#rockstar!killian

I set down the menu and sit back, resting my hands in my lap as my eyes sweep over the alcove, taking in the fairy tale setting—a perfect blend of elegance and intimacy, with dark wood accents, plush seating and candlelit tables, the air filled with the scent of blooming flowers, sea salt and delicious food. “It’s perfect.” My eyes come back to his, lips twitching into a smirk. “But honestly, you could’ve taken me to Mcdonalds and I’d be happy as a clam.”

He chuckles, a deep, hearty sound that sends goosebumps over my skin.

He thinks I’m joking.

“I almost opted for Nobu, but I wasn’t sure if you liked sushi,” he says.

My eyes widen. “Are you kidding? I love sushi.”

His smile is a thing of beauty, lighting up his features in a way that rivals the setting sun. He extends his hand under the table, seeking mine, and when our fingers intertwine, electricity zips through me. His touch is warm, firm yet tender. “Good to know for next time.”

Next time?

There goes my stomach again, doing another somersault.

I love the idea of next time.

“I should’ve known you loved sushi. Henry gets his good taste from his beautiful mum.”

A blushing smile crosses my lips, and I squeeze his hand, my heart pounding as I fight off the urge to pull him closer and kiss him. Even though we’re cocooned in a pocket of privacy within the restaurant’s lush gardens, we’re not entirely invisible. A few of Killian’s acquaintances have already made their way over, each receiving a nod or a handshake from him.

When he introduced me as his art consultant, I played along, grateful for the anonymity the title afforded me. I have no desire to become tabloid fodder, especially not when my heart is tangled in a situation it shouldn’t be. I’m supposed to be on a date with a furniture shop owner, not dining with a rockstar.

As we chat, I’m acutely aware of Killian’s hand in mine, the warmth of his skin, the strength of his grip, and I’m imagining what it would be like to be alone with him—truly alone. The possibilities send a rush of heat through my veins. 

When his thumb traces gentle circles on my skin, tiny shivers shoot up my arm. The contact is tender, intimate, and I can’t help the way my breath catches just a little. Then he frees my hand briefly, making me miss his warmth, but it’s only long enough for the server to approach, jot down our orders and retrieve the menus from us.

“So, where is Henry tonight?” The softness in Killian’s voice matches the touch of his hand as he slips his palm into mine, threading our fingers together once more.

“He’s staying over at Roland’s house.” I take a sip of my pinot noir, savoring the rich bouquet of ripe cherries, a hint of spice and subtle earthy undertones. But the alcohol does nothing to soothe the fluttering in my chest.

He arches an eyebrow. “Is that the lad who was at Coachella with you?”

I nod, smiling. “Yeah, they’ve been best friends since elementary school.”

He leans back, a half-smirk playing on his lips as he watches me with an intensity that feels like it could pierce right through our casual facade. “That’s nice.” His eyes narrow slightly, a playful glint in them. “Did you tell Henry I was at your house for lunch the other day?”

I can’t help but laugh at the thought, picturing Henry’s reaction. His jaw would be on the floor, his expressive green eyes would grow impossibly wide and he’d launch into a barrage of questions, each one more incredulous than the last. “No way. He would lose his mind if he knew you were there. He’d probably also be furious with me for not including him.”

His thumb strokes the back of my hand beneath the table, a clandestine gesture that sends ripples of warmth through me. “Will you tell him you ditched your date to have dinner with me?”

I sigh, shaking my head. “No, probably not.” My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass, the truth settling heavy on my tongue. “I wouldn’t even know what to tell him at this point.” How could I possibly explain to my son that the man whose name alone would send him into a frenzy is the same man who turns my insides into liquid?

“Fair enough.” Killian squeezes my hand gently. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand answers or declarations, and I’m grateful for it. Grateful for this moment of reprieve, where I can simply exist beside him without the weight of explanations hanging over us. “You don’t have to tell him anything right now. We’re just having dinner, right?” There’s a lilt of playfulness in his voice that makes his British accent even more pronounced, a wink accompanying his words.

I smile wryly, the tension easing from my shoulders. “Right. Just dinner.”

But we both know this isn’t just dinner. Just like lunch wasn’t just lunch.

“What about Elsa?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

I can picture her now, her raised eyebrow, the knowing look she’d give me if she were here, witnessing Killian’s thumb caress mine. She would see right through our charade of “just dinner” without missing a beat.

As I’m about to respond, the waiter arrives with a basket of warm bread and a dish of herb-infused olive oil. Killian thanks him and offers the basket to me before taking a piece.

I break mine in half, dipping it into the olive oil.

We take a bite, and I savor the warm, fluffy texture as I continue our conversation. “I told her we went out to lunch but that it was only business. I think she’s on to me.” I’ll have to figure out how to tell her and Henry about Killian later. For now, I let myself be swept away by the moment, the uncertainties of tomorrow fading into the background.

“So, when do I get to meet her?”

My heart flutters, betraying my calm exterior. The idea of him meeting Elsa, facing her scrutiny, her silver-blonde hair likely to bristle like an indignant cat’s fur, is both terrifying and exhilarating. “She won’t be happy when she finds out I ditched Walsh for you. She’ll probably interrogate you to find out what your intentions are. Henry will too, just so you know.”

Killian’s chuckle rumbles through the alcove, warm and rich. “Can’t wait.”

I arch a brow. “You’re really up for that? Elsa can be pretty fierce, and Henry—well, he’s very protective.”

“I can handle it.” He flashes a smile, one that says he’s faced tougher critics than my protective entourage. “Besides, I have nothing to hide. Just ask Google.” The twinkle in his eye tells me he relishes the challenge—a man used to the spotlight, unfazed by scrutiny. Yet beneath the bravado, there’s a sincerity that makes me believe he’s not just playing the part. Killian Jones might be an open book to the world, but he’s still full of stories yet to be told. And I find myself wanting to read every page.

I smirk, my finger tracing the rim of my wine glass. “I could…but what I want to know are the secrets I can’t find on Google.”

A smile, disarming and far too charming, stretches across his lips as he leans back in his seat and rubs his chin, thinking for a moment. “Alright, here’s one—my moniker as a kid was Hook.”

Laughter bubbles up from my chest as I picture a young Killian, a boy full of spirit and spunk, bearing that nickname. “Hook, huh? Like Captain Hook? How did you get that nickname?”

His eyes, those deep pools of blue, hold mine, and in them, there’s a flicker of the boy he once was. “From a fishing trip with my brother Liam. We were out on the lake, and I was determined to show off my fishing skills. When I finally caught a big one, I thought I’d impress him by handling it myself. But as I was trying to remove the hook, the fish gave a sudden flip of its tail, and the hook ended up in the back of my hand. Liam couldn’t stop laughing, and from that day on, I was ‘Hook’.”

“Oh my God, that sounds painful.”

“It wasn’t my finest moment, but it certainly left a mark.” He holds up his free hand, showing the small scar on the back of it. “And a nickname.”

I lean in, my fingers gently tracing the rugged scar. My brows knit together involuntarily as I look up at him with a teasing smile. “That’s your big, juicy secret?”

“Well, maybe not juicy by tabloid standards, but it’s a part of me you wouldn’t find in any magazine. Liam and I made a deal long ago to not share embarrassing stories with the world. Some things we like to have for ourselves.”

I shake my head and laugh. “You know, I was expecting something more...I don’t know, scandalous?”

A playful twinkle lights his eyes as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “If you want scandalous, I could tell you about the time my ex-girlfriend, Milah, a French actress, dumped me for Robert Gold.”

My eyes widen, my wineglass poised in the air before it can make it to my lips. “Wait, Robert Gold? As in the American singer and pianist?”

He nods regrettably, a shadow of some past hurt crossing his face. “Milah and I met before I became famous. She was friends with Mary Margaret, who had just started dating David at the time, and came to one of our gigs. We bonded over our love for music—she studied piano and classical music before going into acting.”

I nod, finally taking a sip of my wine.

“We kept our relationship a secret for a while.”

“But then she left you for Robert?”

“Aye.” His eyes meet mine, a storm brewing in their depths—a tempest that speaks of betrayal and heartache weathered and survived, like that of my own. “Apparently, I wasn’t mature or famous enough for her.” He lets out a soft chuckle, but there’s an edge to it that speaks volumes. “It stung, but then Midnight Moon started gaining popularity, we signed with a big record label and ended up outselling Robert in albums.” A sly grin returns, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not that I was keeping track or anything.”

“Of course.” I smirk, understanding all too well the bittersweet triumph of proving oneself against the doubts of an ex.

Killian shrugs. “And it wasn’t until I became famous that Milah started reaching out to me again. But I haven’t responded to any of her calls or texts. Nor do I plan to.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Ah, becoming famous—the perfect revenge on your exes.”

He chuckles. “It really is.”

Then I think about something for a moment, recalling the last time I saw a picture of Robert Gold on social media. “But isn’t Gold like sixty?” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I wince, hoping I haven’t prodded a tender wound too harshly. “Not that I’m one to judge someone’s age,” I add quickly.

“Aye, he is. But Milah…she’s a bit older than me. Thirty, to be exact. At the time we were dating, I was eighteen and she was twenty-four.”

I laugh, raising an eyebrow teasingly. “So, you have a type?”

“A type?” He shakes his head. “Not really. I actually liked Milah.” His expression softens as he leans in even closer, the distance between us diminishing further, and I’m caught in the gravitational pull. “But now I find myself drawn to blondes with eyes the color of emeralds.” He meets my gaze with a twinkle in his eye. “Okay, that’s a lie, there’s only one blonde—one woman—I’m interested in.”

My heart doesn’t just skip a beat—it falters, flutters, then thunders back to life with a ferocity that leaves me breathless. A wave of warmth cascades through me, pooling in my stomach and spreading to the tips of my fingers intertwined with his. His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand.

“I hope I didn’t offend you that day at Coachella by mistaking you for Henry’s older sister.” He chuckles at himself. “I genuinely thought you were.”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “No, not at all. I took it as a compliment.”

“Good. But don’t worry, I won’t ask how old you are because it’s impolite and also because it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Well, I just turned forty last month,” I admit, my cheeks heating. “Ready to run yet?” I ask, afraid he might think of me as a middle-aged woman clinging to the fringes of her youth.

He doesn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.” He graces me with a reassuring smile, his eyes full of warmth. “I told you, it doesn’t matter to me.”

My eyes lock with his, and I find myself ensnared in his cerulean depths that seem to hold galaxies of unspoken words. The air between us crackles, each second stretched taut with anticipation. I can’t help but wonder where the night will take us, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I just want to enjoy our time together, no matter how it ends.

Our server returns with sautéed lump crab cakes and a watermelon salad with feta and mint. After he leaves, we eat our food, falling back into easy conversation.

“My favorite place as a kid was this old lighthouse near our home,” Killian replies when I ask him about his childhood. “There was something about it—standing tall and resilient against the chaos of the sea. It always made me feel safe when I was inside it, like it could weather any storm. And now, I feel like that lighthouse sometimes. Trying to survive all the crowds and chaos. Trying to survive the storm.”

His words hit me like a tidal wave, crashing against my heart and leaving me speechless. His metaphor is profound, striking a chord deep within me. “That’s so beautiful,” I breathe, my voice almost a whisper. “I mean, it’s beautifully put. And I can definitely see how you would feel like a lighthouse braving the storm in your line of work. I could never do what you do. And you make it look so easy.”

He blushes, his lips quirking up into a smile. “Thank you, love.” He squeezes my hand, the tips of his ears just as red as his cheeks. “The lighthouse actually inspired a song I’m writing.”

My curiosity is piqued. “I’d love to hear it.”

“It’s still a work in progress. And honestly, I don’t know if I’ll share it with the band. It’s something I wrote for myself.”

I nod. “I get that. Some things are just too personal to share. But if you ever feel like letting someone else hear it, I’d be honored.”

His eyes soften. “That means a lot. Maybe one day, I’ll play it for you.”

“Whenever you’re ready.” I find myself even more drawn to him, wanting to pick the creative part of his brain, the artistic side of him. “So, is that where you did most of your writing? When you were at the lighthouse?” 

He chuckles, scratching behind his ear. “Actually, no. I do my best writing when I have the telly on in the background and an electric guitar in my hands. If someone saw me, they would think I was watching the telly while playing the guitar, but what I’m actually doing is coming up with song lyrics. Something about the noise helps me focus.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s so funny. That’s exactly how Henry does his homework. He always has the TV on, his laptop in front of him and his music blaring—your music blaring. But me? I can’t think if there’s a fan humming in the background. I need complete silence to concentrate.”

He nods, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “What about you, Emma? What was your childhood like?”

I take a deep breath, smiling softly as memories flood back. “Well, I grew up in a small town. My childhood was pretty normal, I guess. My parents were always supportive, but they were also pretty strict.” Their expectations were like the masterpieces they so loved—to be protected and preserved. “My father’s an art history professor at Harvard. My mother was a curator. She’s retired now.”

“Art is the family business, then?” he asks, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Sort of, yes.” My answer comes out softer than intended, a hint of nostalgia threading through the words. “Their worlds revolved around art, and I got swept up in it long before I knew how to walk.”

“Did you attend Harvard?”

“I went to Brown. Then Columbia for my master’s.”

“Brown and Columbia,” he muses, lips curling into a smile. “That’s quite impressive, Swan.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Thank you,” I murmur, the words almost lost to the soft music.

“Did that piss off the professor?” His eyebrow arches in playful curiosity, his voice low and smooth. “Not going to Harvard?”

“A little.” A smile finds its way to my lips at the memory of my father’s stunned silence when I told him about Brown. It had been my first step out of his shadow, my own declaration of independence.

Killian’s eyes lock with mine, gleaming with mirth and something more—understanding, perhaps. He gets it, the need to forge one’s path, even if it means disappointing those we love. He knows what it’s like to choose the unexpected road, to chase a dream no one else can see but you. “Probably not as much as blowing off Cambridge to join a rock band.”

