by Gage Grayson
The boots slip off my feet easily as I kick them off by the door. Once inside, I’m again enveloped in the quiet warmth the cottage offers. I glide quietly over the hardwood back to the desk that will be my designated work space while I’m here.
Maybe Killian has time for jokes and yardwork, but I have a deadline to hit.
I pick up the paintbrush on the desk and tuck it behind my ear as I stare at the blank papers before me. These canvases that should be already be outlined with the start of something for my latest project.
Instead, all I see is the blank white space before me.
I should be rolling in creativity right now, but all I’m actually doing is hitting roadblock after fucking roadblock. Desperate to look at anything other than proof of my own failure to create, I raise my eyes to the window again.
The click of the hedge clippers is barely audible through the thick walls and glass of the cottage, but Killian is in plain view. Even with the injured arm, he’s still working impressively well.
I need to get to work. I need to focus.
But right now, I can’t seem to look away from Killian. Every time I try, I fucking fail.
Shirtless Killian is a sight that any hot-blooded woman would find herself hard-pressed to turn away from. Slowly, I peel my gaze away from Killian’s rippling muscles and the beads of sweat running down his abs. I don’t want to look away—but I do it anyway.
Instead of staring, I turn my attention back to the blank papers on the desk.
It’s time to get some work done.
The sunrise has a different plan for me, though. As it pokes over the horizon and glows through the window, it shines a spotlight on Killian’s hunky form outside. The morning sun highlights the sweat glistening across his shirtless chest and arms.
Trimming hedges with only one arm is bound to be hard work, but it’s only when I see him sweating that I realize exactly how hard it must be.
His muscles seem to have expanded. The skin over them looks even more taut than I remembered. The sweat Killian is breaking only adds to his definition.
“Jesus,” I whisper to myself. “This should be illegal.”
Once again, I tell myself to turn away. But my mind and body are on two different channels at the moment.
Killian is captivating.
Mesmerizing.
And totally off-limits.
Biting my bottom lip, I tilt my head slightly to the right as I stare.
Memories I meant to forget are starting to resurface. A remembered kiss here, a touch there. The ecstasy I felt when I came undone beneath his strong, gorgeous body.
It all leaves my heart racing and my breathing shallow.
Killian furrows his brow as he works on a stubborn branch. It’s thick and hard and determined…
Oh, god. I need to stop staring at this man now.
“I’m such a cliché,” I whisper to the empty cottage. “Can’t even look away from the sexy male with no shirt on as he works.”
I watch as Killian steps back to look at what he has accomplished so far. He stands tall and appears to be deep in thought.
In that moment as I watch him, inspiration hits. The picture for my current project takes shape in colors and shapes that come together to form an image in my mind’s eye.
He may be cocky and too smug to accept my help, but he may have just helped me. Even if he doesn’t know it, I think he’s inspired me for a concept for the first draft. Finally, I’m able to turn away from Killian and his devilishly good-looking, shirtless body.
I sink into the plush leather of my desk chair and pull a canvas towards me. I gather my thoughts as I pull the paintbrush out from behind my ear.
This is what I’m here to do: paint.
Deep breath in. Exhale.
“Thank you, Killian,” I state right back at him the paintbrush makes the first stroke. “Maybe you’re good for something after all.”
Killian
I pour myself a dream of Bushmills into the wee glass, eyeball it, and turn straight to the bottle. If I want to wash the taste of the morning out of my mouth, it’ll take more than just a little nip to set me right.
With my lips wrapped around the bottle’s mouth and my fist around its neck, I finally feel my shoulders relax, but not for long. There’s something darkly magical about whiskey—the way that, when I drink it, it always calls her to mind.
Pretty redheaded Rebecca Doyle. She’s ruined Jameson for me already, and I’ll be damned if she ruins Bushmills to boot.
I come up for air, gasping. I lick the last vestiges of the ocher-colored liquor from my lips. Truth be told, it’s Rebecca’s mouth I’d rather have my lips pressed against right now.
The fact that she’s my next-door neighbor now should surprise me, but it doesn’t. Fate has always proven to be a fickle beastie. And when Rebecca Doyle is involved, destiny generally becomes an outright fucking monster.
I shrug my sling off and limp to my desk. There’s an ache in my muscles and a stiffness in my bones. I wonder if it’s just my near-constant hangover, or if it’s because Rebecca hit me with her damned SUV last night.
A little of column A, a little of column B, most like.
On my desk sits my phone, and on my phone lurks a headache of a different sort.
Twelve missed calls from my editor, and the bastard is already calling again.
Instead of making it thirteen missed calls, I pick up the phone and swipe the accept call button.
“Hello,” I say in an exhausted tone.
“Finally, you pick up your damn phone, Killian.”
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“Don’t play coy, Killian. I’ve called you fifty times already.”
“Technically, it’s only been twelve times, but who’s counting.”
“Whatever. I’m calling you for a reason.”
I’m sure it’s to beat the deadline into me again.
