Mr. I Watch My Novels wanted to read my book? Seriously? He didn’t even like romance. He’d said he’d only seen Twilight because of his sister.
“No,” I said. “You’ll probably use it as a paperweight.”
“Oh, come on. I have nothing to do, since I can’t make any ‘obnoxious’”—he made air quotes—“noises. Assuming you’ll forgive the sound of me turning the pages of your masterpiece, of course.”
“Argh. I told you it was fine as long as I can’t hear it.”
He laughed. “You’re cute when you fume. You look like an overheated teakettle with steam and a whistle. Grandma owned one that turned red when it got hot. Like in a cartoon.”
I pointed at the door. “Out.”
“Okay, okay.” He kept holding the book, and I decided to let him try to read it. He’d give up after a page or two. Men hardly ever read and liked romance because most of them were narrow-minded about books written by women for women. Just look at my dad.
Killian started to walk off.
“And give me back my towel!”
“You really want it?” He smiled, flashing his dimple again and hooking a thumb under the edge.
Dammit, he was naked underneath. And easily shameless enough to give me the towel this instant.
“I mean tomorrow!” I shrieked. “Now out! I have to work.”
Chapter Nine
Killian
I chuckled and occasionally laughed out loud as I read Emma Grant’s, a.k.a. Emily-next-door’s, book. Out of self-preservation, I quit drinking anything while reading. Snorting whiskey up my nose hurt.
Darth Vader’s theme played on my phone. Not now! I thought. I wanted to let it go to voicemail, as there were only forty-some pages left to read. But it was Mir, and I didn’t want to do that to my baby sister.
“Hey,” I said. “Make it quick.”
“Well, hello to you, too,” Mir said. “How’s everything? Life treating you better now? Writing any new songs?”
I was too engrossed in Emily’s story to react very strongly. “I’m fine. Could be better if I could finish this book without getting interrupted.” Hint, hint.
“A ‘book’? Is that what we call Netflix adaptations these days?” she asked with a laugh. “Oh, wait. Are you watching a foreign film and need to read the subtitles?”
“No, I—”
“No, probably not. Italian porn doesn’t have a lot of dialogue.”
I sighed. She knew my motto was that if a book was any good, it’d be made into a movie or show. I didn’t actually have to read clusters of letters.
“I’m reading, Mir. A novel. Emma Grant’s Holiday with a Grumpy Boss. It’s hilarious, and I’m almost finished with it.”
Silence. Mir finally said, “Okay, so you really are reading reading. What’s happened to you? Should I call a lawyer to help you get started on a will?”
“I do actually read more than utility invoices, you know.”
“I’m shocked. I thought your assistant took care of your invoices.”
“Fine, but I’m just saying I do read, and I’m liking this Emma Grant book. Have you read it? It’s a chick story.”
“It’s called romance. And yes, I read it the day it came out. Emma Grant is one of my absolute faves. I one-click every time she puts out a new book.”
“Huh. I didn’t know you had time to read.” Mir lived to work, or so I’d presumed based on the number of hours she claimed to spend at the office. “I’ll let her know. Maybe that’ll make her more agreeable.”