I laugh. “No, probably not.”

Once our glasses are empty, he refills them from the bottle chilling in ice. “Did you have a favorite place as a kid? Somewhere you could hide from your parents?”

I nod. “I loved spending time outdoors, exploring the woods and fields near our house. And there was this old oak tree I used to climb up and sit on one of the sturdy branches, sketching the landscape. I was always drawing—anything and everything. ”

His eyes light up. “You draw?”

I nod, my cheeks warming. “I do.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, Swan. Can I see some of your work?”

“Maybe someday. I haven’t drawn much lately, though. Running the gallery keeps me pretty busy.”

He eyes me thoughtfully. “You should make time for it. It’s important to keep doing what you love.”

His words hit me with an unexpected force, and I smile. “I’ll have more time this summer. Henry’s going to camp next month at Jameson Ranch.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he goes there every year. He loves everything there, the horseback riding, the rock climbing, the archery. I waited for the year when he’d say he’s too old, but it never happened. Now, this is his last year.”

“Sounds like an amazing camp.”

I nod. “It really is. I’m glad he gets to enjoy it one last time before he graduates next year.”

“Does he have any plans after graduation?”

I chuckle, lightly teasing, “Hopefully, they don’t include ditching college to start a rock band.” I raise an eyebrow playfully at Killian, who feigns offense, his hand over his heart in mock hurt.

“I’m kidding. Honestly, I’d be proud of him no matter what he does after high school.”

He smiles, taking a sip of his wine.

“But to answer your question, he’s been talking about going to LA Film School.”

Killian raises his brows, his eyes lighting up like the stars that have begun to pepper the evening sky. “Film school? Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah. He’s always had a knack for storytelling.”

“I bet he’ll do amazing. And how do you feel about him moving away for school?”

“I’ll hate it,” I admit with a laugh. “But I want him to pursue his dreams. Besides, he won’t be too far.”

“He can always come back during breaks and summers,” Killian reassures me with a nod.

“Yeah, it’ll be an adjustment, but I’m sure he’ll be ready to get out on his own and not have to live with his mom anymore.”

He chuckles. “I’m sure he’ll miss you like crazy when he’s gone.”

The waiter arrives with our entrées—herb-crusted salmon for Killian and a ribeye steak for me.

As we take our first bites, the flavors burst on my tongue—rich and perfectly seasoned, a hum of contentment escaping my lips.

Killian watches me with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Delicious.”

We eat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, stealing glances between bites.

“So, Henry and film school,” Killian says, returning to our earlier conversation. “Do you think he knows what kind of films he wants to make?”

I take a sip of my wine, loving the fact he’s asking about Henry and not just me. And even though I easily got bored listening to Walsh go on about his furniture shop, I’d be happy if Killian only spoke about himself. I could listen to him talk all day. “He’s still figuring that out, but he loves sci-fi and fantasy.”

Killian nods and smiles. “Ah, my favorite genres.” He takes another bite of his fish. “Oh, and by the way, I Googled that Ghost scene you were telling me about.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“I just have one question.” He holds up a finger, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Do potters always stroke the mold like that when throwing?”

I almost choke on my wine and laugh. “Uh, no. I think they were going for a steamy scene without going all pornographic.”

He chuckles, his cheeks red. “I figured as much.”

Finally, we’re served crème brûlée for dessert. The top is perfectly caramelized, with a thin, crisp layer of sugar that cracks under the spoon to reveal the creamy custard underneath.

I take my first bite and let out a small moan. The combination of the crunchy caramel top and the smooth vanilla custard is heavenly. I feed him a bite, and the way his eyes roll back, the rough groan he makes, sends heat to my core. I have to squeeze my thighs together to curb the temptation to have him for my dessert. At least for now, while we’re in public.

When the bill is paid, there’s a knot of dread in my stomach at the thought our evening might be drawing to a close soon.

Killian moves closer to me, his voice low and husky. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” My stomach flutters with nerves at the prospect of what his question might be.

“Please, feel free to say no if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure here.” Hesitation flickers in his mesmerizing blue eyes, so I place my hand on his leg, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“I promise I’ll say no if I’m not up for it.”

“Would you want to come back to my hotel room? It’s just a little more private there…”

I pause, the final bite of the crème brûlée halfway to my lips as I turn my head to look at him, sincerity in his gaze. The air between us thickens, rich with unspoken possibilities, and something stirs inside me, a longing I’ve kept at bay, one that’s been restrained by caution and past pain. But Killian has a way of crumbling the walls I’ve built around myself.

I finish the bite of dessert, the spoon clinking against the porcelain as I set it down. I lean back, folding my arms. “Trying to get me alone, Jones?”

A rosy pink blush paints his cheeks. “Maybe I am.”

I can’t help but laugh as he gives me the same answer I gave him the other day when he asked me if I was flirting with him.

“And what are your intentions once you get me alone?”

He chuckles and wets his lips with his tongue, leaning closer. He wraps an arm around my shoulders, his voice dark, almost a whisper. “Well, I watched you eat that dessert…the way you licked your lips and made those sexy noises…the way you kissed me the other day…”—His gaze moves to my mouth, his eyes ablaze with desire, his thumb caressing my shoulder—“and I really want that wicked mouth of yours on mine again. But honestly, I’d be happy to simply continue chatting.” The easy grin fades, replaced by something far more telling—a seriousness that belies his usual charm. “So, my intentions are whatever you wish them to be, love.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Really?” I challenge, my teeth catching on my bottom lip in an attempt to stifle the smirk that threatens to break free. “Whatever I wish?” My efforts are futile, it curls the edges of my lips regardless. “Alright then, how about you perform a song and dance number on this table?”

He arches a brow. “That’s your wish?”

“That’s my wish.”

He gives a nonchalant shrug, his cerulean eyes dancing with amusement. He launches from his seat, and before I know it, he’s halfway on the table. I reach out and grab his arm to stop him, giggles bubbling up from my throat at the thought of him actually going through with it. “I was kidding.” As he settles back into his seat, I narrow my eyes at him. “I can’t believe you were actually going to do it.”

His head tilts back slightly, and those piercing blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “Swan, you do realize you’re asking a rock star who’s used to outrageous requests and performing in public, right? You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to shock me.”

“Is that so?” I tease with a devilish smirk, placing my hand on his chest, feeling it beat under my palm.

He chuckles. “That is the most mischievous grin I’ve ever seen.”

My cheeks heat.

“What am I going to do with you, Swan?”

“Apparently, whatever I want you to do.” It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to be swept up like this—since I’ve let someone see the side of me that isn’t all business and pragmatism. Despite how flushed I am from all this flirtatious banter, I manage to make it out of the booth. I look over my shoulder. “You coming, Jones?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grabs his jacket and follows behind me.

When he catches up to me, I have to refrain from touching him until we get into his car. I can tell he’s just as tortured by the way he’s running a hand through his hair and looking over at me, a hunger sparking in those deep blue eyes.

Once we’re outside, the cool breeze sweeps around us, and I try to rub the goosebumps from my arms.

"Here, love.” Without missing a beat, Killian shrugs off his jacket and holds it open behind me, allowing me to slip my arms into the sleeves. He adjusts it on my shoulders and rubs my covered arms. The leather is warm from his body heat and smells faintly of his cologne, a comforting mix of spices and something uniquely him. "Can't have you freezing out here."

I pull the jacket closer around me, grateful for the warmth and the gesture. "Thanks, Killian." I smile at him. The jacket is a little big on me, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, but it's perfect. "Won't you be cold, though?"

He shakes his head, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Don't worry about me, Swan.” He wraps his arm around me and pulls me a little closer. “If I get cold, you’ll keep me warm, right?”

I roll my eyes and laugh, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Ever the charmer," I reply, leaning into him as we wait for the valet to retrieve Killian’s car.

As soon as we’re in, his hand quickly finds its way under the skirt of my dress and around my thigh, and my hand finds its way onto his shoulder. But there’s too much distance between us.

He brings me back to my car at Blair’s, and I follow him on the twenty-minute drive to Sunset Tower, which stands tall against the cityscape. We agreed it’s better to arrive separately in case paparazzi are lurking around. I wait a few moments in my Bug after he disappears inside, my heart pounding. I check my hair in the mirror and make sure there's no food in my teeth about four times while I gather the courage. I want this, I know I want this, I’m just hoping he won’t take one look at me without my clothes on and run away. Or worse, give me a pity fuck.

I shake away the doubts clouding my mind. Killian is not like that, and I know this. Unlatching the car door, I step out and head inside the hotel. I may not know him very well, but each time we talk, it’s so easy, so comfortable. We don’t have to force the conversation, it just flows naturally. We’re not two people with sixteen years between us, we’re just two people drawn to each other. And the more I get to know him, the more I see the kindness in his heart. The man behind the rockstar persona.

Once inside, I step into the elevator and press the button for his floor. As I ascend to the top, my heart flutters with excitement and nerves. I check my reflection on the reverse camera setting on my phone and take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. When the doors part, I step out and make my way down the corridor.

Tiny, Killian’s loyal bodyguard, stands watch at the end of the hallway, his hawk-like eyes scanning me briefly before he nods in recognition. Whether he knows what might transpire beyond the door to Killian’s hotel suite, he gives no indication.

Returning his nod, I continue down the hall—my heart pounding like a drum against my chest with every step closer to the suite number Killian had shared earlier. Taking a fortifying breath, I rap lightly on the polished wooden door.

Before I have time to talk myself out of this, it swings open and he’s standing before me, flashing one of his heart-melting grins.

“Hi, Swan.” He steps aside to let me in.

“Hi.” I manage a smile of my own, a thrill shooting up my spine as I enter his room, my stilettos clicking on the shiny hardwood floor.

He closes the door behind me, shutting out the rest of the world.

Finally, we’re alone again.

I’ve been waiting for this moment since he left my house. I couldn’t actually believe our kiss was a one-time thing as I was saying it out loud. I knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore my feelings for this man.

“Would you like something to drink, love?”

I shake my head and slip off his jacket, throwing it over a chair, his eyes roaming over me from head to toe.

All I want is him.

My heart races as we gravitate toward each other, closing the distance between us.

On the way here, I had questioned whether we would just chat or make out once we got here, or whether I’d even make it here at all, but now that he’s standing here in front of me, looking like he wants to devour me, I’m powerless to resist him—and truthfully, I don’t want to.

Our eyes are locked, the air crackling with a raw, electric charge that’s been building all night. I reach up, my hands finding the nape of his neck, pulling him down toward me. Our lips meet, a soft brush at first that quickly ignites into something more urgent, more demanding. The kiss deepens, and I taste the hint of the wine and crème brûlée we shared. I cup his cheeks in my hands, our mouths moving together with a familiarity that belies the short time we’ve known each other.

He wraps his arms around me as I snake mine around the back of his neck. My breath catches in my throat as his palms glide over the fabric of my dress, mapping the contours of my body as if committing it to memory. I’m already moaning softly into his mouth, lost in the sensations of him, the warmth of his body pressing against mine, the stubble on his jaw scratching softly at my skin, and the way his hands roam across my back, tracing the curve of my spine.

We break the kiss briefly, both of us sucking the same air into our lungs before reclaiming each other’s lips. I lean into him, deepening the kiss—his tongue hot and soft on mine, eager but not too much. It’s a dance we’re engaged in, and every move he makes only draws me in deeper.

He turns me around with a gentle insistence, and I gulp in air, my heart pounding against my ribcage, erratic and wild. His hands slip under the hem of my dress, his fingers brushing against my thighs, teasing, promising, until they find the silk barrier of my panties.

A gasp escapes me, unbidden, as he dips his hand beneath the fabric, his touch bold and unapologetic against my bare nub. I reach a hand behind him, cradling the back of his head as he kisses my earlobe, his breaths hot and heavy against my skin. Holding on to him is all I can do to not melt completely under the deft movements of his fingers, each stroke unraveling me even more. I feel like a teenager all over again.

“Swan…” His voice is low and seductive in my ear, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cool air of the hotel room. “Gods, you’re soaked.”

I bite my bottom lip and close my eyes as I arch into him, seeking more of the exquisite touch, my body betraying its eagerness for his skilled caresses. “Killian.” His name is a whispered plea, a prayer, on my lips as his fingers explore with an artist’s finesse.

It’s surreal, being here with him in his hotel room. Out there, in the real world, I’m Emma Swan—pragmatic, collected, an art dealer, a mother. But here, under Killian’s masterful touch, I’m coming undone, my usual poise giving way to raw desire. He’s young, magnetic, a rockstar used to captivating crowds, yet here, it’s just us, and he plays me like the strums of his guitar—each note building to a crescendo only he can command. The world falls away, leaving only the here and now, the heat of his touch, the pounding of my heart and the insatiable hunger that builds with every passing second.

He dips his head, his breath hot against the nape of my neck as he unclasps the strap of my dress with his free hand, letting the top fall away. He reaches under my bra cup, his hand shaping my breast, his thumb toying with my nipple as he kisses my neck. I tremble, caught in a web of sensations spun by his deft movements. My moans fill the room, unrestrained and foreign, like the sounds belong to another woman entirely—one unshackled by past fears or reservations. It’s been so long since I’ve moaned like this. In fact, I don’t think I ever moaned like this with Neal, yet Killian’s able to coax the sounds out with only his fingers.

Both of my hands are reaching behind us, fisting his hair for purchase as I completely give in to this man. He finds a rhythm, a dance of fingertips against the most sensitive parts of me, driving me wild, pushing me toward a precipice I’m all too willing to tumble over. The edge looms closer with each stroke, and I cling to him, lost in the storm he’s conjured inside me.

