Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door

by Lee, Nadia

  Ew.

  –Skye: Cosigned.

  –Me: You’re both being ridiculous.

  –Skye: She didn’t deny the hotness.

  –Lucy: Nope.

  I rolled my eyes. They knew me too well.

  –Me: Okay, he isn’t too bad. Didn’t max out the orangutan meter.

  And my text just became the most flagrant understatement of the year. But it wasn’t like Lucy and Skye were going to meet Killian.

  –Lucy: I want pictures.

  Oh come on!

  –Skye: Yep. Photographic evidence, please.

  –Me: Take my word for it, ladies. He’s not worth the data.

  –Skye: I’m on wifi.

  –Lucy: Me too.

  –Me: I’m not taking a picture of him in the shower!

  –Skye: Of course not.

  –Lucy: That would be porn.

  –Skye: Do it after he’s out.

  I gave up. My friends were acting like pigs, but I grudgingly admitted they were right to be skeptical. I was known to disparage good-looking men. It wasn’t because I had anything against attractiveness. It was just that… Men who were too hot for their own good reminded me of my dad. And I wasn’t too crazy about how I looked, either, because I’d taken after him in every way except for my hair, which was blond like my mother’s.

  “Hey, Emily! Can I borrow a towel?” came a shout from upstairs.

  I glared up at the ceiling. Now he wanted a towel, too? “What’s wrong with the one you brought with you?” I yelled back from my couch.

  “It’s wet!”

  Oh, for God’s sake! “Hold on a minute! Don’t drip water everywhere or I’m making you mop the floor! On your hands and knees!”

  Ooh, and you should totally watch while he’s doing that, a voice that sounded suspiciously like a chorus of Lucy and Skye said. Men who clean are extra hot.

  No, I did not need to see that or think about it…or imagine his back and arm muscles flexing while he cleaned my floor.

  Don’t forget those wide shoulders…

  No, no, no. What I needed was to kick the sexy pest out of the house as soon as possible. And I most certainly would not wonder why my face felt so warm at the moment.

  I got off the couch and went upstairs, grumbling under my breath about men who wanted more than what they’d agreed to. I wasn’t a hotel! On the other hand, Killian was shameless enough to parade around naked if he got a chance. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have shown up on my doorstep draped in a towel in the first place. Hell, if I screamed at him to cover himself, something in his brain might break from the overexertion of trying to figure out why a woman wouldn’t want to see his naked body.

  Okay. Maybe some women would want to see him nude. Well…not just some, but a lot of women. But I wasn’t one of them. I just thought he’d make a great cover model because photography hadn’t advanced enough to capture a subject’s personality.

  I looked through the linen closet’s neatly folded stacks of towels. My gaze fell on the blue one first, but then I noticed the pink one right under it. Well, well, well. Feeling spiteful, I pulled that one from the stack, then, making sure to turn my head away, I threw the towel into the guest bathroom. “Here!”

  “Thank you!” His response was so cheery that I could almost picture him waving as well.

  Okay, this was still a small price to pay for a month of peace and quiet. I clamped down on the terrible urge to sneak a peek at his bare body and took firm, purposeful steps back to the living room. I should get back to the story—and finally finish the first sex scene between Molly and Ryan. I felt awful about stopping in mid-kiss and leaving the characters there for more than twenty-four hours. My couple deserved better treatment. Maybe I should add an extra sex scene. And a baby epilogue. My readers loved babies.

  I sat down on the couch with the computer on my lap. I found the spot I’d marked for a full sex scene toward the end of the document.

  “Oh yeah, baby,” I murmured. “You’re going to get laid today. Woohoo!”

  “Who’s getting laid?”

  I almost jumped. My laptop tilted and I grabbed it fast. After placing it on the table, I spun around to face Killian. Who was standing behind me in nothing but the pink towel. Holy shit.

