, as though theft makes them calorie-free. “You’re illogical and unreasonable.”

  “The possibility exists. But I’m also the person with the hot water and the ice cream.” She smirked smugly.

  “Which you negotiated for.”

  “I just didn’t want any noise pollution. It was a public service to the town.”

  “You really have no clue who I am, do you?” It was kind of stunning. It’d been years since I met somebody who didn’t know who I was. Hell, I’d started to wear sunglasses and a pulled-down cap when I was out in public. In a lot of cases I’d been forced to hire security to keep the weirdos away. Emily had to have been living under a rock to be this oblivious, although…somebody in town had to have told her about me. Maybe a cashier at Sunny’s. Or maybe one of the local radio stations had done a piece on me, like they often did.

  She paused and studied me, her gaze traveling up and down. “Are you a model?” she asked finally. “Maybe do photoshoots for romance novels? If so, I’ll buy a few photos for my next book.”

  My jaw slackened. “Where did you get that?”

  She shrugged. “Just a guess. You keep talking like you’re somebody I should recognize…and you have a pretty face. But I haven’t seen you on any covers, in case you’re wondering.”

  “Nope. Totally off.”

  “Then what are you? Obviously you think you’re some hot shot. The mayor’s nephew, maybe? Not the good one who went to Harvard, but, you know, the tat-having, cigarette-smoking troublemaker who likes to visit from time to time from Maryland? I heard he rides a Harley.” She gazed at me thoughtfully. “I can picture you straddling one on the road.”

  “Uh, do you know what Mayor Cruise looks like?”

  “Short, with dark hair? A pug nose?”

  “Yeah. What does that say about your guess?”

  She shrugged. “You could’ve been adopted.”

  I shook my head. This was even worse than her thinking I might be a romance cover model. “Where the hell do you get all these ideas?”

  “I’m a creative person.” She didn’t actually say duh at the end, but it was clearly implied.

  “Here.” I pulled out my phone and tapped the screen a few times. The band’s number one hit from last year flowed from the speakers. It was one of our best, and I was proud of it. It connected deeply with our fans, which was the main purpose of the music the band created.

  Now Emily would finally put things together. Damn it, I knew her work, and I wanted her to know mine too. And like it. For some reason, it was important she enjoy my music, just like I enjoyed her writing.

  “Is that you pounding the drums in the opening?” she asked hesitantly after a moment.

  “No, that’s Dev. I’m the lead vocalist.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh? That was it? Just a mildly surprised oh? She hadn’t heard this song anywhere? But I wasn’t seeing any sign of recognition in her eyes, and I didn’t think she was messing with me. I couldn’t tell if she liked the song, either, although she was nodding slightly to the beat. My mouth felt parched all of sudden. This was worse than my first audition.

  “So why were you playing the drums?” she asked.

  “Well, I also play drums.”

  “So why is this Dev guy playing them in the song?” she asked, obviously obsessed with the damned drums.

  “Because he’s better than me,” I said, starting to get annoyed that this was what she was focusing on while listening to this song. She might as well have stabbed my ego with a rusty knife.

  “Ah. Division of labor. You should keep that up. Let him do that, while you focus on singing. Even if all the windows are open in your house and mine, I won’t be able to hear you sing, unless you got yourself a mic.” She gave me a look. “Don’t get a mic.”

  Nobody had ever told me they didn’t want to hear me sing live. The no “us” in “ice cream” section of her brain must still be in charge. “So…that’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  She pulled her lips in for a second, then cleared her throat. Her eyes were clear and bright. “What were you expecting?”

  “That’s our biggest hit from last year.”

  She looked confused. “Okay…”

  “You don’t recognize it?”

  “Should I?”

  Was she kidding? Disbelief flashed through me. This must be revenge for when I told her I’d never heard of her writerly alter ego. “Well…yeah. I mean, it was everywhere.”

  She shrugged. “Sorry if you’re disappointed, but I don’t listen to music.”