“Killian!” I scream toward the heavens as I ride his fingers, my walls pulsing around them. And I’m there, crumbling to pieces, coming all over his hand, and I’m gasping for air, my fingers tightening in his hair, clinging to him as he holds me sturdy in his arms.

Holy fuck.

That was…

My brain is too much like mushy oatmeal to put together the words to describe it.

Killian just holds me for a moment as I catch my breath, waiting for my heart to slow.

Once I’m able to move again, I manage to turn around and wrap my arms around the back of his neck, wanting to kiss the smug grin off his face. His arms encircle me, and he lifts me with an ease that sends another jolt of desire through my veins. The world tilts and spins around me, but I’m anchored by his gaze, his eyes holding mine. As he carries me across the room, our lips crash together again, a messy, perfect collision, his heartbeat thundering against mine, a mirror of my own escalating pulse.

My head hits the pillow as he sets me down gently, our bodies and lips still fused. I work at the buttons of his shirt, craving the warmth of his skin against mine. The fabric parts beneath my touch, revealing the taut muscles that ripple on his torso. His hands are on me now, skimming over my sides, each brush of his fingertips like a match struck against my skin, igniting a fire within me I had long forgotten could burn so fiercely. He reaches for my dress, and my breath catches in my throat as the red fabric and black bra falls away, leaving me vulnerable under his heated gaze. With trembling hands, I help him shed the rest of his clothes, each piece discarded like layers of ourselves peeling away.

I lie back on my elbows, allowing him to slide off my panties—the last piece of fabric separating us. There’s a pang of self-awareness as I think about how much my body has changed since I got pregnant with Henry. Stretch marks map across my lower belly like silver rivers, my breasts are fuller now, no longer pert like they once were.

But when I catch Killian’s eyes, darken with desire, and his cock standing at full attention, hard and throbbing, any lingering uncertainty evaporates. His hungry gaze roams over every inch of me—the stretch marks, the fullness of my breasts, every scar and imperfection—as if they’re elements in an exquisite artwork he can’t wait to explore further. He wants me. All of me—the woman who carried a child within her womb—every curve, every scar, every part of me life has shaped.

My nipples are hard peeks under his gaze, begging for the warmth of his touch. His mouth. His tongue.

Standing at the edge of the bed, he lifts my foot and unbuckles the straps of my shoes one by one, his ocean blues not even focused on his task but roving up my naked curves instead, my center spread and bare to him, glistening with a hunger I haven’t felt in years.

Once my shoes are gone, he climbs onto the bed and settles between my thighs with a devilish glint, hiking my legs over his shoulders. He leans in, leaving soft kisses over my thighs and nub leaving me shivering in anticipation, my breath catching. He traces my slick folds with his lips, his breaths warm over my flushed skin, my heart like a jackhammer. Our eyes are locked in a steely gaze, but once he parts my thighs further apart, his grip bruising my skin in the most delicious way, and he slides his tongue through my slit, all bets are off. My elbows collapse underneath me, and my eyes are rolling to the back of my head, his tongue exploring with slow deliberate strokes, eliciting gasps and moans that echo through the quiet room.

For some reason, I’d thought he might be overeager, given his age, and not used to giving pleasure as much as receiving it, and maybe that was just my previous experiences. But, boy, was I wrong. Because, there’s reverence in each stroke and nibble, his mouth worshiping me, coaxing me closer to the brink with each flick of his tongue over my aching clit, delving into my depths as if he could find every secret I’ve ever kept hidden there.

“Killian!” I can’t help but cry out, the words ripped from my throat as electrifying heat consumes me. A shuddering “Yesss!” escapes, my thighs clamping around his head like a vice, involuntary while my hands become entangled in the dark tresses of his hair.

Even as waves of ecstasy begin to ebb, he continues his ministrations, languid licks that draw out the lingering tremors of my orgasm. His tongue moves with an unhurried grace, a contrast to the rapid beating of my heart.

Heat lingers on my skin, a delicious aftershock that trembles through me.

His lips start a blazing hot path from the apex of my thighs to my stomach, his mouth a brand, searing his claim on me. Every kiss imprinted on my skin burns brighter than the last, leaving no part of me untouched or undiscovered. His lips trace delicate patterns across my abdomen, pausing to dip into my navel before continuing their ascent.

The curve of each rib becomes a stepping stone as he climbs closer to my breasts, where he lingers, lavishing each contour and peak with his tongue. His kisses are equally soft and demanding around the areolas before he draws my nipples into his hot mouth, pleasure jolting through me.

By the time he reaches my lips, I’m a panting, trembling mess underneath him, our bare skin meeting, the contact sparking a fire that threatens to consume us both.

“God, everything about you is perfect,” he breathes, his voice completely wrecked. His words are exactly what a forty-year-old woman wants to hear about her naked body, but I know it’s not empty flattery. It’s the truth etched in the lines of his face, in the fire in his eyes, the way he holds my gaze when he says it. 

His erection presses against my thigh, hard and insistent, ready to claim me.

And God, do I want him to claim me. Every inch.

“Should I wear a condom?” 

Right. A condom—something I hadn’t even thought about. God, it’s been too long, I feel like a virgin all over again. 

“Do you have anything I should be aware of?” I counter, my voice surprisingly steady.

He shakes his head, his gaze never leaving mine. “No, and you? Have you been with anyone since Neal?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m on the pill.” I glide my hand between us, wrapping my fingers around his stiff shaft, stroking softly, his smooth, velvety length easily sliding through my fist. “And I want to feel you inside me.”

He groans as he kisses me sweetly on the lips, a grin spreading across his face. “I want to feel you, too.”

With that settled, I place him at my entrance, and the connection sends sparks flying through me. After thirteen years of Neal and three years of nothing, Killian feels incredible inside me. No, incredible is a colossal understatement. And he’s not even fully inside me yet.

Our breaths, heavy and ragged, mingle as he eases into me, claiming territory with slow, tender strokes that belie his strength. My legs are wrapped around his back, my hands resting on his shoulder blades as I arch into him, every nerve-ending alight with fire.

He responds in kind, his hips a perfect counterpoint to mine, as if we’re two parts of a whole finally clicking into place. “Swan,” he whispers against my lips, and I shiver at the sound of my name wrapped in his accent, heavy with lust. “Bloody hell…you feel so damn good.” He captures my lips before I can respond, his tongue moving against mine with the rhythm of his hips, and I can taste myself on his tongue, which I’ve never had the pleasure of doing before. Neal always used mouthwash afterward before kissing me.

I lose myself in the sensations—the heat of his body, the weight of him, the taste of his kiss, the sound of our unified gasps filling the room. His size, the smoothness of his back, the firmness of his ass as I take both perfect globes in my hands, pulling him in deeper. It’s a heady combination, intoxicating, dizzying, and I drink it all in greedily.

“Killian...” His name spills from my lips as he draws me closer to the edge. There’s no holding back, no fear or doubt, only the boundless expanse of sensation he alone can evoke. My body gives in to the overwhelming tide of pleasure that threatens to sweep me under, my fingernails clawing into his back.

Heat coils inside me, raw and all-consuming as Killian’s body drives into mine with a primal rhythm, his voice, rough like gravel, cutting through the haze of pleasure. “Let go, Emma.”

And I do. I let go, surrendering to the waves as they crash over me, and I happily drown in the bliss of it, my walls fluttering around his beautiful dick that has me coming undone.

He follows close behind, thrusting harder and faster, the crescendo building as he chases his impending release. His hips falter, movements growing erratic, his body shuddering. He dips his head, teeth grazing my skin, breath hot against my neck. His grip tightens around me, hands like steel bands, and I’m certain there will be marks—temporary souvenirs—imprinted on my skin I’ll probably admire in the mirror later.

“Emma…” My name is pure heaven as it tumbles from his lips, wrapped in a thick, broken accent as he pours his warmth inside me.

Pure heaven.

We reposition ourselves so he’s on his back and I’m beside him, boneless, draping an arm around his torso. My breath steadies, our bodies a tangle of limbs, the echo of his touch, his kiss, on every inch of my skin, his chest a relentless drumbeat against my ear. The sheets are twisted around our legs, our fingers are laced together as he presses a tender kiss against my forehead.

“Emma…you’re incredible.” His words vibrate against my skin, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back.

I look up at him, my gaze meeting those deep blue eyes that seem to hold galaxies within them. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He smiles, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “Your beauty,” he whispers huskily, “it’s not just in the way you look, Swan. It’s everything about you. It’s the very essence of you.” His touch is reverent, as though each word he utters is etched into my skin.

A warmth blooms in my chest at his words, at the admiration that laces each syllable. It’s as if every wall I’ve ever built has not only been scaled but completely dismantled by the tenderness of his gaze. He sees me, truly sees me—not just the polished exterior, but the tangled, knotted threads of my soul.

A teasing smile pulls at my lips. “Do you say that to all the women you’re with?”

He chuckles, his body shaking with the deep, hearty sound. “I would only say it if I meant it…so no, I don’t.”

I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips, taking in the jagged edge of his stubble, the warmth of his skin. His eyes lock with mine, a stormy blue that speaks volumes without a single word. My heart swells, full to bursting with an emotion I can neither name nor contain.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispers, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Or forever.”

I laugh. “I’ll stay tonight…but I’ll have to go back early tomorrow. Henry will be back home around noon.”

He nods, despite the disappointment flashing in his eyes. “Of course, love.”

Lying here naked, pressed against him, I allow myself to bask in the afterglow, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling me into a state of serene bliss.

I don’t remember sex being so damn good before.

It’s never been that good.

Then it hits me. He’s the first, the only one who’s ever made me orgasm from sex alone. Sure, I’ve had orgasms but only from stimulation—a tongue, a finger or (mostly) a battery-operated friend. Never from penetration. I didn’t even think it was possible for me. And I’ve certainly never experienced multiple orgasms before tonight.

I always assumed I was the problem. That I was broken somehow.

But here I am, lying in Killian’s arms, fulfilled and sated in a way I never thought possible. It’s like he’s unlocked some secret part of me no one else could access before.

And maybe my history of being unsatisfied in bed is the reason I waited so long to be with someone else after Neal left.

Then again, if I had known it could be this good, I wouldn’t have waited.

September 19th

Liam - 

Brother, you’ve got to stop calling every few hours. I know you’re bored and your life is empty without me, but this is getting ridiculous. Half the road crew thinks you’re my father. Do you intend to run up your phone bill when the tour crosses the ocean? I love you, but please don’t go broke on my behalf. Now is the time to wean yourself off me.

All teasing aside, I do appreciate the calls, not to mention everything else. If you hadn’t insisted on making those demo tapes and forcing me to Boston and any venue or bar that would take me, I wouldn’t be here today. 

You’d have been so proud to see me - I must have been sweating gallons, but I got up on stage in front of that massive crowd and I did it, sang my pieces. The noise of all those people practically shakes your bones, Liam - and that wasn’t even half the noise that Tink elicited! I don’t know how she does it. I suppose I’ll find out, though, won’t I? After all, this is my big break, as long as I don’t screw it up too badly. 

I’m sure I’ll talk to you later - in the meantime, say hello to the lads for me.

-Killian.

P.S. Keep an eye on Emma and Henry for me, would you? I know you’ve already promised, but I worry. I owe you one, brother.

  October 2nd

Emma - 

Hello from Seattle! It is just as rainy as promised, and I’ve lost count of the coffee shops. Part of that might be the Starbucks, though. I swear, they’re like a plague, popping up all over the place. 

The tour is still going well. I might even get used to this tour bus life! I miss you all, of course - my love especially to Henry - but it’s exhilarating, getting up on stage every night in front of so many people. The crowds are huge, Swan, larger than I ever could have imagined. I know they’re mostly here for Tink, but there’s always applause and a handful of people singing along to my songs, and it’s the best kind of adrenaline. Leaves me with an itch in my fingers and a new song stuck in my head. I’ll work it out later. 

I’m so happy to hear that Henry is doing so well in kindergarten; he’s always been a little social butterfly. I’ll bet that he makes tons of friends; I’m glad he loves it so far. I’ll call soon, I promise. 

Yours, 

-Killian

  October 20th

Swan - 

Happy Birthday, darling! Technically, I’m mailing this a few days early, but I hope it’ll reach you just in time. I’m sorry to be missing the festivities this year - just know that I’ll be thinking of you all day, wishing I was there to celebrate with you. Keep an eye out for a package or two - and before you even try to protest that I don’t need to, they’re just little things, love. Stuff that made me think of you. Tokens of my affection, if you will. It’s your birthday, anyways - live a little! Let us spoil you for once.

Texas is… less than impressive. Large? Yes, in a way that feels almost performative. It’s missing some kind of charm, at least to me. Then again, I’ve never been much for cowboy hats; maybe that’s the real problem, here. Regardless, I’d gladly take the northeast fall colors any day. 

Make a good wish, alright? I hope the year to come is as wonderful as you are.

Yours,

-Killian

  November 26th

Dear Henry - 

Happy Thanksgiving! Did you have a good holiday? Did Granny make enough macaroni and cheese for you to eat your fill? I know that’s your favorite.

Thank you for watching the parade! I was really excited to be in it too. Sadly, the powers that be wouldn’t let me take home the Snoopy balloon for you, but I did manage to get a couple of handfuls of confetti for you. It should be inside this envelope. You would have loved it, Henry - the confetti was flying everywhere and I saw so many really cool floats up close and personal. We’ll maybe have to go together in a couple of years, aye? We’ll ask your mum.

Draw lots and lots of turkeys for me, little mate - I know you’re really good at that. And give your mum and Liam a great big hug for me!

Love,

-Killian

  CELEBRITY FILE EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH EVERYONE’S NEW FAVORITE HEARTTHROB - KILLIAN JONES

… In researching this piece, I heard over and over about how personal Jones’ lyrics were, how well they captured every feeling and variation of being in love. Every fan out there seems to feel like his words are written just for them, like a window into their soul. So when I finally met with the man himself, I couldn’t help but ask: Was there anyone who inspired such lyrical devotion? Some woman - or man! - in his own life who inspired such moving words?