  He smelled fresh with a hint of soap, and looked as good as he smelled. His skin gleamed as a couple drops of water fell from his still-damp hair and slid down his naked shoulder and ropey arm, tracing an irregular path of the crevasses between the lean muscles. Those eyelashes were incredibly thick, and his eyes so, so blue. Regardless of what I thought of his personality, he was scrumptious. I felt an urge to lick all the water off him that the towel had missed.

  And as soon as I realized that, I blinked and wanted to smack myself for thinking with my hormones. Since I couldn’t do that without appearing weird, I opted for a you’re not welcome here anymore expression instead.

  “Shouldn’t you be going home now?” I said coolly.

  “Don’t worry, I will. Soon as I finish air-drying my chest hair.”

  It was the most ludicrous thing I’d ever heard coming out of a man’s mouth. For one thing, he didn’t have enough chest hair to dry.

  I caught myself before I asked whether he had to air-dry his pubic hair as well. Killian wouldn’t be scandalized. Or become self-aware enough to realize how ridiculous his explanation about air-drying chest hair was. No, he’d just laugh, say, “Now that you mention it…” and whip the towel from around his waist.

  I did not need to see his cock. Ever. No matter how big it might be. And I could tell it’d be big and impressive. God had been unfair when he’d created Killian. Why stop at a pretty face and a hard body?

  “Hey, you got a beer?” Killian asked.

  “Are you kidding? I’m not a grocery store.” Besides, he owed me a favor, not the other way around. I’d even lent him my good pink towel.

  “You took all the Hop Hop Hooray. Sunny told me the store has no clue when there’ll be more.” He raised a finger. “Just one. I promise I won’t bother you again.”

  The man was utterly shameless. “You promised to be quiet,” I reminded him. “And yet I can hear you.”

  “Is my voice annoying you?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  He sounded hot as hell, a baritone that stroked my nerve endings and lit them up until my mouth felt dry. And that made him extra irritating. On the other hand, I wanted a beer now that he mentioned it, and I didn’t feel like getting off the couch.

  “Fine. One,” I said finally. I made sure I sounded super grudging. He needed to know I wasn’t doing it because I wanted him to do something for me, and I knew he wouldn’t lift a finger without getting something back. “And you can go get me one from the fridge as well, since I’m out of my work drink.”

  “Awesome. Thanks.” He smiled.

  My breath stilled, and my brain froze. It was a genuine smile, one without a hint of mockery or ego. It seemed like the sun, brilliant and mesmerizing, but utterly out of my reach. All coherent thought drained from my mind, and the only thing left was potent admiration.

  He didn’t seem to notice my reaction, though. As he walked over to the fridge, the light coming in through the windows created a hazy halo effect around him. My fingers curled with the desire to touch him, just to see if he felt as fine as he looked.

  The sound of the fridge door opening and closing jerked me back to reality.

  Holy hell. How could I have been so juvenile, like some high school girl around a hot quarterback? I was much too old and sensible for that.

  He brought over two beers. I accepted one, trying not to notice—again—how wide his shoulders were. Or how hard his chest looked. He sat down next to me on the couch, and suddenly the couch seemed to shrink. Killian smelled so freaking good.

  I wanted to ask him to get off the couch, but that would make me an ungracious bitch, considering there wasn’t any other good place for him to sit, so I bit my tongue. Then pr
ayed the beer would lessen his attraction. Men who drank said stupid things.

  “So. You didn’t answer my question. Who’s getting laid?” he asked again.

  One-track mind. But if I ignored him, he would continue to pester me—if not today, then tomorrow and the day after—because he was a man and, as such, wouldn’t just forget about sex. “Nobody you know.”

  He leaned closer and tilted his head. “Do you still think Molly and Ryan are hooking up?”

  I choked on my beer, dripping a mouthful on my shirt. “Shit!” I coughed to clear my throat and nose. “How did you—agah!—know?” Had he managed to read a snippet off the screen earlier?

  “You were talking about them in the store.”

  I stared at him. “I was?”

  “Yeah.” He gave me a long, evaluating look. “Just so you know, that’s how rumors start.”