  “You don’t…” What was this blasphemy? I’d never met somebody who didn’t listen to music. It was like, like…somebody claiming they hated cake. Only the devil’s spawn hated cake. “What do you listen to when you drive?”

  “Audio books. Maybe a podcast. Or nothing, depending on my mood.”

  “How about when you write?”

  “Nothing.”

  Wow. So devil’s spawn did exist in the world. “That’s sad. A life without music is like a body without a soul.”

  “I have a soul,” she said, slightly put out. “I write romance, remember? I couldn’t have more soul if I tried.”

  Maybe. But personally, I just couldn’t picture a life without music. Music was everywhere. It was one of those things that made life more pleasurable and exciting.

  “Music is distracting,” Emily explained.

  “No wonder you had no clue who I am.” And I had a lot of work to do if I wanted everyone in the world to hear my music, just like everyone knew about the Beatles. I was aiming high, but what was the point of aiming low?

  “You didn’t exactly give me your stage name.”

  “Everyone knows me as Killian from Axelrod.”

  “Maybe you should make a T-shirt that says so and wear it everywhere,” she said.

  “Do you have a T-shirt that says, I’m Emma Grant, and I write romance?”

  “No. But that’s a great idea. I love what I’m writing, and I’m proud of my work.”

  She wasn’t being sarcastic. And it pained me. Not because I expected everyone to love my work, but because she wasn’t even giving my music a chance. And it felt personal.

  “So am I,” I said, keeping my voice even.

  She sighed. “I didn’t mean you weren’t proud of your music. I don’t think that came out well. I’m just…not very eloquent at the moment.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “I’ve been up since four, writing. I just poured out over five thousand words.”

  I was impressed. “So you’re out of good words?”

  She smiled. “That’s a good way to put it. I’ve used up all my good words for the moment on my story. They’re so good that I expect most will remain after revision. But right now I’m braindead, and all I have left is garbage. I need to nap and recharge.”

  “Your creative process is very different from mine.” But then, our songs didn’t require hundreds of pages of words. It was about the melody, the mood, the feel—capturing the most emotionally intense moment in a specific
yet universal experience with the right beat.

  “Well, yeah. I’m not a musician.”

  “Yeah, but you still do creative work.” I leaned a little closer. Maybe learning about her process would shed some light on how I could break through my current idealess drought. “Do you always get good words after you nap?”

  “Not all the time,” she answered. “It depends.”

  “I see.” So naps weren’t the cure-all I was hoping for. “What’s the difference between the time you get good words and the times you don’t?”

  She pursed her mouth. “Probably just fatigue? Or maybe I need a change of scene or have something else on my mind…like some chore I should be doing but have been putting off for one reason or another. Like cleaning up my work area.”

  My eyes slid over to the mess there. All the empty Hop Hop Hooray bottles. Candy wrappers. Empty cracker bags. Wadded-up sheets from notebooks. She should definitely clean it up. Or get a housekeeper.

  Somehow, though, she was still getting the creative juices running, while I was drier than the Gobi Desert. But I did have something I needed to do, something I’d been procrastinating about for months and months. “Makes sense. Thanks, Emily.”

  “Sure,” she said. But of course she had no clue what I was thanking her for.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Killian

  Talking to Emily turned out to be useful, maybe even insightful, for figuring out why I’d been so blocked. I’d been putting a bunch of things off.

  Like going through Grandma’s stuff in the house.

  I let out a long breath, as though it could expel the months-old sadness and ease the hole in my heart.

  Although I’d had “go through Grandma’s things” on my to-do list for almost half a year now, what with the tour and all, I hadn’t even started. Mir would’ve done it for me if I asked, but she had the beach cottage Grandma had left her to deal with. It wouldn’t have been fair.

  But as I stopped in front of the basement with all the things Grandma had collected over the years, I couldn’t make myself go past the threshold. Everything in it held a memory, each one good and treasured. It felt like burying her all over again.