“You know, the thing I’ve always liked in listening to music on my own is being able to recognize a little bit of myself in someone else’s words,” Jones told me in response to the question. “It always made me feel a little less alone - a little more connected to other people, I guess, to hear that they experienced or saw things the same way I do. It’s very rewarding to hear that people feel the same way about my music. I’m of the opinion that music should be a universal experience, and when I write, I write words that I hope other people can see a bit of themselves in.”

Something about that blush and the nervous scratch behind his ear that fans know so well tells me he’s holding out on us…

  December 11th

Dearest Swan - 

The holidays have crept right up on us, haven’t they? Do us both the favor of imagining me singing that sickly-sweet “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” nonsense, because it’s true. December 20th. Mark your calendar, and don’t blame me if I fall asleep on the car ride home from the airport. It’s all this travel, you see - takes it right out of you. You can’t blame a man for that, love.

(Also, please ignore that I’ll be flying in from Chicago. I still plan to claim jet lag. That one hour difference, love, it’s a real killer.)

Is there anything in particular that Henry especially wants this year? I’ve done my best to pick up things for you and Liam and everyone else, but I know the lad’s tastes change practically hour to hour, and he’s probably got a whole list stashed somewhere. I want to get him something he’ll really like instead of just wandering through the toy store in a panic, if at all possible.

Counting the hours until I see you again,

-Killian

  January 8th

Emma - 

I don’t even know where to start. How can I properly apologize for what happened at New Year’s? I struggle, because I can’t truthfully say that I regret it. I don’t think I’ve made it a secret all these years that I’m helplessly enthralled by you and everything you are. There are words - big words, three words - that rattle around in my heart every day, but I know you’re not willing to hear them yet. I’ll be here, love, whenever you’re ready.

I know you’re scared, Emma, but I’m begging you - just talk to me. We can forget all about this, if that’s what you want, but you’ve got to talk to me. Every day I don’t hear from you is just a little bit harder. I’ll follow your lead, whatever you say.

You’ll always be my best friend, Swan - no matter what else happens.

-Killian

  January 20th

I kissed her, Liam.

I’m sorry; that’s not much of a way to start a letter is it? How are you? Everything going well? 

But I’m sorry, I’ve got to talk about this and get it off my chest. Because I kissed her, Liam. Emma. I kissed Emma. And then it kind of… all went to shit. I guess that’s just like me, isn’t it? Give me one fine day of plain sailing weather, and I can turn it to stormy seas.

And I know where she’s coming from, really - I know better than almost anyone about how she’s been left behind too many times. As much as it hurts to have this sudden radio silence, I know she’s just trying to protect herself. But I love her, Liam. I’ve loved her forever. This isn’t just “distance makes the heart grow fonder,” or something stupid like that. I should have acted a long time ago. I should have done a thousand different things, but here we are.

If you have any ideas of how to fix this, please, let me know. I hope you’re having a happier new year than I so far.

-Killian

  February 2nd

Dear Emma - 

I can’t tell you how good it was to hear from you the other day. You may think that there’s nothing interesting about all the goings-on in the bar, but that particular kind of nothing is soothing. It’s like a little piece of home in every email. Besides, I know that the bar is never quite as boring as we always joked. And I’d welcome any word from you anyways, after how much I’ve missed you.

We’re in Paris right now. It’s gorgeous, truly - I’ll have to bring you and the lad back sometime. I know you’d call me a nerd, but I’ve been hitting museums - the Louvre, the Musee d’Orsay, the Rodin museum, etc. I made sure to do the Eiffel Tower too, just for you, even though the crowds were utterly terrible. Stuffed my face with pastries too, all on your behalf.

(Okay, you caught me, Swan - the pastries are for me too. The croissants, Swan! The bread! I surely won’t fit in my trousers if we’re here any longer, but I can’t regret it. I swear, I’d ship some back to you if I thought they’d survive the trip.)

We’ll have to schedule time for a call home soon - I find myself so often longing for your voice. I love your emails, but there’s something to a phone call that can’t be replaced. 

Yours,

-Killian

  March 11th

Dear Henry - 

Thank you for sending me that drawing! I love it. It’s taped to the inside of my guitar case now, where I can look at it every day. I especially like the yellow you used for your mum’s hair. You’ll have to thank her for scanning that for us on my behalf. That’s good form, you know.

I’m in Amsterdam right now. Your mum or Liam can show you where that is on a map; it’s in Western Europe. I went someplace I think you’d love today; it’s called Madurodam. It’s this entire miniature city, with little airplanes and zoo animals and everything. I had a lot of fun exploring it, and I think you would too.

A graduation, you say? From kindergarten? I wouldn’t miss it for the world, lad. I’ll be home, no matter what.

I miss you, Henry, and your mother too. It always brightens my day to see an email from you.

Sealed with a great big hug,

-Killian

  April 21st

Emma - 

London is rainy and cold. I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything different, but here I am, surprised all the same. It’s hard to convince myself to go do any of the tourist-y things when the weather is like this, so I’m stuck inside, writing to you. Not that that’s ever a hardship...

You’d hardly recognize me with this get-up I’ve found myself in for the show tonight - the heavy eyeliner especially. Gone are the days of some beat-up tee - though I think you might like the vest. Getting dressed feels like slipping into some other persona. I worry a lot of the time about whether I’ve changed beyond recognition, or if I’m still the same person you know. That’s the man I want to be, you know - someone you can be proud of, but somehow still that same poor bastard in the bar, just trying to write words that mean something. I hope I am. But you know how it goes - distance kills the best of intentions. 

I miss you terribly, Swan, and Henry too. Hell, even Liam. These letters are all that ground me some days, I fear. On the loneliest nights, I reread your emails and imagine you’re talking to me instead. It’s always just a too-brief daydream, unfortunately.

I’ve grown rather maudlin, haven’t I? That won’t do at all. I blame it on the rain. Here’s a happier note for us both: I’ll be home late next month. Perhaps I’ll have to make one of those paper chains Henry’s so fond of; if I do, I’ll include a picture with my next letter. 

Counting the days. Until then - 

Love, Killian

  May 17th

My Swan - 

By the time you get this, I’ll be home with you and the lad again, and hopefully have already told you in person everything I want to say now:

I love you, Emma. Every word of every song is for you. I’ve loved you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, and no time or distance or groupie is ever going to change that. I’m yours, love, body and soul. And I have faith that life can never tear us apart as long as that’s true.

I’m coming home, love. And my home is you.

Yours (in every sense),

-Killian

  BREAKING NEWS: KILLIAN JONES’ SECRET LOVER?