“The team’s going to need your first draft sooner rather than later. Definitely, well, in advance of the final dealing.”
Okay, deep breath.
Usually, I don’t have a problem with getting the writing done, but the universe has decided to throw me a wee curveball this time.
Hey, I wouldn’t judge baseball without knowing a few things about it, first.
Writer’s block is a bitch. I’ve heard of other writers experiencing it and never took them seriously until now.
“I know. I’m just getting started,” I tell him, hopefully to get him off my back a little.
Another swig from the bottle of fine whiskey in my hand helps to relax me a little more.
“Alright, Killian. That’s what I like to hear,” my editor grumbles. “It’ll be a couple weeks until we need anything because the senior editor just had a baby, and I’m about to head out for my honeymoon. Still, keep working.”
“I’ll make sure to do that while you all are on vacation.”
“Not everyone chooses the solitary writer’s life like you, Killian,” the editor exclaims. “But I respect your priorities, and I respect the senior editor’s as well.”
“I get it. Everyone chooses to live their lives differently,” I concur.
And I really do fucking concur with that.
I choose to live a solitary lifestyle for a reason. The only person I need to please and be supportive of is myself. That’s the way I like it, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
“Okay. I’ll check in with you in a few days. Make sure you pick up the phone the first time I call.”
Before I can appease him with an agreement, I hear the distinct click that indicates he has already hung up the phone.
He’s also right in that I need to work, even if the draft isn’t expected this week.
Plopping my ass into my desk chair, I take an even bigger drag of the whiskey, dreading the writer’s block I have yet to boot. The liquor burns a fiery trail down my throat and distracts me briefly from the ache in my arm.
I sit and stare
at the wall across the room. Nothing’s coming to mind for the story that needs to be written. Maybe this writer’s block is the fickle beastie fate at work again, and it’s hinting that my career as a writer is going to come to an end soon.
“Fuck that,” I growl. “No damn way is it over yet. You can kiss my arse, fate, cause it ain’t happening.”
My damn injured arm isn’t helping at the moment, though. Neither is the fact that I’m damn horny and can’t get Rebecca Doyle out of my head.
Recalling earlier, she was sweet in offering to help. And how did I respond to her kind heart? I called her out for staring at me through her cottage window.
Her face was expressionless, but those eyes said it all. She definitely wanted to throttle me upside the head. Her fiery personality may not show through her facial expressions all the time, but it sure shows through and through her eyes.
In combination with her red hair, she’s the epitome of a fiery, redhead woman.
That one night at a publishing convention showed that she’s also fiery in bed.
You know, fiery isn’t a strong enough fucking word for it, but it’s the best one I have at the moment.
If I could ever do that evening justice with words, then I might as well smash my fucking typewriter, because that means I’ve fulfilled any possible aspirations I could ever have as a fucking wordsmith.
I don’t mind remembering, though, even when my descriptive prowess fails me.
Thinking of that night helps in no way to solve the horny problem I’m faced with right now, but thoughts of Rebecca keep surfacing no matter how damn hard I try to block them and focus on the writing I should be doing at the moment.
Blame the Bushmills. I’m glaring at the bottle as if that would fix the problem.
What am I expecting? For the bottle to disappear in a cloud of smoke in hopes that it’ll help?
How about Rebecca, too, while you’re at it?
Frustrated that the battle to get her out of my mind is failing, I lean back in the chair and remember and daydream and fantasize a bit.
In reality, shit gets messy. That just the way shit gets.
But in the universe of daydreams, this almost always end up a little more pleasant.
Like in the daydream forming now, about wandering over to Rebecca’s cottage.
You know, to reconnect.
To talk about old times.
To drink. And laugh.
But soon enough, all our clothes would be on the floor, and she would be climbing me like a tree.
“Fuck,” I growl.
The desk chair goes flying backwards as I abruptly stand.
Why the hell did I think fantasizing about damn Rebecca Doyle would make this day any better?
Whiskey sloshes from the bottle when grabbed roughly by the neck.
No writing is going to be done now. Rebecca’s going to be the end of me, but hell if I will let her consume me.
“I need a cold shower,” I state, walking toward the stairs that leads to the master bathroom. A sliver of relief should be attainable there.
Rebecca would be able to provide a bigger relief, but that thought is asinine and the dumbest one I have had yet today.
“You win just for now, fate, but I’m telling you now it isn’t going to happen again,” I begrudgingly rumble under my breath, ascending the stairs.
Rebecca
The best thing about being single is the grocery shopping.
Of course, there are so many other benefits, I could fill pages and pages of the notebook I carry everywhere, but I want to focus on the most important one right now.
It’s much easier when you’re shopping only for yourself and looking out only for yourself. So much easier.
Being in a relationship brings a whole lot of responsibility, particularly as the female partner.
Emancipation my ass.
The minute you move in with a guy, he expects a cooked meal every night of the week, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. No breaks, ever.
If I don’t hear the phrase What’s for dinner tonight? Ever again, I can die happy.
