Rebecca
Tea with milk and two sugars.
A fresh wool sweater—thick, cable-knit and emerald green.
A pair of wool socks thick enough to stave off the morning chill, and a paintbrush tucked jauntily behind one ear.
I fall into my old routine just like that.
It’s comfortable, calming. It makes me feel at ease. The strange thing is that it makes the differences between my old life and this new one stand out even more.
I’m drinking Irish breakfast tea instead of my usual Earl Gray. Instead of the plush carpet of the place that used to be my home, I’m treading ancient oaken floorboards.
There’s an Irish sunrise pouring over Irish fields of green as I sit down at the cottage’s worn, wooden desk and look out the window. And when I breathe in the fresh Irish morning air, it doesn’t catch in my lungs like the smog of the city used to.
The biggest difference, though, is that when I take my first sip of tea for the day, I’m not holding that breath. There’s no trigger-hair temper to tiptoe around, no angry asshole husband to try and appease. There’s no one in this cottage but me this morning.
So instead, I breathe the breath out nice and slow, as the warm, sweet tea floods in over my tongue. Then I raise my eyes to the window and startle so hard I nearly spit the tea out against the pane.
“Oh, put a fucking shirt on!” I groan after swallowing the tea hard.
Because there, just across the stone fence that separates my yard from his, is Killian fucking Walsh doing yardwork in nothing but his boots and blue jeans.
He has no shirt on.
It leaves his toned muscles completely on display. Upon closer inspection, I see a black strap slung over one sculpted shoulder. It crosses over his chest to a sling that cradles his injured arm.
As I stand there, unable to draw my eyes away from the picture outside my window, I watch Killian work. He’s figured out a solution to having an injured arm—he’s using the side of his body and the uninjured arm to trim his hedges.
It takes one determined man to get things done no matter his state of condition.
And I have to admit…I definitely don’t mind watching him work.
My jaw nearly hits the floor as I gaze at his muscles contracting and rippling in the morning sun. But after a few more seconds of being stuck in captivation, I begin to feel bad. Here I am, ogling him when I could be out there helping him.
After all, it’s my fault that he’s in that sling in the first place.
It looks uncomfortable, the way he has to twist his body to cut the hedges. I have two capable arms to his one, and Lord knows I’m not doing anything with them while starring at him. If I’m not going to work myself, the least I can do is give Killian a hand instead.
Determined to lend a hand, I walk to the desk, and the paintbrush behind my ear is pulled down, clinking against the wood as it is laid on the desk.
Slipping on black fur-lined boots that slip on easily over the wool socks I still wear, I swing the cottage’s heavy oak front door open and walk outside into the crisp Irish air.
Killian doesn’t look up as I slowly approach him. He just keeps clipping away at stray branches on the hedge.
I cough slightly to get his attention but get no reaction.
What the fuck? Is he actually ignoring me?
God, he’s irritating sometimes.
Even though he’s obviously giving me the cold, injured shoulder, I remind myself that I came out here for a damn reason.
The least he could do is look up to acknowledge me.
“I, uh, saw you through the window and was wondering if you wanted some help with that. It can’t be that easy with your arm in the sling.”
He leaves me talking to his downturned head as he concentrates on the task at hand.
“I knew you were watching me, love. Like what you see?” Killian rumbles. His deep voice and Irish accent roll through my ears, creating a tingle inside my body.
He may be cocky and annoying at times, but what woman in their right mind wouldn’t be affected by a sexy, shirtless man with an equally sexy accent?
I shake my head as my annoyance at him wins out over my attraction to him. Here I am, trying to offer my help, and he just can’t help but make a joke of it, can he?
I stare him dead in the face. He stares back with a cocky grin and a sparkle in his eyes. I can tell he thinks he’s clever.
Egotistical prick.
“Have fun with the yardwork, Killian,” I grumble before turning around and heading back to the cottage.
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.”