Bad news for all the fangirls and Killy-Tink shippers out there: Bad boy popstar Killian Jones appears to be off the market. The singer, 27, was spotted locking lips with an unidentified blonde at the Storybrooke Memorial Gardens, just outside of Boston, where Jones calls home. Sources have long speculated that Jones has a secret girlfriend back home, and this just might be confirmation. Check back as this story continues to develop. StarWatchOnline remains YOUR #1 celebrity news site… 

~~~~~

Ruby, who’s arranging a new display nearby, chimes in with a mischievous grin. “It didn’t seem like just business to me. The sparks between you two were probably visible from space.”

Rolling my eyes in mock exasperation, I scoff, hoping to downplay the significance of our encounter. “It was all just professional curiosity. You know how these musicians can be—always networking.” 

“Networking? He bought out the entire gallery,” Elsa reminds me.

“It was nothing.” Ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks, I deposit my purse on my desk and make a beeline for the kitchenette. I need coffee—desperately.

Elsa follows me, relentless in her pursuit of details. “Come on, I’m dying here,” she presses, leaning against the doorway as I pour myself a cup.

“There’s really nothing to tell,” I insist, stirring sugar into my coffee and turning around. “He was interested in art. That’s all.”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, just interested in the art,” she repeats with air quotes and a smirk.

I sigh, knowing there’s no escaping this. “It was a good sale for the gallery, okay? Let’s just be happy about that.”

She doesn’t drop it, but I need a change of subject. I hate lying to her, but even if I told her I had Killian over for lunch, kissed the hell out of him and kicked him out, it wouldn’t matter, because I’ll never see him again. 

After realizing I wasn’t interested in continuing whatever it is we started, he probably moved on with some other woman who is much younger and more beautiful. I wouldn’t blame him. He could literally have any straight woman on the planet, so why on earth would he choose me?

I take a deep breath, the memory of that kiss still fresh in my mind. It lingers like the ghost of his lips on mine. His hands on my skin.

I close my eyes as if I could shut away the thoughts. It was just a kiss. One spontaneous, reckless kiss that means nothing. Well, actually it was two or maybe three kisses. The flutter in my stomach betrays me, however, mocking my attempts at denial.

But maybe meeting someone else will help me forget about him.

Ha! Like that could ever happen.

“By the way, what about that guy you wanted to set me up with? Walsh, right?”

Her eyes light up. “Yes, Walsh. He owns that cute furniture shop on Sunset Boulevard.”

As I sip my coffee, trying to listen to Elsa, my mind betrays me, wandering back to yesterday. Killian’s lips, his touch, the little noises he made as we kissed, his ragged breaths, his low groans are still implanted in my head. I can still feel his hands on my skin, taste his lips, smell his cologne. The memory sends a shiver down my spine.

“Em?” Elsa’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a well-sharpened blade, jolting me back to the present.

I look over at her and blink. “Sorry?”

“A date with Walsh? Are you up for it?”

“Uh, sure, I’ll go.”

“Great! I’ll set it up,” Elsa beams.

With the immediate interrogation dodged, I take a moment to savor my coffee and return to the front of the gallery, trying to push thoughts of Killian and the kiss from my mind.

“So, what are we going to do about the empty walls?” Elsa asks, gesturing around, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Killian’s visit sparked a whole bunch of curiosity yesterday. People have been calling and coming in, wanting to check out the art…which we currently don’t have.”

Ruby glances up from her work. “We should have new pieces arriving by the end of the week.”

“In the meantime, we can showcase some of our private collection and maybe do a feature on upcoming artists,” I add.

Elsa nods in agreement. “Sounds like a plan.”

~*~

I stand in front of the mirror, holding up a delicate black dress, my stomach full of knots. I turn around, seeking a second opinion. “What do you think about this one?” I ask Henry, who’s lounging on my bed, scrolling through his phone.

He glances up briefly, narrowing his eyes, before reverting his gaze to his screen. “It’s nice…”

“Really?”

“Yeah, if you’re going to a funeral.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help but smile at his blunt honesty. I turn the dress around and study it from Henry’s perspective. Intricate black lace adorns the fabric, the sleeves flow elegantly and it’s very modest, featuring gentle ruffles over the chest and a high collar at the neck that adds a touch of sophistication. It does look like something I would wear to a funeral.

Come to think of it—I have worn this dress to a funeral. “Alright, Mr. Fashion Critic, what do you suggest?”

He sets down his phone and gets up, rifling through my closet. After a few moments, he pulls out a red dress. “This one. It’s classy but not too serious.”

My mouth falls open as my eyes sweep over the dress I haven’t worn in years. I actually forgot it was hanging in my closet. I take the dress from him, holding it up against me in the mirror. It has a flowy, knee-length skirt and a strappy open back, adorned with a bow. The draped waist detail complements the plunging V-neck bodice beautifully. Fancy but comfortable.

I look over at him, a smile tugging at my lips. “How did you get to be so smart, kid?”

“Because I inherited my brains from you, duh.”

Now it’s my turn to narrow my eyes. “Okay, what do you want?”

His face breaks into a mischievous grin. “Can I crash at Roland’s tonight? He just got the new CyberStrike.”

“Fine, but you better be ready to go in twenty minutes.”

He cocks his brow. “Mom, we both know you take longer than that to get ready.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Just get a change of clothes around.”

After I slip into the dress and apply some red lipstick, my hair resting over my shoulders in soft waves, I turn my attention to the watch on my dresser. Killian’s watch. The memory of him leaving it behind, whether intentionally or not, sends a thrill through me.

I slip it on, the weight of it comforting in a way I can’t quite explain but, at the same time, sending butterflies in my stomach.

When I enter the living room, Henry’s ready to go, his backpack next to him on the couch as he plays on his phone again.

“Better?”

When he looks up, he gives me an approving nod and a smile. “Much better.” He stands from the couch and grabs his bag. “You look beautiful, Mom.”

“Thanks, Henry.” I give him a side hug. “What would I do without you?”

He shrugs. “Probably get sick of people coming up to you, extending their condolences for your loss.”

I roll my eyes and laugh. “Clearly, you’ve inherited your sense of humor from your father.”

He slings his bag over one shoulder, eyeing my wrist. “Nice watch.”

“Thank you, it was a birthday gift...from a friend.” God, I hate lying to Henry, especially considering Neal lied to us both while he was having a secret affair with Wendy, but how can I possibly tell him the truth?

Oh by the way, kid, I had your twenty-four-year old idol over for lunch and didn’t think to include you. Then I kissed the fuck out of him, but don’t worry, it was a one time thing. And he left his watch behind, probably hoping he’ll see me again. And I’m going on this date with another man while I’m still thinking about the rockstar.

Nope, don’t think that would go over very well.

“Ready to go to your friend’s house?” I ask, changing the subject as quickly as possible.

“So, who’s this Walsh guy again?” he asks as we head out the door.

“He’s someone Elsa set me up with. He owns a furniture shop in town,” I explain, smoothing down my dress.

Henry furrows his brows. “If he’s such a nice guy, then why didn’t he come to pick you up?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Because I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.”

“I know you are, but I have to meet him to find out if he’s good enough for you.”

My eyes sting a little at that, a wave of emotion washing over me. I wrap my arm around his shoulders as we walk to my car. “I appreciate you wanting to look out for me, kid.”

“Just want to make sure you’re happy, Mom.”

I smile at him. “How about you meet him next time? If there is a next time.”

He grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Deal. Just don’t be surprised if I give him the third degree.”

I laugh. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

When I drop him off, Henry gives me one last piece of advice. “Have fun tonight, Mom. Don’t overthink it.”

I smile and hug him. “Thanks, kid. I’ll try.”

He gets out, and I watch him walk into his friend’s house. I take a deep breath and head to the restaurant I’m supposed to meet Walsh at, hoping the evening will be a pleasant distraction from the thoughts invading my mind of Killian and that damn kiss. Blair’s is an Italian restaurant not too far from where I live and is close to his furniture shop, so it’s a perfect meet-in-the-middle spot.

He’s already there when I arrive, standing when he sees me, a practiced smile on his face.

“Emma, hi, I’m Walsh. It’s great to meet you.” His handshake is firm, the eye contact steady.

“Nice to meet you too, Walsh.” My voice is polite, but the words feel hollow. We sit, and the small talk begins—a volley of questions and answers bouncing back and forth.

He’s nice enough—handsome, polite, and successful. Closer to my age. In fact, he might be a little older. Yet, as he goes on and on about his furniture shop, my attention keeps drifting.

“Emma?” His voice pulls me back.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I asked if you’d like to try the wine I picked out.” He motions to the bottle chilling beside us.

“Sure,” I answer, but the taste of red on my tongue doesn’t compare to the thrill of Killian’s lips pressed against mine, the memory sending an unwelcome warmth through me.

“...and that’s when I decided to expand into custom pieces.” Walsh’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “You wouldn’t believe the demand for handcrafted dining tables.”

I nod, forcing a smile. “That sounds...interesting.”

He continues, oblivious to my waning interest. “And then we started sourcing wood from sustainable forests. It’s been a game-changer for the business.”

I take a sip of my wine, glancing around the restaurant. Couples are laughing, waiters are bustling and there’s a general air of warmth and excitement I just don’t feel at our table. I try to engage, but there’s no connection, no chemistry. Not even the initial first date sparks.

Walsh leans forward, his eyes earnest. “What about you, Emma? What’s your favorite kind of furniture?”

I pause, searching for a polite response. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it in detail. I like pieces that are functional and comfortable.”

“Functionality is key,” he agrees, launching into another detailed explanation about ergonomic designs.

I nod along, fidgeting with my napkin, my thoughts drifting to Killian. The excitement, the thrill, the undeniable connection we shared—it’s all I can think about. Every word Walsh says just emphasizes the stark contrast between them. Which isn’t very fair to Walsh. I mean, how can you compete with Killian? You can’t.

“...and that’s why choosing the right wood is so important,” Walsh finishes, looking at me expectantly.

“Absolutely,” I reply, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to.

He smiles, seemingly satisfied with my response, and continues talking about his latest project. I glance at my watch discreetly, wondering how much longer I need to stay. We’ve only been here for about fifteen minutes, our food hasn’t even arrived, yet it feels like we’ve been here for an eternity and a half.

Needing a break, I excuse myself and hurry to the restroom.

As I stand in front of the sink, cursing myself for agreeing to this date, my phone buzzes in my clutch purse. I fish it out, a message lighting up the screen.

+44 7779 460726: I can’t get that kiss out of my head. I need to see you again.

My heart skitters, a smile tugging at my lips. The memory of our kiss flashes vividly in my mind, sending a chill down my spine. But here I am, on a date with Walsh, who has been nothing but kind but whom I have no interest in. Guilt twists in my gut as I type back.

Me: Who’s this?

+44 7779 460726: Ha! Cold.

+44 7779 460726: I got your number from the invoice. Hope that’s okay.

I click my tongue and sigh.

Me: Have the pieces arrived yet?

+44 7779 460726: Haven’t been home yet. Hear they look great.

+44 7779 460726: Anyway, about that kiss…

I roll my eyes and throw my phone back into my clutch purse before going to a stall and using the toilet. When I come out and wash my hands, my purse buzzes again.

+44 7779 460726: I know you read my last text. 🙂

I laugh.

Me: I can’t talk right now. I’m going to bed.

+44 7779 460726: No, you’re not.

Me: How do you know?

+44 7779 460726: Because it’s only 7.

+44 7779 460726: Also, you’re not at home.

Me: And how would you know that?

+44 7779 460726: Because I checked.

Me: You stopped by my house?

+44 7779 460726: I didn’t stop, I just happened to drive by a moment ago and notice all the lights were out.

Me: Happened to stop by? Right. 🙄

+44 7779 460726: Fine, I purposely drove by your house.

+44 7779 460726: Your turn to be honest 😁

Me: Stalker

I sigh.

Me: Okay, okay, I’m on a date. Happy?

+44 7779 460726: Am I happy you’re on a date with someone who’s not me? Not in the least. You’re really twisting the knife, love.🗡️💔 

Me: Elsa set it up. I didn’t have a choice.

Okay, I did have a choice but he doesn’t have to know I only said yes to the date to forget about him .

+44 7779 460726: Are you enjoying the date?

Me: No, not really. Our food hasn’t arrived and I’m already bored to tears.

+44 7779 460726: Where are you? I’ll pick you up.

His offer hangs in the air, tempting like a decadent piece of chocolate. My heart races at the thought of leaving Walsh sitting alone, but also at the prospect of being whisked away by Killian.

I bite my bottom lip. not even believing I’m contemplating taking him up on his offer. This is ridiculous. I’m on a date with someone and actually considering ditching him for another man. But how often do I get asked out by a rockstar?

+44 7779 460726: Do I have to beg, Swan?

Me: Only if you want to…

+44 7779 460726: Will you go on a date with me? Please?🙏 🙏🙏

I can’t believe what I’m reading. Killian Jones is actually begging me to go on a date with him.

+44 7779 460726: I promise not to bore you.

I laugh. Like that could happen. I'd be entertained simply by getting lost in his eyes. I add his number to my contacts and shoot him my answer.

Me: I’m at Blair’s, 2901 Rowena Ave.

Killian: On my way.

I am so going to hell for this. For lying and ditching a perfectly nice guy for one who is almost half my age. So irresponsible.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the awkward conversation ahead. I clear my throat and hurry to the table where Walsh is sitting, my heart pounding in my chest. “Hey, Walsh...” My eyes are wide, feigning panic.

He looks up, concern knitting his brows. “Everything okay?”

“My son, Henry, just called. He went out to eat with some friends and got food poisoning.” I force an apologetic smile. “I have to go, I’m so sorry.”

Walsh’s face falls slightly, but he quickly masks his disappointment. “Oh no, I hope he’s alright. Do you need any help?”

“No, but thank you,” I reply, the guilt pressing down on me. “I just need to get to him as soon as possible.”

I reach into my purse and pull out some money, placing it on the table to cover my share of the food. “This should cover my part. I’m really sorry about this.”

Walsh shakes his head, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, Emma. Go take care of Henry. Maybe we can do this another time?”

“Yeah, maybe. Thanks for understanding.”

Without waiting for a response, I hurry out of the restaurant, my heart pounding with guilt and excitement. I step outside, the cool evening air doing little to calm my racing heart as I scan the street for Killian. I can’t help but wonder if I’m making the right choice, but the memory of our kiss and the anticipation of seeing him again push those doubts aside.

A minute later, a sleek, Audi R8 Spyder pulls up in front of me, its engine purring smoothly.

Killian rolls down the window, his million-dollar smile showing off his brilliant white teeth. “Hop in, love.”

I can’t help but smile, the thrill of seeing him again outweighing my guilt. I open the door and slide into the passenger seat, buckling my seatbelt. The smell of luxurious leather envelops me as he shifts into gear, the vehicle gliding forward with effortless power.

It’s surreal riding in a fancy car with Killian, who looks irresistible enough to eat. He’s wearing a well-fitted black leather jacket over a crisp white button-up shirt, the top few buttons casually undone. His dark jeans are perfectly tailored, accentuating his lean frame, and he’s completed the look with a pair of polished black boots. His silver chain with the skull and crossbones peeks out from beneath his shirt, and he has a few understated rings on his fingers, adding just a touch of rockstar edge to his ensemble. His hair is tousled in that perfectly messy way, and a hint of stubble lines his jaw, making me want to grab him and kiss him and finish what we’d started on Tuesday.

“Nice car.”

“Thank you, love, but I don’t actually own it. It’s a rental.” 

I raise an eyebrow, wondering if there’s anything he does actually own. The trailer, the watch I’m wearing, the car. They’re all things given to him or loaned for temporary use. “A rental, huh? I guess being a rockstar doesn’t mean you have to own all the fancy toys.”

He chuckles. “Exactly. Sometimes it’s fun to try different things without the commitment.”

I hold up my wrist, showing him the silver timepiece. “I brought you your watch.”

He looks over and smirks. “It looks much better on you, love.”