Ever since I left the DH—that’s short for dickhead, by the way—I eat when I want, what I want. And if I don’t feel like cooking, I don’t.
Life is a lot simpler.
Life is…
I don’t know.
Dwelling on the past is one of things I’m desperately trying to avoid.
If you couldn’t tell, I’m not doing such a great job with that.
Maybe what they say about divorce is true: that it’s worse than a spouse dying. With death, you get to bury the spouse. With a divorce, ironically, the specter is always around to haunt you.
I don’t want the specter around forever. I want to bury the ghost as well.
I look at my list. It’s a simple shopping list. So far, there are only a few things on it: milk, coffee, bread.
Just the essentials, that’s all.
Like I say, living alone has definite advantages.
There are other lists in my notebook. Lists are my favorite.
If ever I’m stuck on some problem, I make a list. If life throws me a curve ball, instead of running and hiding to get away from it, I write a list.
Truthfully, lists are saving my life.
When my marriage ended, I wrote lists. There was the list of all the good things that would await me now that I’m single again.
Then there was the list with all the things I hated about my ex-husband. Even before my marriage ended, I had no trouble making that list.
Lists bring order to the random thoughts in my head and help me make sense of the world.
Sometimes they just serve to help me make sure I get all the things done I need to get done.
I’ll just say it: lists have changed my life.
But right now, I only need to focus on the shopping list. Earlier, I started to list possible color schemes for the new book. For some reason, purple is at the top.
Since when do I like purple?
Maybe this house is haunted with one of those little green Irish sprites, and he’s been mischievously tampering with my list.
Okay—lists, shopping, time to focus.
My brow furrows as I shove the list in my pocket and head for the door. Just as I reach for the keys to my car, I stop.
No, none of that. Better not drive that thing the rental place calls a car. I think it’s a possessed beast of some sort masquerading as a vehicle.
I swear I’m usually a patient, careful, and all-around decent driver. If the car hadn’t been intent on hitting Killian, the accident would never have happened.
Well, that and my fatigue. And my judgment’s seen better days.
There’s a lot that’s fucking going on in my life, and I should wait for the psychic mess to calm down a little bit before attempting to navigate the narrow, medieval paths of this village with that monstrosity of a vehicle.
Holy shit.
Is that ever going to happen? Will it happen while I’m here? Truth be told, I’m not even sure when I’m going back yet.
Returning isn’t something I’m looking forward to, but that has to happen eventually.
Fuck it, I’m wasting time speculating about a nebulous future. There are errands waiting to be done and a book waiting to be drawn. I ditch the car keys and head around the side of the house. I’m sure I caught sight of the bicycle.
Boy, it’s been years since I’ve ridden a bike. So many years that I wonder if I still know how.
That’s right—it came with the cottage. It’s not like I’ve considered actually riding it, though. Not until now.
Surely, I still remember how to ride a goddamn bicycle, right? Although to be fair, I haven’t had much practice recently—it’s not like you can ride a bike down the side of the 405. I approach it reluctantly, wondering if it might bite or kick.
Wait. Wrong mode of transport. Bicycles don’t kick and bite—those are horses.
How awesome would it be if the cottage came with a horse instead? Now that would be a safe, or at least classy, mode of transportation.
My eyes look at the tires. They look alright. To make sure they’ve got enough air, I push down on the front tire with my fingers.
Hard as a rock—so far so good.
With as much confidence as I can muster, I wrap my fingers around the handlebars and push the bike toward the front of the house. As I’m walking, I’m pushing self-doubt away as much as I can.
That’s even harder than it sounds.
In the end, I decide there’s only one thing to do. With a deep inward breath, I swing my leg over the saddle and come down on the seat as I exhale. Then I hang on tight and start to pedal.
The temptation to close my eyes is strong, but I know I can’t be that fucking stupid.
Not again.
After about fifty pedals, give or take a few, I realize what everyone says about bike riding is true.
You never forget how to do it.
Confidently, I pedal into town.
This is nice. It’s scenic, there’s a pleasant breeze, and it’s calmer and quieter than anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of where I live. I could get used to this.
That’s another thing about being single. I can just make decisions on the spur of the moment. There’s no one to consult, to ask, and to consider.
It’s not bad at all.
I’ll go as far to say that I like it.
If I were still married or with anyone right now, I wouldn’t be in Ireland. And I certainly wouldn’t be cycling through the countryside.
The village center, with its cobblestone streets and little shops, is nearly as lovely as the natural scenery.
When I get to the store, I leave my bike out the front and meander in.
The rows are a little narrower—or a lot narrower—than what I’m used to, so much so that I promptly knock several items off the display shelves in aisle one.
Nervously, I look around.
No security guard or foul-tempered store attendant comes to tell me off. No one pays any attention to my mishap, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
And there’s another plus to this single life. My DH ex would have yelled at me for my clumsiness as if I was all of five years old. He wouldn’t have cared about us being in a public space.