  I bristled. How dare he sit in my home, drink my beer and judge me? I could write whatever the hell I wanted! I wasn’t creating or spreading rumors! It wasn’t my fault some people couldn’t tell the difference between fact and fiction. “It’s none of your business what I do or don’t do,” I said stiffly, regretting wasting a good beer on this ungrateful, sexy piece of shit.

  “Yeah, but Molly and Ryan are good people. Molly has a couple of kids, and Ryan’s been married for forty years. Don’t you think you should be more considerate?” Now even his tone was judging.

  “What are you talking about?” Molly was in her twenties, Ryan in his thirties. Neither had ever been married.

  Killian’s eyebrows pulled together until lines formed between them. “You know, Molly Patterson and Ryan Johnson?”

  I sat back, my body sagging as the indignation subsided. He thought I was talking about real people in town. I didn’t know who Ryan Johnson was, but I’d run into Molly Patterson at a farmers’ market once or twice when I first moved in. An okay but kind of pushy lady. Overly chatty, too. She’d wanted me to join the local PTA despite the fact that I was single and childfree.

  “Oh Lord, nobody cares if you’re single!” She’d laughed as she said it, waving a hand like my reply was the silliest thing ever. “Kids or no kids, we’d love to have you chip in and help out. There are so many things to be done. I mean, you’re home all the time, aren’t you?”

  The unspoken message being: You can’t possibly be doing anything worthwhile—you’re home all day.

  She’d continued, oblivious to my rising annoyance. “It’d be a fantastic opportunity to meet the people around here and use your time productively.”

  “I’d rather eat bull—” I’d caught myself in time because her kids were listening. “I’d rather stick my face into a wasp nest.”

  It was like I’d confessed to burning books and streaking naked under the full moon, drenched in Satan’s blood. “Why, I never…!”

  Chin held high, she’d stormed away in a huff, herding her children like little sheep, before I was able to point out that it was rude to presume I had nothing better to do with my time. Readers were waiting for my next book. Just imagine what they’d say if I told them I had to delay the release because I’d been too busy helping out with a local PTA that had nothing to do with me.

  “Are you friends with Molly?” I asked. He might’ve hung out with her when he came to visit his late grandmother. That could explain his defense of her and this Ryan Johnson guy.

  Killian’s expression turned mildly annoyed. Was he upset that I asking about his relationship with Molly? Or was he just annoyed that I wasn’t saying, “Yes, you’re right, of course. I’m so sorry I said things you thought were objectionable even though I wasn’t talking about your Molly and Ryan.”

  “No,” Killian said. “But I know who she is. Everyone in town does.”

  “So do I, unfortunately. And don’t worry. I wasn’t talking about her. Or your buddy Ryan. There are Mollys and Ryans other than the ones in this town, in case that’s never occurred to you.”

  He blinked. Something crossed his intensely blue eyes, but he was probably just processing the shocking factoid.

  “Isn’t your chest hair sufficiently dry now?” I asked, leaning back. “Maybe you should get going.”

  “Just trying to finish my beer.” He lifted his bottle, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. The movement was mesmerizingly sexy. I needed to make an appointment to see a therapist, because a man’s throat shouldn’t be this hot. Thankfully, Killian was almost done. His gaze flicked to something behind me. “You must really love Emma Grant.”

  Huh? How did he know my pen name? I hadn’t mentioned it in a haze of sexual fascination or something… Had I?

  “You have a lot of copies of her stuff,” he said, as though he’d sensed my unspoken question. Then he spotted my latest book on the coffee table and picked it up. “A Wall Street Journal bestselling author, huh?”

  “Yup. Hit the list four times,” I said proudly. I’d texted the screenshots to Dad every single time, too. It was an extra pleasure in life, since cutting him and dousing the wound with salt was likely illegal.

  Killian gave me an oddly guarded look. “You follow her career pretty closely?”

  Geez, did he think I was a stalker fan? “I should hope so, since I am her,” I said. I didn’t necessarily advertise the fact that I wrote, but I didn’t hide it, either, especially when somebody was in my home. And I had no reason to hide it with Killian. As a matter of fact, it would be a great chance to figure out what level of asshole he was.