As I lower my arm and twist the watch around my wrist, staring ahead blankly, I find myself wondering if his noncommittal approach extends to women as well. My stomach churns at the thought of this being just a fleeting experience, of him moving on to the next woman after he has his fill of me. Am I just another one of his rental toys?

I softly shake my head, thinking maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. Maybe I could take a page from his book. Maybe this is exactly what I need right now—a chance to explore, to feel something new, to have this experience without any strings attached, then return to my normal life. My normal, rockstar-free life. I deserve a little excitement, a little unpredictability. And with Killian, it feels like anything is possible.

I glance over at Killian, his profile illuminated by the city lights. He seems so at ease, so comfortable in his own skin. It’s refreshing and a little intoxicating. The pull of adventure, the lure of stepping outside my routine and embracing something exciting and different.

“You look stunning, Swan, by the way. Is that a new dress?”

Heat creeps up my cheeks and I smile back at him. “Thank you, but no, it’s not new. Henry picked it out of my closet, actually. He saved me from leaving the house looking like I was going to a funeral.”

Killian laughs, a deep, rich sound that makes my heart flutter. “Smart kid. I told you, he’s got great taste.”

“Yeah, he does. He was pretty insistent about it, too.”

“Well, I’m glad he was.” His eyes briefly flick over to me again, full of warmth. “You look perfect.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” I grin as I reach out, touching his arm.

“Thanks, love.” He tosses me a flirty smirk, placing his hand on my leg over my dress. The touch is very much welcome, but it makes this date all the more real. Too real.

As the car sails through the streets, my pulse quickens, a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. It dawns on me with an almost physical jolt—I’m on a date with Killian Jones. My heart races, and a cold sweat forms on my palms. This isn’t just any date. It’s a date with a celebrity, someone whose life is so far removed from my own, it feels like I’m stepping into a different world.

I glance over at Kilian, his easy confidence making me feel even more self-conscious. What if I say something stupid or do something embarrassing? What if I trip over my own feet or spill my drink all over him? My mind spins with all the possible ways I could ruin this evening. What if he sees through my insecurities and decides I’m not worth the effort?

“Emma?” Kilian’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, gentle yet concerned. “Are you alright?”

I swallow hard, trying to muster a reassuring smile. “Yeah, just...a little nervous, I guess.”

He pulls the car over to the side of the road, turning to face me fully. His eyes are soft, filled with understanding. “Are you sure you want to go on this date?” he asks gently. “Just say the word and I can take you back.”

I take a shaky breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. “I want this, Killian, but it’s been so long since I’ve been on a date. And now that I am, it happens to be with one of the hottest rock stars in the world, so I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

Killian smiles softly and pulls me close, cupping my cheek in his hand. “Don’t think of me as a rockstar, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “I’m just a guy who’s incredibly attracted to you.”

I laugh. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have a kid who has a poster of me on their bedroom wall.”

He arches a brow, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “I wish I had a poster of you on my bedroom wall.”

I snort-laugh, playfully swatting him on the shoulder.

“Just be yourself, Emma. That’s all I want.”

His words break through the haze of panic, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

“And if it makes you feel any better,” he adds, his eyes locked on mine, “I’m just as nervous as you are.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Yeah, that actually does make me feel better.”

He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle and lingering. His eyes hold mine, sparkling with desire and tenderness. Without another word, he leans in, closing the distance between us, and captures my lips with his. The kiss is electric, a surge of energy that sends shivers down my spine. My heart races, and I lose myself in the sensation, the world around us fading into oblivion.

His lips are warm and soft against mine, moving with a perfect blend of urgency and restraint. As our tongues touch, the kiss deepens, igniting a fire within me. My hands instinctively find their way to his neck, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

Just as the intensity builds, Killian pulls away, his breath ragged and uneven. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed for a moment as if savoring the lingering connection. When he opens them, a playful smile tugs at his lips, a mixture of satisfaction and longing.

“If we continue like that,” he murmurs, his voice husky, “we won’t make our reservations in Malibu.”

I laugh softly, my own breath coming in short gasps. “You’re right. We should probably go.”

He gives me one last, lingering kiss on the lips before moving away.

As he pulls back onto the road, I straighten and take another deep breath, trying to focus on the moment. Maybe, just maybe, I can let myself enjoy this without overthinking it. Take it for what it is—a thrilling detour from the everyday, a chance to feel alive and desired.

Once I take a moment to recover from the kiss, I think about the last thing he said and furrow my brows at him. “Wait, you had time to make reservations? We only started texting about five minutes before you showed up at Blair’s.”

A sheepish smile spreads over his lips. “I made them earlier.”

“Oh, and you were sure I’d drop everything and go on a date with you?” I tease.

He chuckles, his cheeks pink as he scratches behind his ear. “I was hoping. I would’ve called you much earlier but we were performing at Rockville in Daytona and then tried to get some shut-eye during the four-hour flight back.”

I nod, understanding the demands of his world. “I get it. Life of a rockstar.” I smirk.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Aye, it can get pretty hectic. But I’m here now. So, what’d you tell your date?”

“That Henry has food poisoning,” I laugh a bit sheepishly. “It was the best I could come up with on the spot.”

“Well, I’m glad you decided to come with me,” he says, reaching over to grab my hand. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot since that kiss.”

“Me too,” I admit, my heart fluttering at his touch as I thread my fingers through his. “That’s why I agreed to go on the date with Walsh.”

Killian looks at me, lifting a brow. “You were thinking of me, yet you went on a date with someone else?”

I sigh. “I know, it’s stupid, but I was trying to forget you.”

He smirks, though there’s a softness in his eyes. “Forget me, huh? How’s that working out for you?”

I laugh. “Not well, obviously.”

Kilian squeezes my hand gently, his touch warm and reassuring. “I’m glad it didn’t work.” His eyes remain focused on the road, but his thumb strokes the back of my hand in soothing circles.

Shit.

She’s definitely on to me.

Oblivious to our silent exchange, Henry continues his ascent up the steps, taking them two at a time.

As soon as his bedroom door clicks shut, Elsa pivots toward me, her hands planted firmly on her hips and one eyebrow arched in accusation. “He seems awfully lively for someone recovering from food poisoning.”

My cheeks heat under her penetrating gaze as I attempt to deflect. “Teens, right? They bounce back so quickly.” Judging by the skeptical tilt of her head, she isn’t buying it. Which really shouldn’t be surprising. I should’ve known she’d find out about what happened with Walsh before I got the chance to tell her the truth. “Want some wine?” I’m definitely going to need some liquid courage for this conversation.

Elsa follows me into the kitchen with a resigned sigh. “Yes, we’re going to need it...but you know I’m not letting this go, right?”

“I know. That’s what the wine is for..” With a shaky laugh, I grab two glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. I fumble with the corkscrew, struggling to open it as my nerves take over. I hadn’t planned on telling her about Killian yet, but images from last night’s encounter with him flash through my mind—his touch, his kisses, the way his tongue felt inside me, the way he felt inside me—and I know if I don’t tell someone soon, I’m going to burst. Our night together was the best I’ve ever had. And usually, I tell Elsa everything, so not telling her feels wrong, almost illegal.

“Em, why did you ditch Walsh last night?” she asks, her tone teetering between reproach and intrigue. 

An involuntary sigh escapes me as I pry the cork loose with a satisfying pop and pour a generous amount, the rich, ruby liquid cascading into our glasses. “How did you know Henry didn’t have food poisoning?”

“Because you would’ve told me. You usually tell me everything.” She accepts her glass, her gaze downcast, tone softening. “Though lately, it doesn’t seem that way.”

My insides twist, a cold, clammy stream of guilt slithering down my spine. I should’ve told her the truth from the beginning. In fact, I never should’ve agreed to a date with Walsh in the first place. “I know and I’m sorry…I would’ve told you sooner…it’s just…it’s complicated.”

She looks up at me with a raised brow. “Complicated how?”

I lift my gaze, as if I could somehow see through the ceiling to where Henry’s room is. “We should take this outside,” I propose, reaching for the wine bottle and my glass.

We transition to the patio to continue our conversation under the stars and twinkling lights of the pergola, beyond the ears of any curious listeners.

Elsa sinks into the plush sofa as I ignite the fire pit, the warm flicker of the flames casting dancing shadows around us. I ease into the rocking chair beside her, and we cradle our glasses as we pick up where we left off.

Taking a deep breath, a smile slowly spreads over my lips, unrestrained. “You have to promise to not judge me.”

“Judge you? Why would I judge you?” Her eyes narrow, then widen, her face paling as I take a sip of my wine. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with Neal.”

I almost spit out my drink, the mere thought leaving a bitter taste in my mouth and making my stomach churn. “No, God, no!” I exclaim, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Thank God.” Elsa’s shoulders relax and she lets out a breath. “Then what is it?”

“Well, remember when I said lunch with Killian was strictly business?”

“Yeaaah.” Elsa studies me for a moment, then her eyes light up. “Ha! I knew it!” She leans forward, pointing a finger in the air. “I knew there was something more going on between you two.”

I peer into my glass. “I didn’t rush to tell you because I wasn’t sure where things between us were going. But now…” I bite my smile. “Now I think I might really like him.” It feels amazing to get that off my chest.

Her face lights up, then dims a little, her brows furrowing. “Okay, then tell me this—why agree to go out with Walsh?”

“Because I stupidly thought I could forget Killian…but that failed.”

“Okay.” She observes some more for a moment, connecting the dots, putting the pieces together. Then I can actually see the pieces click into place because her eyes sparkle as she lets out a squeak. “You had sex with him, didn’t you?!”

“Shhhh! Not so loud,” I whisper, my blushing smile giving myself away.

Elsa clamps a hand over her mouth, her eyes glinting with apology. “Oops. Sorry.” She removes her hand, speaking more quietly. “And how does Henry feel about all this?”

I shrug, my stomach twinging with guilt as I trace the rim of my glass. “He doesn’t know yet. I’m not sure how he’d react, you know? I’m not even sure what this is.”

“I understand, but you should definitely tell him soon, before he finds out some other way.”

“I know, I’m planning on it. I’m just not quite ready yet.” I don’t think I’ll ever be.

Her eyes light up. “So, tell me everything. How did this thing with Killian even start?”

I take a sip of my wine before launching into the story of how we met in the trailer and everything that’s happened since. The guilt in my stomach eases slightly as I finally share my secret.

“Wait, Killian…isn’t he Henry’s idol?”

“Yes,” I admit, biting my bottom lip. “Which is exactly why I can’t tell him. And also because of the age gap. He’s closer to Henry’s age than he is mine.”

“How young are we talking?” Elsa leans forward, her eyes narrowing in curiosity.

“Twenties…mid-twenties,” I specify hesitantly, avoiding her gaze as I swirl the wine in my glass.

“So?” She waves her hand dismissively, a smile tugging at her lips. “That’s nothing.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “So, don’t you think it’s weird?” 

“No, why would it be?” Elsa’s tone is confident, reassuring as she reaches out and places a hand on my arm.

I narrow my eyes at her, remembering all the late-night conversations we had when Neal left me for Wendy, who is thirteen years his junior and also in her mid-twenties at the time. The judgment, the scrutiny he got from us as we dissected their relationship with such disdain. Closing my eyes briefly, I shake my head, trying to understand why she’s taking this so much easier than I thought she would. “Hang on, so, when Neal does it, it’s gross, but when I do it, it’s fine?”

“Yes,” she answers without blinking. “Because Neal was married when he got together with Wendy. You’re not.” She smiles. “And also because I hate him and I love you.” She leans back, her expression thoughtful. “I can’t believe you’re dating a rockstar. It’s so...not you.”

I laugh, more of the tension lifting from my shoulders. “Tell me about it. But he’s more than just a rockstar, Elsa. He’s kind, funny and he just…he makes me feel like...like I can be myself. Like, who knew the one guy I can do that with is someone who can’t even walk outside without attracting flocks of fans and paparazzi?”

She smiles warmly. “Then I’m happy for you. You deserve someone who makes you feel that way.” Her smile dims. “Just be careful.”

I furrow my brows. “Be careful of what?”

“Of getting too attached.”

“What do you mean?”

Elsa sighs regrettably. “I just don’t want you to fall in too deep only to get your heart broken. I mean, like you said, he can’t go anywhere without attracting attention. Every time he steps outside, It's raining women, and as much as I’d love to believe you are one in a million in his world, he is still a man. A celebrity, to boot.”

I wave off her words, at the same time trying to wave off the ache in my gut. I had a similar thought during the car ride on the way to dinner last night, but I convinced myself this is only a fleeting dalliance. “You don’t have to worry about me, okay? This is just a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am enjoying the ride while it lasts.”

She eyes me skeptically, not sure if she quite believes me. “You sure you can handle this?”

“Please, I totally got this.”

~*~

On Monday morning, the events of the other night replay in my mind, bringing a smile to my lips as I stretch languidly beneath the sheets. Killian’s touch still lingers on my skin, his presence a phantom warmth beside me.

Pushing aside the covers, I slip out of bed and pad softly across the room. The days have felt different since our encounter, lighter somehow. I feel lighter, like I’m floating on a cloud and can’t seem to come back to the ground. In the kitchen, I reach for the canister of cocoa powder, sugar and milk, deciding to make Henry something special this morning.

I whisk together the ingredients, watching the chocolate meld into the creamy liquid as visions of Killian, his strong hands, his blue eyes, his glorious, naked body filter through my mind. The rich aroma fills the air, and I can’t help but hum a tune under my breath—one of Killian’s songs that’s been stuck in my head since last night when I was watching his music videos in my room, listening through my AirPods.

“Morning, Mom,” Henry greets me as he enters the kitchen, his voice still heavy with sleep.

“Good morning, Kid.” Pouring the cocoa into a mug, I add a generous swirl of whipped cream.

“Is that a Midnight Moon song you’re humming?”

“Uh, yeah, it was on the radio and I couldn’t get it out of my head.” I look away from him, sprinkling the cinnamon over the whipped cream, hoping he doesn’t see right through me. But when I look over at him again, he’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Yeah, their songs tend to have that effect on people.”

I turn and present him with the steaming mug, the whipped cream forming a soft peak. “Made you some hot cocoa. With extra everything.”

Henry takes the mug, his brow furrowing slightly as he eyes me with curiosity. His gaze is so much like mine—observant, searching. He’s always been perceptive, even as a child, picking up on the unspoken emotions and the hidden stories behind a smile.

“Thanks, but...what’s the special occasion?” Henry asks, taking a tentative sip of the cocoa. “It’s not my birthday yet.”

“Why does it have to be a special occasion for me to make you hot cocoa?”

“Because you only make me hot cocoa on my birthday, holidays and when I’m sick.”

“Why can’t I whip up my son his favorite treat on a nondescript Monday simply because I love him to pieces?” I reach out, wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight, leaving a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek.

He wipes at the spot, narrowing his eyes at me. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’ve just been kinda floaty since yesterday.”

“Floaty?” I repeat, feigning ignorance while trying to keep my expression neutral. My heart beats a little faster under his scrutiny, the secret of my night with Killian suddenly feeling like a bright neon sign above my head.

