Rebecca
Holy shit.
My knees are wobbling like jelly, and a fire of overpowering intensity is spreading through me at the goddamned speed of light.
If Killian didn’t have his arms wrapped around me, I’m sure I’d be a blob on the pub floor.
There’s total silence around me.
It’s as if someone’s pressed the mute button on life. I can’t hear any of the noises that moments earlier were giving me a headache.
“You weren’t going to order a drink, were you?”
Pouting, I put my hands on my hips.
“What are you implying, Killian?” I pretend to be outraged at his question. “That I’m so irresponsible I’d do something like that?”
Killian laughs and puts his arm around my shoulder. He gives it a little squeeze for good measure.
“How about something bold, something dark, and a little bitter?”
In mock horror, I punch him in the chest. “It might be the drink of the Irish, the one to fix every ailment, but Guinness is still alcohol.”
He rolls his eyes. “I meant coffee, in case it wasn’t clear.”
Oh.
“Irish coffee?”
“Rebecca...” His voice is stern, like I’d imagine an Irish school headmaster might sound like.
“Just kidding.” I throw up my hand in exasperation. “Can’t a gal have a little fun?”
“Strong black and one whiskey—neat,” Killian calls to the bartender.
I’m amazed how his order is fulfilled straight away.
“So, how much do you pay to get this type of service?” I tease, following him to two empty bar stools.
“Pay?” He pulls back in horror. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a hotshot author in this town—I mean planet—and I indeed get paid to come here and drink their stuff. The people here worship the ground I walk on, after all.”
I giggle. “Really? And why would an author of critically acclaimed, yet occasionally challenging material, receive such superstar treatment?”
His brow furrows. Our drinks arrive, and he lifts his glass.
“Fucked if I know. But who am I to question the actions of an entire town?”
Fair point.
“Well, I guess, but aren’t you the least bit curious?” I say, leaning toward him a little.
As I do so, my thigh brushes against his.
“Haven’t you heard?”
I shake my head and sip my coffee. Now he’s coming a little closer to me—and he was already plenty close—but hey, maybe it’s a cultural thing with these saucy Irish boys.
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
We both burst out laughing, almost as hard as we were back in that field of heather.
“Can I have another?” Killian calls out to the bartender but continues to look right at me.
“I’m all good, if that’s what you want to know. If I drink too much caffeine, I go silly,” I confess before taking another little sip.
It’s great coffee, exactly the way he ordered it—strong, bold and a little bitter.
It beats the ever-loving shit out of what you’d get at a bar or anywhere back in the States.
As far as I’m concerned, life’s too short to drink bad coffee. If you drink the stuff, you may as well drink the good stuff.
“Do you now?” Killian raises his eyebrows. “And exactly what happens to you?”
“Oh, Killy, you don’t want to know.”
“Ahh, but I do.”
I shake my head.
How does he do it?
It must be him. I’m not lying about caffeine giving me the goofs, but two goddamned sips aren’t enough to get me acting like...
What am I acting like, anyway?
Maybe it is the coffee—they just make it that strong here.
The next sip of coffee is even better than the last. “Okay, so all the caffeine bounces around my body like isotopes around a nuclear reactor and, bingo, you’ve got one dangerous person on your hands.”
Killian just stares at me for about two seconds. Hey, if he doesn’t find me funny, that’s his goddamned problem.
And I’m enjoying the look on his face as he stares anyway.
Killian finally breaks into a robust laugh. It’s a hearty belly laugh, one that has him almost doubling over at the waist.
“I’ve got to see this,” he exclaims and rubs his hands together. “Can I have an extra-large, extra strong coffee in the biggest mug you’ve got, please?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
“You’ll regret it,” I assure him and empty my current cup.
He rests his left hand on my thigh. I like it.
I probably like it too much.
“I don’t think so. I mean, I’d love to see the famous illustrator, the woman always in total control of her life, lose a bit of it.”
“That’s not very nice of you,” I mumble, and fold my arms.
“So?” He shrugs. “When did I say I was nice?”
I pretend to mull over his words. “I guess you didn’t.” I look him directly in the eyes.
There’s something there. Something I’ve not seen in the last few days.
Is it a spark of some sort?
Is this what inspiration seeping through an Irish novelist looks like?
“I just assumed you’re nice, you know, what with you being an author and all. And owning a horse.”
Killian leans into me again. His lips are right near my ear. I can feel his warm breath against my neck.
My own breathing increases, and I’m at the edge of my seat.
This is worse than any horror movie I’ve ever watched.
In fact, this is worse than watching Freddie Kruger. I mean, I have no fucking idea how this is going to end.
Real life is like that, I guess. No happy endings guaranteed, and nobody really knows what’s to be found outside the multiplex after it’s all over.
“You know what happens when you assume?”
I shake my head.
Each of my nerve cells quivers in anticipation. My body is practically screaming for him to touch me.
“When you assume, you put u between me and, wait, whose ass is that on the other side of you?”
This time, I laugh so hard tears are streaming down my cheeks. It’s not even that great a joke. I think the original may have been preferable.
But it’s all in the delivery. And Killian has that shit down pat.
“Stop it,” I order him, and wipe my face with the back of my hand. “If you keep going, I’m going to wet my pants, and I didn’t bring a spare slip.”
He strokes my cheek.
The gesture is so gentle—I just want to nuzzle my cheek into his hand and kiss him.
I can still feel his lips on mine from the kiss before. No wait, I can still taste him on my lips. The whisky, his masculinity, and the insecurities.
And I wanted to do it again.
So strong is the urge, I lean back a little to put some distance between us. With a trembling hand, I pick up the fresh mug of coffee and take a sip.
Hopefully, my hands aren’t shaking too much.
“How’s the writing going?” I ask, trying to regain some of my composure.
Killian shakes his head.
“It comes and goes,” he replies and waves his hand in the air as if trying to swipe a fly.
I nod.
I understand creativity. A lot of people don’t. It’s hard to delve into your creative juices every day and produce brilliance.
Some days you just don’t feel like it—but if you have a deadline, you’ve got to produce.
“And you?”
And me. Exactly right. It’s the same for me, only worse.
“I’ve had better days,” I confess. “But tomorrow is another day.”
Killian nods. “Let’s not talk about work.”
“Let’s not.” I look at him. “What should we talk about?”
He doesn’t reply immediately. It seems as if we’re locked in some quiet duel.
Neither of us wants to break the spell.
Neither of us knows what to do next.
Suddenly we’re part of some play, and we don’t have the script.
Should I improvise?
“You know,” I say, holding out my coffee. “This is surprisingly good stuff. I mean, for coffee.”
“You better get used to it, Becks. That’s all you’ll be having for a while. No alcohol for you.”
“So, when’re you giving it up?” I prompt and take a sip from my mug.
“Me, give it up?” Killian feigns a pain to the heart and clutches it with both hands. “What’re you trying to do to a healthy man, lassie?”
I grin. “I think it’s called support?”
“Support? How can I be supportive without a fecking drink?”
He looks way more fucking funny than he has any right to as he’s still clutching his heart.
“I can be supportive, but if you take my drink, well, support will go out the window.”
“Can’t have that, then, can we?” I rub his left upper arm to show sympathy. “We wouldn’t want you to collapse in a heap. I mean, what would happen to me if you were, you know...”
I stop because I was about to burst out laughing again. His crestfallen look is priceless.
“Trust me, Becks,” he says and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll be supportive all the way, as long as I’ve got me whisky.”
I nod.
His lips on my cheek are tugging at my insides again. With his face still within easy reach, all I need to do is turn my head slightly to the right for our lips to meet.
And in slow motion, I start turning my head.