  Killian did a double take. “You’re Emma Grant?”

  I nodded, then braced myself for a light dismissal—“Oh that’s so cute!” or “I always wanted to knock out a romance novel in my spare time!”—or mockery—“Mommy porn paying the bills?” or “I didn’t know people still read trashy smut!” That was the general reaction when people found out what I did, and there was no reason to think Killian would be any different. I decided to consider him a civilized asshole if he wasn’t as obnoxious and offensive as my dad, which was setting the bar pretty low. But since Killian would be coming over for half a month to borrow my shower, I wanted to avoid feeling homicidal rage at the sight of him. I still didn’t know how to execute a perfect murder.

  “Huh.” Killian looked at the cover again, then back at me before placing the book back on the table. “If you’re such a famous bestselling author, how come I’ve never heard of you?”

  I rolled my eyes. Lots of people said that when they found out that I’d hit the bestseller lists a few times. So I gave him the clichéd response I always handed out when I was dealing with them.

  “Maybe because you don’t read anything except utility bills?” Which was most likely true. According to statistics, most people didn’t read for pleasure, and therefore didn’t know that many authors. And even those who read a lot usually only knew writers who released books they liked to read. Sort of like me—I didn’t know any musicians. I didn’t listen to music because I found it distracting to my creative process. The only band I really knew was Queen, because Skye and Lucy had said I had to listen to Freddie Mercury sing or I was missing out. And the Beatles, only because I’d studied them in modern American pop culture class in college.

  “I read,” Killian protested, as though I’d accused him of not brushing his teeth every day.

  I crossed my arms. “Like what?”

  He started to tick titles off on his fingers. “Jurassic Park. The Martian. The Firm. Minority Report. Interview with the Vampire. Twilight…but that was only because my sister made me. Game of Thrones.” He gave me a triumphant smile. “That’s just a small sample.”

  Huh. Surprisingly eclectic. Science fiction to high fantasy to young adult paranormal romance and a legal thriller… Then I noticed something. Game of Thrones was the title of an HBO drama. A Song of Ice and Fire, George R. R. Martin’s series that the drama was based on, kicked off with A Game of Thrones.

  I snorted with amusement as I realized what Killian had done. “You mean you watched m
ovies and dramas based on books.”

  “So?” He shrugged and took a swig of the beer. “It’s like reading, but better.”

  “Books are ten thousand times better,” I countered. “Trust me. Adaptations are pale shadows at best.”

  “Says you.”

  “That’s right. And I’m the authority because I actually read, unlike you. Also, I’m an author.”

  “Being an author doesn’t mean you read.”

  I sighed. “It was a joke.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Author. It’s the same root as authority— Oh, never mind! Are you done with that?”

  Killian stood, put his empty beer bottle in the kitchen recycling bin and came back to the living room. He started to leave, stopped and returned to the coffee table, where he picked up my book and looked at it for a moment. “Mind if I borrow this?”

  Mr. I Watch My Novels wanted to read my book? Seriously? He didn’t even like romance. He’d said he’d only seen Twilight because of his sister.

  “No,” I said. “You’ll probably use it as a paperweight.”

  “Oh, come on. I have nothing to do, since I can’t make any ‘obnoxious’”—he made air quotes—“noises. Assuming you’ll forgive the sound of me turning the pages of your masterpiece, of course.”

  “Argh. I told you it was fine as long as I can’t hear it.”

  He laughed. “You’re cute when you fume. You look like an overheated teakettle with steam and a whistle. Grandma owned one that turned red when it got hot. Like in a cartoon.”

  I pointed at the door. “Out.”

  “Okay, okay.” He kept holding the book, and I decided to let him try to read it. He’d give up after a page or two. Men hardly ever read and liked romance because most of them were narrow-minded about books written by women for women. Just look at my dad.

  Killian started to walk off.

  “And give me back my towel!”

  “You really want it?” He smiled, flashing his dimple again and hooking a thumb under the edge.

  Dammit, he was naked underneath. And easily shameless enough to give me the towel this instant.