“Yeah, I’ve never heard you humming songs in the kitchen before, you’ve been super nice and smiling a lot.” Henry studies me over the rim of his mug, his green eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “Did you hit it off with that Walsh guy?” He immediately shakes his head. “Never mind, I don’t wanna know.”

“I’m fine, Henry,” I assure him, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the butterflies dancing in my stomach. “Everything is completely normal.” I flash him a reassuring smile.

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Well, thanks for the hot chocolate. It’s really good.”

“Anytime, kid.” After he leaves the kitchen, the corners of my lips tug into a smirk as I sip my own hot chocolate.

~*~

I’ve been dreading lunch with Neal ever since the word “yes” slipped out of my mouth and I stupidly forgot to cancel. He claimed he wants to discuss Henry’s upcoming birthday, but why couldn’t we have done that over a phone call? Or via text? Why did I have to meet him in person where his face will just remind me of how much Henry mirrors his father?

But the anticipation of meeting Killian tonight in his hotel room is what will get me through a dreadful hour of having to sit and chat with my ex. Killian had called me yesterday to set something up, knowing he’d be in the area with the band. And I, of course, said yes.

As if seeing Neal isn’t bad enough, he insisted on meeting at Soho House, where he conducts most of his business deals over power lunches. I can’t deny the exquisite art collection here and its aesthetic appeal, but the atmosphere drips with pretension and judgment.

I step into the rooftop garden room, which basks in the California sunshine, wicker lanterns hanging overhead, swaying softly in the breeze. Olive trees sporadically dot the space with their gnarled trunks and silver-green leaves, the floor-to-ceiling windows affording panoramic views of the sprawling West Hollywood hills.

As I head to Neal’s favorite table positioned in the back corner, laughter echoes from the center of the room near the koi pond, freezing me in my place, the air leaving my lungs. The sound is familiar—a timbre I’ve come to associate with one person in particular, a sound that always sends a tingle down my spine—and it draws my gaze like a magnet.

Even from behind, Killian is unmistakable—the tousled dark hair that never seems entirely tamed, broad shoulders tapering down into lean muscles. My skin tingles when I think about how soft his hair felt between my fingers as his tongue was buried inside me, how good those muscles had felt beneath my fingertips when he was driving into me. The images make me shudder with pleasure, heat pooling in my core.

My heart skips a beat, and I find myself changing course, making my way to Killian instead. He, his bandmates and a few women, Mary Margaret among them, sprawl comfortably around a table strewn with half-drained glasses and plates of food, their boisterous laughter and animated conversation permeating the air.

A twinge of jealousy gnaws at my insides at their closeness and camaraderie. I want to be a part of it, to be a part of Killian’s world.

His piercing blue eyes find mine, locking me in place for a heartbeat too long. I force a polite smile, reminding myself to breathe. “Killian,” I greet, approaching their table with feigned nonchalance.

“Emma?” He launches from his seat and approaches me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

I look over at Neal, and thankfully, he’s too busy, his face buried in the New York Times, to notice me over here.

I can tell Killian wants to kiss me, his eyes dropping to my lips, but then he looks over at his group. “You guys remember Emma, right? From Coachella?”

A chorus of hellos from the group greets me warmly, and I smile back, waving at them. Judging by the relaxed smile on Liam’s face—on all their faces—Killian hasn’t told them we slept together. He mentioned his brother’s protectiveness, so I wonder what Liam would say about Killian being with a forty-year-old woman.

“Would you like to join us?” Killian asks, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

“Yes, please, you should join us.” Mary Margaret gestures me over.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I say regretfully, tucking a stray lock of blonde hair behind my ear. I would much rather stay here with them—with Killian—than go over and have lunch with Neal. “I’m meeting Neal here for lunch.”

Killian’s eyebrow arches just slightly—a silent question mark hanging between us. “Neal, as in your ex-husband?” His mouth twists into a small frown, his dark eyes flickering with something akin to jealousy.

“Yeah. But believe me, it’s nothing more than ‘just lunch.’”

“Mind if I swing by to say hi?” he asks, his casual demeanor belying the intensity of his gaze.

“Sure, why not,” I gesture over at Neal’s table in the corner, knowing full well the ‘why not’ part. But it’s too late to retreat now.

As Killian’s arm slips from my shoulders, I wave once more at the group and continue to Neal’s table, taking a seat across from him. He’s impeccably dressed, as always, his brown hair perfectly coiffed. He engages me in small talk as I cradle my chin in my hand and nod when necessary, but I can’t really hear what he says because all I can think about is how close Killian is. I can’t see him or hear him but I can feel his presence, and I’m on the edge of my seat, ready to run back over there, but I’m mustering all the willpower inside me to stay put.

“Emma, you look...distracted.”

“Just the usual whirlwind at the gallery,” I deflect, grateful for years of practice keeping my emotions under wraps.

“So, I’ve been thinking about Henry’s birthday,” Neal says, taking a sip of his water. “I want to buy him a car.”

I raise a brow. “A new car? Neal, that’s…expensive.”

“It’s not new. It’s used.” Neal taps his phone a few times and then turns the screen toward me. “I’ve been looking at this one.” It’s a picture of a sleek, red convertible—exactly the type of car I’d expect Neal to pick for our son. “I thought it would be perfect for Henry’s seventeenth birthday. He’s getting his driver’s license soon.”

I stare at the image, my heart pounding in my chest. The car is beautiful, no doubt, but the thought of Henry driving through the chaotic streets of Los Angeles behind the wheel of such a powerful vehicle makes my stomach churn.

“It looks like a great car, Neal,” I say carefully, trying to mask my anxiety. “But... don’t you think it’s a bit much? We usually have a price cap. I got him some screenwriting supplies—a drawing tablet and ‘Save the Cat’.”

“That’s okay. He’ll have something educational and something powerful.”

That has me sighing. He’s totally missing the point.

“Look, he’s a responsible kid, Ems. And he’s going to need a reliable car for college visits and everything else coming up.”

“I know he’s responsible. I just worry about him driving in LA, especially with all the traffic and...well, everything.”

“Relax, he’ll be fine. We’ll make sure he gets extra driving lessons if that helps. I just want to give him something special. Plus, it’s a safe model with top-notch safety features.”

“Which won’t do him any good in the event of a rollover,” I point out, the thought making my stomach turn. 

Neal waves a dismissive hand. “Highly unlikely. Convertibles have centered gravity. They have a lower risk of rolling over than other vehicles.”

I shake my head, unconvinced. “That may be true, but I think a Chrysler Pacifica would be a better choice for a first car,” I suggest, arching an eyebrow at the impractical choice for a new driver navigating LA’s hectic streets.

Neal chuckles, shaking his head. “Ems, he’s going to be a high school senior in the fall, not a soccer mom. He needs something cool to impress his friends. You don’t want him to get laughed at, do you?”

I roll my eyes. On one hand, I appreciate that Neal is discussing this with me before making such a big purchase. On the other hand, I doubt anything I say will sway him in a different direction. So, coming to me first is rather pointless. This entire lunch is pointless. “Well, excuse me if I think safety trumps ‘cool’ when it comes to our son.”

Before Neal can respond, Killian strides over all suave and gallant.

Saved by the bell.

He’s wearing a Metallica t-shirt with a graphic of an electric guitar under the band name, slightly faded and perfectly worn, the short sleeves showing off the tattoos inking his arms. His ripped jeans hug his frame just right, the tears and frays artfully scattered across the denim. A vast contrast to Neal’s perfectly tailored charcoal Brioni suit, with a deep purple silk tie.

I’m now realizing how much my tastes have changed over the years. I used to prefer the polished, business type—men like Neal, who exude success and confidence. But now, I find myself more attracted to the rugged bad boy look. Or maybe it’s just Killian I’m attracted to. The thought makes me smirk inwardly. He looks good. And he smells good. Really, really good. The urge to touch him is unbearable.

He flashes me a toothy grin. “Fancy seeing you here, love.”

Neal’s eyebrows arch in a silent question as he takes in Killian’s appearance, like who is this guy?

“Hi, I’m Killian.” He extends his hand, and despite Neal’s initial skepticism, he shakes it reluctantly, meeting Killian’s with a cautious grip.

“Neal.”

“Good to meet you, Neal.”

“Likewise,” Neal replies, the word coated in cordiality. His brow is raised and there’s a slight tilt of the head, his lips slightly parted.

“Killian’s uh…he’s…”

“An art collector…who has an eye for beautiful artwork, like the ones in Emma’s gallery.”

I smirk, more amused by the way Neal’s looking at him than how casually Killian just strolled up to us and introduced himself to Neal.

“Is that so?”

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your lunch. We’ll touch base soon.”

“Sounds good,” I say casually, taking a sip of my water.

Killian flashes a grin before leaving a trail of tension in his wake.

As he walks away, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. There’s a heaviness in my chest, the weight of unsaid words and hidden glances. But here, with Neal’s analyzing gaze on me, I can’t afford to reveal how deeply Killian’s proximity affects me.

“Interesting character,” Neal comments after a moment, turning his attention back to me, though his gaze lingers on Killian’s retreating figure.

I bite my tongue to refrain from saying anything to that.

“He seems familiar though. Didn’t I see him on a late-night show?” 

“Maybe,” I murmur noncommittally, smoothing out the napkin on my lap.

“Is he an actor?”

I shake my head, sipping my water. “No.”

“Cassidy!”

I’m saved by the bell once again when Greg Mendell, Neal’s friend and fellow attorney, strides up to their table.

“Mendell,” Neal greets with a firm handshake.

However, this interruption is not as welcome. By me anyway. In fact, my stomach twists at the sight of him as the memories of the night I found out about Neal’s affair resurface. Greg and his wife were both there, both well aware of what Neal was doing behind my back, yet they smiled and laughed over dinner as if everything was fantastic.

Greg turns to me. “Emma, this is a pleasant surprise. How are you doing?”

I force a polite smile. “I’m great. How are you? How’s Tamara?”

“Tamara’s great. Thanks for asking. She’s been buried in her work as usual. Lots of late nights at the lab.”

I nod, pretending to be interested, and thankfully his attention on me is brief. He and Neal get into a heated debate about a recent case as my phone vibrates in my purse. I discreetly pull it out and glance at the screen. 

Killian: Yep, hate him even more.

I choke down the laughter threatening to escape. I look up, but Neal and Greg are still caught up in conversation, paying me no mind. My phone vibrates again, my heart skipping a beat when I read the next message.

Killian: Gods, I missed you.

Killian: You look beautiful btw 😍 

Me: So do you. 😚

Killian: Meet me in the lavvy in 5 minutes? 😉

I bite my bottom lip, the sweet ache of our night together rushing back full force.

Me: Can you make it in two?

The response is immediate.

Killian: Absolutely.

I almost knock over the chair in my eagerness to get up. The two men both pause from their conversation to look at me. “Sorry, I just need to step out for a moment.” 

“Everything okay?” Neal asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Fine. Just fine,” I reply hastily. “Be right back.” I smooth out my skirt, trying to appear calm and collected. But on the inside, my heart is racing. When I pass Killian’s table, his gaze meets mine, that familiar hunger that was there the night we made love, igniting in his eyes, making my skin heat, a small smile pulling at my lips.

This is crazy, I tell myself. I’m about to get it on in the restroom if that wink emoji is any indication. But it’s too late. I’m already stepping inside the ladies’ room.

The door opens not a minute later, Killian slipping in and locking it with an urgency that mirrors my own, filling the small space with his magnetic presence. His intense blue eyes lock on mine, sending a spark through my veins. The air thins as he steps closer, and we’re swept up in an intense kiss that’s as explosive as it is urgent, leaving no room for hesitation or pretense. It’s as if we’re both starved for this contact, this affirmation that the other night wasn’t just a dream. His kiss is urgent, demanding, and I respond with equal fervor, tangling my fingers in his tousled hair. The world beyond these walls ceases to exist, and there’s only Killian and the way he makes me feel—alive, wanted, aflame.

He presses me against the wall, steadying us in our shared recklessness. I bury my hands in his hair as he wraps his arm around my waist. Needing this man like I need air, I fumble for his jeans, hastily undoing them as Killian shimmies up my skirt so it’s around my hips. A soft moan escapes me, lost in the echo of our hushed urgency. We’re consumed by the moment, giving in to the pull of desire that has become our gravity. It’s reckless and wild, a fire we’re both too willing to stoke.

He lifts me up by the back of my thighs, wrapping my legs around his waist and setting me on the sink as he pushes my panties aside and presses the velvety head of his cock against my entrance. The conversation I had with Elsa tries to creep into my already foggy brain, but I push it aside as I push my hand inside his pants. There are things I want to ask him, but there’s no time for it now.

Our unified gasps mingle at the connection when he enters me—a sweet burn that elicits a decadent groan from his lips.

Killian moves inside me, his hands gripping my hips tightly as he thrusts into me with an intense rhythm that has me clutching onto his shoulders and begging him not to stop between moans and choked gasps.

“Gods, Emma,” he whispers against my neck, his breath hot on my skin as I card my fingers through his hair. I’m undone by it, by him, by this intoxicating connection that defies all reason and logic. “Fuck…” He growls. “You’re so damn tight…” His voice is ragged, his breath heavy—he’s close.

His hand reaches between us, rubbing tight circles on my clit. The sudden sensation makes me jolt and flutter. “Killian…” I gasp as the coiling in my belly intensifies. “Fuck, I’m so close…” I grab his hand, clamping it over my mouth to muffle my moans as my voice hits an embarrassingly high note, one I hope no one can hear.

A smirk plays on his lips as he leans down to suckle and nip at my neck and shoulder—the kill shot that sends me spiraling into a mind-numbing climax. My body locks up as waves of pleasure wash over me and he follows close behind with an inaudible sound that’s part growl, part groan.

He buries his face in the crock of my neck just long enough for us to catch our breaths and regain some semblance of coherence. He withdraws and tucks himself back into his pants before he helps me down. “I better let you get back to your lunch, love,” he breathes with a cocky smirk, kissing me on the lips, “before you’re missed.”

Right. Lunch. I forgot all about that. 

“See you tonight?”

I manage a nod, still recovering from my mind-boggling orgasm.

I take a deep breath to gather my composure, watching him go before I clean myself up—already anticipating tonight when I’ll get to see him again. I smooth down my hair, trying to erase the evidence of hot bathroom sex from my appearance as best as I can.

“Everything okay?” Neal asks as I slide back into my seat, his eyes searching mine.

“Perfectly fine,” I manage, my voice steady despite how flushed I am. I pick up my fork and eat my lunch that was brought to our table while I was gone as I struggle to focus on Neal’s words. He’s talking, but my mind is still tangled up with Killian, with the taste of him that lingers on my lips.

I nod and smile a dopey smile, still feeling, as Henry put it, all floaty as I replay the last few minutes over and over. I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross, falling deeper into something that should scare me. But the fear is muted, overshadowed by the thrill of the forbidden, the intoxicating rush of being desired by Killian Jones.

“Ems, you’ve been acting off lately.” Neal’s voice cuts through my reverie, sharp with concern—or is it suspicion? “What’s gotten into you?”

I have to stifle a laugh, doing everything I can to push down the need to answer that question.

Eight inches, I want to tell him. Eight inches of hot, throbbing rockstar dick has gotten into me.

But I don’t.

“Sorry, just a lot on my mind with work,” I lie smoothly, hoping he’ll buy it. And for now, he seems to.

But as he returns to whatever he was talking about, I can’t help but wonder how long I’ll be able to keep this secret, to juggle the fragments of my life without dropping them all. Because with every stolen moment with Killian, I’m weaving a more complex web, one that threatens to entangle us all.

As I head out of the garden room, navigating the dim corridor, Greg catches up to me, also on his way out. “So...” he murmurs casually as we continue walking side by side, his hands in his pockets, “Killian Jones. Very impressive.”

His words have me stopping in my tracks and furrowing my brows at him. “Excuse me?”

