Killian
Our lips hover near each other so closely that I can taste the tea on her breath. I can feel the warmth of her body radiate through her clothing.
There’s a sudden hyperawareness of my own body. I can feel my heart throbbing in my lips. I can feel every hair I have rising from my skin.
Yet there’s this feeling of disconnect. As if I’m on the outside looking in. Is this what an out-of-body experience feels like?
My thumbs rub against her arms, and I can’t help but wonder why we’ve stopped ourselves.
There’s obviously still some attraction there. She’s been watching me since she got here—which I’ve enjoyed poking fun at—and here we are, right now, on the verge of giving in.
And she certainly can’t try to blame the whiskey. We’re both sober—well, mostly sober on my end—so she can’t use that excuse.
I certainly know that I want her, but who wouldn’t? The woman is gorgeous and is more than skilled in the bedroom. Even if it had been her first time.
And if she didn’t want me, she wouldn’t be here right now. She would’ve certainly just left by now.
So why the hesitation?
She clears her throat and takes a step back. I let go of her arms and do the same.
I need a fucking drink.
She watches me walk over to her desk and open the drawer. My hope is to find some whiskey, and in the drawer, I see an empty bottle of Jameson.
Of course she would be drinking Jameson.
I set the empty bottle down on the desk and make my way over to her cupboard. Looking inside, I don’t find any Bushmills or Jameson. But I do find a bottle Locke’s 8-Year-Old single malt.
That’ll do nicely—I make short work of cracking open the bottle and pouring myself a glass.
I make even shorter work of emptying the glass in one quick drink.
It’s a mix of fruit and barley with plenty of oak and just a touch of floral in its taste. It’s smooth and burns going down—everything a proper Irish whiskey should do. And it helps to take the edge off.
Turning around, I hold up the bottle to Rebecca in an unspoken offer.
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself, lass.”
Time to pour myself another drink. I watch that golden-colored drink crash against the glass like a small storm. It looks like a raging sea all by itself. Then, everything is calm and still like the eye of a hurricane.
My fingers wrap around the glass, and I feel the weight of it against my hand. It feels good—feels right—and gives my mind something else to focus on for a merciful moment.
The glass and the whiskey are transporting me to the point that I don’t even realize that I’m holding my breath.
This isn’t at all how I wanted this week to go.
I’ve got a bad arm, thanks to Rebecca hitting me with her car. Then there’s Rebecca herself being here.
And, of course, I can’t write, because I’ve managed to come down with writer’s block of all fucking things. And even if I could write, the head of my editing team is off on their honeymoon and having a baby at that.
It seems as though everyone is having—or wanting—a baby.
But then maybe that’s the answer.
The breath I was holding is finally let out.
I also let go of the glass in my hand, leaving it on the counter. I turn to face Rebecca.
It’s not entirely clear how this is going to end. Redheads—especially those with Irish blood in them—can have quite the temper. Even the lovely and softhearted ones like Rebecca.
“Let’s have a baby, Rebecca. You and me.”
Her lips part, and her blue eyes widen at my words.
She looks one part surprised, one part angry, and two parts unamused. It’s the “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” cocktail.
“I didn’t tell you that to be mocked, Killian.” She glares. “And I certainly didn’t tell you that so that you could use it as some in to get into my pants again.”
“I’m serious, Rebecca. Dead serious. Look into my eyes.”
As mad it is sounds, I’m genuine in my offer.
“I don’t have time for your jokes, Killian,” she scoffs.
Maybe it’s the whiskey—and the Guinness.
Maybe I’m really just that horny and wanting any excuse to get her back into bed.
Or maybe I’ve finally lost my fucking mind.
That seems like the most likely explanation.
Since she doesn’t immediately hit me, maybe she sees that I’m not just taking the piss.
“I get how much you love kids, Rebecca. You’re the greatest illustrator of children’s books in the world because of how much you love them. And I know how much being a mother means to you. I know how wonderful you would be at it.”
I know that I may be laying it on thick, but it’s also the truth—truth that I hope works in my favor.
“So you want to have a child and have a big happy family with me? Is that it?”
Now here comes the part where she might still hit me.
“Not quite. Think of this as purely a business arrangement between friends or acquaintances. You get to have the baby you always dreamed of without having to worry about being stuck in a loveless marriage. You don’t have to ever worry that you’ll be single forever and with nothing to show for it. I get an extension I need for my book. It’s a win-win for the both of us.”
I can see her weighing the pros and cons. Which—for me—is a good sign.
Obviously, it isn’t everything that she dreamed of being offered, but it’s a lot that I’m throwing out there at her.
It’s a heavy-handed move on my part that—I will admit—is rather manipulative.
But I need the extra time. I have nothing to write, and I have a deadline looming over me like the fucking Ghost of Christmas Past.
The more I think about it, the more sense it makes.
This way, I can tell my publisher that I, too, am having a baby and need the time off to prepare—which would all be true—and to make sure the love of my life is well taken care of during the pregnancy—which would be a slight exaggeration.
It would lift this weight off my shoulders and give my anxiety a vacation.
Who knows, maybe all the baby-making with Rebecca will get my creative juices flowing just as much as my baby-making ones.
That thought has my cock twitching a bit prematurely.
Not yet, boyo. Let the woman say “yes” first before you celebrate.
“How can I even take you seriously, Killian? You’ve been drinking all day. I could say yes now, and then you could wake up tomorrow and take it all back.”
Her breathing picks up as she imagines this scenario.
“You could show up at my door,” she continues, “and be all, ‘Oh, sorry, lass. I was a wee bit hammered last night and really didn’t mean it when I offered to have a baby with you. But I’m totally down to fuck.’” Her impression of yours truly is not that bad. “I can’t handle that kind of humiliation.”
With that last sentence, there’s this raw emotion in her voice that hits me hard. She’s put herself out there for me to see, and it’s incredibly courageous of her to do.
There’s an honesty to it that I find very admirable. It’s not something I could do, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t respect it.
Luckily for her, her fears are unfounded.
“Alright, I’ve had some drinks. There’s no point in me trying to say I haven’t. But we both know that I haven’t had enough to impair my judgment.”
I begin to close this gap between us and move slowly toward her, looking her in the eye as I explain this the best I can.
“I’m offering you this with sound mind and body. This isn’t something that I’m going to wake up tomorrow and go, ‘Oh shite, what have I done?’ I’m telling you, Rebecca, this offer is as serious and genuine as any offer could be.
“I know I can’t give you the whole big happy family bit that you want and deserve, but I can give you that piece of the puzzle. And I would like to think you know that I wouldn’t offer something like this to be cruel or to make a joke. That’s not who I am. So please, have a baby with me.”