He stops and turns to look at me, his lips curving into a devious smirk as he leans in closer. “Neal might be blind, but that’s how he let you slip through his fingers to begin with.”

I’m frozen in my spot, but my heart is beating like a drum, my skin flushed. Had he seen Killian go into the ladies’ room? Had he heard us?

“Don’t worry,” he assures me with a wink, but his words aren’t very reassuring, “your secret is safe with me.”

~*~

As soon as Killian opens the door to his hotel room, I wrap my arms around the back of his neck and greet him with a mind-numbing kiss that sets my skin ablaze and helps me forget lunch with Neal and the things Greg said to me. Killian’s lips are soft and warm, and when he swipes his tongue over mine, it’s implanting all kinds of ideas in my head. And not just ideas of what I think he should do with that tongue of his.

He breaks the kiss, tucking some hair behind my ear as his lips curl into a smirk. “So that was Neal, huh?”

“Yep, that’s him,” I answer breathlessly, eyeing his lips. I want to kiss him again, but he seems insistent on talking about my ex.

He eyes me suspiciously, despite the playful grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Why do I keep finding you on dates with other men?”

I snort-laugh at the notion I’d ever consider anything more with my ex ever again. “With Neal, it’s ‘just lunch.’ Henry’s birthday is coming up soon, and we were discussing possible gifts,” I explain simply, not wanting to delve into the whole car debate. Because it’s just the two of us now, and our time together is limited. And I don’t want to taint it by talking about Neal.

“Swan, I’ve been on the receiving end of your ‘just lunch.’”

I rake my fingers over his chest, relishing his warmth, the solid muscles hidden beneath his shirt. I’m also enjoying the jealousy sparking in those mesmerizing blue eyes. “Trust me, lunch with Neal is ‘just lunch—’” I smirk—“until Killian Jones shows up. Then it becomes something else entirely.”

He flashes me his most irresistible, cockiest grin. “What can I say? I’m always the life of the party, love.”

His words send a thrill through me as I kiss him, guiding him backward toward the bed and slipping my hands under his shirt, his abs rippling under my palms. I get rid of the intrusive material and toss it aside, kissing the scowl off his lips when his prized shirt lands on the floor. I giggle against his lips. “When I returned from the ladies’ room, Neal asked what’s gotten into me lately, and I just about died.”

His eyebrow arches upward in amusement, a playful grin tugging at his lips as he curls his hands around my hips. “So tell me, love. What has gotten into you lately?”

I can’t suppress my smirk as I unbutton his pants and drag down the zipper, my heart racing in anticipation. My gaze never leaving his. “I’ll show you exactly what’s gotten into me.”

With a swift push against his chest, he falls back onto the bed. I climb on top of him, tug down his pants and show him exactly what has gotten into me lately. With my lips, my tongue, my mouth. Eliciting delicious noises and reactions from him that set every nerve in my body on fire.

I run my tongue along his length and take all eight inches into my mouth, enjoying the taste of him, the scent of him, the firm yet gentle tug as his fingers get tangled in my hair.

Mmm. Mm. Mmm.

I love every inch of what has gotten into me.

“He’s gonna marry you.” Henry says it like it’s just a fact of life, and Emma tries not to blanche.

Killian has gotten very good at understanding where her boundaries lie, and thus far the most serious she’s managed to get without freaking has been clearing off a hat on her coat rack to make space for his leather jacket. (Henry doesn’t know about the house key slowly burning a hole in the bottom of her sock drawer as it screams and cries for freedom, calling her a coward for going three towns over to have it copied to begin with and then proceeding to not give it to Killian.)

Marriage is hardly a topic on either of their minds, and she tells Henry so.

“Mom.” It’s the most disappointed, judgy word he’s ever spoken.

“Henry.”

“Mom, he spent half an hour last weekend talking to Mary Margaret about flower arrangements and wedding venues for the spring season.”

“Mary Margaret is a wedding planner, what else is she gonna talk about?”

Henry throws his hands in the air, looking exasperated.

“Why do you think he wanted to talk to Mary Margaret in the first place, mom?”

Emma is still skeptical. Killian isn’t the kind of guy to foist a surprise like that on her. He usually takes her lead.

They don’t even live together yet.

Oh.

She squints at Henry. Henry raises an eyebrow, and Emma wonders if his private Skype sessions with Killian have included lessons on that particular skill.

They stand off for a good five minutes in complete silence, making faces at each other.

“Go to your room,” she tells him, mostly joking, and he shrugs.

“Beats doing the dishes.”

How did she raise such a sweet kid to have so much sass?

“Are you telling me that the only reason Killian hasn’t gotten serious is that I’m holding back?” Asking her teenage son for romantic advice is probably on the list of things she shouldn’t do, but it’s never stopped her before.

“I’m telling you you’re the poster child for emotional constipation. Killian’s not going anywhere. We’re stuck with him until you decide you hate him. Which, if we’re taking my vote into account, would definitely be never.”

-----

The next time Killian visits, she clears out half the closet for him and hands him the key. He smiles, presses a kiss to her temple, and that’s that. Easy as pie. 

When Henry comes home from school that afternoon, he gives Emma a look so smug she wants to throw something at him, and asks Killian if him moving in means Henry will have all hours access to his Les Paul. 

Her kid and his priorities.

------

Henry and Emma miss him most during the summer while he’s off putting the finishing touches on his new album. They pretend not to - he’s only lived with them a handful of months, and it’s not like they didn’t have lives before he dropped into their laps, but the house is too quiet, and the coffee maker doesn’t work quite the same, and when Henry tells Killian he’s in a writing funk Killian’s face does this hopelessly concerned flop that makes Emma want to reach through the screen and hug him for about ten hours.

He flies them out three days later.

The media has a heyday the first time a pap gets a picture of them, strolling down the street after dinner one night, Henry rolling his eyes, Killian gesturing grandly, Emma staring at them both fondly.

She doesn’t get used to it, not at first - seeing her face plastered across the tabloids in the grocery store, seeing Henry’s face on some shitty TMZ knockoff site - she definitely isn’t used to it when Neal sends her the link to the Perez Hilton headline that reads “Killian Jones’ Secret Love Child” right before he calls her to bitch about it for twenty minutes, like Neal has any right to tell her how to live her life. 

Thankfully, the public at large has no idea that Killian Jones spends his off days helping her kid with his homework and fixing her garbage disposal when it starts making that funny gargling noise. 

The summer passes in a haze of packing boxes and amusing anecdotes from David about his adventures in soon-to-be fatherhood, stories about the usual antics from the townspeople, and Snapchats from Mary Margaret and her ever growing belly. 

“You know I don’t know how to use that thing,” she tells her friend, her phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder as she stuffs one of Killian’s ratty old teeshirts into the “Goodwill” box for the fifth time. 

“It’s easy. Have Henry show you. Or Killian. Killian uses it all the time.”

“You’re missing the subtext here, which is I don’t wanna.”

“You gotta stay hip with the times, Emma.”

She’s still trying to figure out how to get rid of all the apps on her phone she doesn’t want.

Over the line, Mary Margaret pauses, and Emma can hear soft music playing in the background. “I like Killian’s new single,” she finally tells Emma, and Emma hums. She’s heard it a million times in it’s many iterations, has listened to Killian working out the chords, watched him scribbling out lyrics, waking at odd hours of the night to jot in the notebook he keeps by the bed. He was honestly pretty secretive about it, and now that Emma’s heard the whole thing, she’s not entirely sure why, but it’s good. It’s a good song. It makes her feel a lot of things she doesn’t particularly enjoy talking about, but. It’s a good song.

“Do you like it?” Mary Margaret asks, and there’s a curious rise in her voice that Emma doesn’t understand. 

“Yeah. It’s...its kinda sad. But I like it.”

“Oh.” Mary Margaret mulls over her words for a bit, and there’s still something she isn’t saying, but for the life of her Emma can’t figure it out. “I think it’s kind of hopeful.”

They talk for a few more minutes, and Emma can’t fight the feeling that there’s something her friend isn’t saying, but they say goodbye and Emma is immediately swept up in the last of the packing Killian and Henry are doing before they fly back home next week.

Home. It’s such a silly word to get flustered over, and yet, here she is, getting warm fuzzies just thinking about it. 

Killian presses a kiss into her neck and sweeps her into a lazy half-dance, spinning her across the wood floors of the house he means to sell when he can, and she’s so swept up in the moment that she misses him digging his stupid ratty tee shirt out of the donation box.

------

Dating a rockstar had sounded great in theory, and the part where they’re actually together and in love is about as great as it could possibly be, but she forgets sometimes all the obligations that come with creating popular music.

Like the press. And the tour dates.

The media, without the continued presence of Emma and Henry in LA with Killian, dies down after a while, left with articles about why his album had taken so long, and the occasional speculative romantic entanglement with whoever they can think to pair him off with. 

Last week it was Taylor Swift, and Emma and David had had a good long laugh about it while Killian grumbled across the table from them, throwing fries into the haggard mess of David’s hair, which he keeps telling them is new parent chic.

He puts off planning the tour for nearly a month, until his agent starts calling him up at all hours of the day and night to remind him that despite his success, he is still, in fact, beholden to the record label, and his fans.

He spends the next three months calling her up when he can find the time, and the Skype dates become a regular thing again, but this time she’s used to waking up next to him, used to sharing the bathroom sink with his myriad of hair products, used to brushing her teeth while he bites his tongue an concentrates on his eyeliner. 

This time she misses him almost more than she can fathom.

It puts a strain on them, and she tries not to let it show but it bubbles over, eventually, as these things do. They snap at each other, she screens his calls, Henry shoots her annoyed glares over the dinner table and tells her she’s being stupid.

She is being stupid. It’s kind of what she does. Killian knew that when he signed up for...whatever it is they’re doing.

The first time she catches herself listening to one of his songs on repeat she rolls her eyes at her own damn self and resolves to be less of an asshole about Killian doing his damn job. It doesn’t help that Mary Margaret and David are both wrapped up the the reality of having a newborn - she barely sees them, and when she does they both look like they haven’t slept in days. She can’t really blame them, but she’s...lonely, for the first time in a good long while, and for once in her life she’s no longer used to it.

The first weekend he’s home is tentative - they’ve spent three months apart and their routines are off. They bump into each other as she leaves the bathroom and he enters it; the coffee isn’t strong enough; he mumbles under his breath when he finds her towel on the floor; he scratches at his nose in irritation and Emma, who used to find the motion so endearing, wants to smack at his hand.

All of these things once would have been signs for Emma to run. She’s never been very good at relationships in general, always looking for the first thing she can to leap right out of a commitment, but this time she takes a breath, watches him as he reads something over Henry’s shoulder, eyes the way his sweats sling low on his hips, the way his hair hangs over one eye, the way his fingers tap out a rhythm against his coffee mug, and the way he glances up at her through that too long hair as if trying to discern her mood.

“I’m an asshole,” she tells the room at large. Killian raises an eyebrow. Henry snorts an affirmation, still typing away on his laptop like he’s only half-involved in what’s going on, but she knows her son, knows he’s paying attention to everything.

Killian wanders after her when she slides into the living room - she sets down her own coffee, slips her arms around him as he turns the corner, and presses her face into his chest, breathing deep.

“I missed you,” she tells him, and he stills, something catching in his breath. She tilts her head up to stare at him, finds mussed hair and uneven stubble and a hopeful glint in his gaze. 

“If there’s one thing I can assure you, Swan, it’s that I missed you more.”

He presses a sloppy kiss into her hair, sighs long and low. 

“One more month and then this bloody tour is over. We’ll take a holiday, just the three of us.”

It warms her heart to know that Killian will always, always include Henry in his life, but -

“Screw Henry, he can fend for himself for a few days.”

“Hey!” Henry calls from the doorway of the kitchen, where he has no doubt been eavesdropping instead of finishing his essay at the kitchen table.

“If you wish to leave the boy, then far be it for me to deny your wishes,” he says on a grin, and Henry huffs.

“If you come back to find someone has Sharpied out Tim Farriss’ autograph, I’m blaming the dog.”

“We don’t have a dog.”

“We will when you get back from vacation.”

It’s easy to fall back into things, after that.

------

He takes her sailing for her birthday, and despite Henry’s dire warnings the house doesn’t burn down in their absence.

She stops waiting for the other shoe to drop, It’s a step she was never sure she’d be able to take again, and Killian acknowledges it as he always does, without fuss but with an understanding of the way she ticks that should honestly scare the shit out of her.

She gets the story about Milah Gold in fits and starts, knows that he carries some of the same scars she does. She tells him about Neal, about growing up without the family she’d always craved, about latching on to the first person who seemed to understand her, about finding out about Henry and the ridiculously short marriage to Henry’s father that had imploded the moment she held Henry in her arms and realized that Neal was never going to be enough for the two of them.

The night before they head back home he pulls out his guitar and strums at it for a while before he sings her the song that’s been dominating the airwaves the past few months, and he gets two words in before Emma has a mild panic attack she spends the entirety of the song trying to hide.

She calls Mary Margaret ten minutes after they get off the plane, while Killian is off in the bathroom.

“It’s about me,” she says without preamble, the moment her friend answers the phone.

“Good morning Emma.”

“The song is about me.”

Mary Margaret hums in agreement, but Emma can actually hear the moment the gears come grinding to a halt. “Did you...just figure this out?”

Emma tries not to read too much into the exhaustion in Mary Margaret’s voice. She has a brand new baby. She’s probably just tired.

“No one’s written a song about me before.”

Which isn’t entirely true. When she’d been young and naive, and spent her nights following Neal and his bandmates around, their violinist August had once written a song about her boobs.

He’d called it Real Girl and the way Neal had laughed about it and then added it to their set list for the next month probably should have been a good indication of how their relationship would mature.

“Have you considered that he wrote it for you, and not about you?”

Emma spares a moment to wonder how she ever managed to figure out anything in her life before she had her friends and family to shove her gently in the right direction.

------

Christmas comes and goes - they spend the week leading up to it at Killian’s soon-to-be-sold house in LA, packing the last of his things, and the paparazzi get one last taste of their favorite angry rockstar when he catches them hiding out across the street.

They fly home Christmas day, and Henry spends most of the place ride giving Killian as much shit as he possibly can for the moneyshot some guileless pap had managed the night before - Killian chasing him off the street, decked out in a Christmas themed flannel onsie, complete with dancing reindeer, which Killian, in his rush, had forgotten to zip any higher than his navel before he was out the door to take chase.

“I seem to recall a particularly incriminating photo of a young Henry Swan with his head stuck in a banister at Mary Margaret’s loft,” Killian tells him after Henry breaks into his fifth peal of laughter in as many minutes. “It would be a shame if Grace were to come across it.”

“You wouldn’t.” Henry’s eyes are as wide as saucers. 

“I’m sure she’d enjoy the story even more. Once upon a time, about, oh, a year and a half ago, a strapping lad of fourteen thought it would be an excellent idea to -.”

“Okay, fine, shutting up about the rockstar onsie look.”

Two weeks later Glamour does a spread on up and comers in the music industry. In one particular group shot, they are all wearing one piece pajama sets, unzipped to their belly buttons.

Henry frames it next to the Christmas Eve shot and the Secret Love Child front page.

------

Killian’s album is nominated for a Grammy, because of course it is. They ask him to perform, and he agrees with little fanfare.

Then comes the real bomb.

He asks her to come with him. As his date.