He stared at me like he couldn’t believe it. “You stole these from an airline?”
My spine prickled with embarrassment. I wasn’t exactly proud of what I’d done, but they had been just too damned cool to ignore. And the part of me that loved fun and funky things patted myself on the back every time I used them.
“Hey, I sent them a check for twenty bucks after I got home. And given how much I paid for the business-class ticket, they could’ve given them to me for free.” But okay, I probably shouldn’t have done that. It had been an impulse, especially when they popped up with every meal. There had been a lot of meals between Sydney and the States.
Still, Killian was looking at me like my hair color had suddenly changed right before his eyes. “I didn’t know you traveled.”
That was what he got out of the story? Well, at least we wouldn’t have to talk about the shakers anymore.
“I also drive from time to time. I’m not a complete hermit,” I said. Mom still wailed about my refusal to leave my house unless I had to, saying I’d never meet the perfect guy if I didn’t get out more. She refused to accept that that was the absolute last thing I was worried about. Killian’s reaction reminded me of the call I’d had with her the month before. She’d wanted to discuss how her friend’s daughter was getting married, like I should do something about the fact that I wasn’t even dating, much less getting engaged. She didn’t understand I’d moved to Kingstree to avoid the meat-market scene. “I travel for conferences and book signings.”
“Huh.” He turned his attention back to the salt and pepper shakers. “Don’t feel bad. I might’ve done the same. These are really cool.”
That made me feel better…until I realized I was giving his opinion of me way too much weight. It was irksome. I never cared much about what strangers thought of me. The only thing that mattered was how my readers felt about my books. And my friendship with Lucy and Skye.
But apparently, Killian was finished admiring—or judging—my salt and pepper shakers. While I stood there with my arms crossed, watching him—to make sure he didn’t do anything funny to the food—he cracked eggs into a huge bowl I’d left in the dish rack days ago and forgotten to put away, then whisked them with a fork. He turned on the stove and poured some oil into the pan. He looked at home in my kitchen.
I couldn’t decide if I liked that or not. I also couldn’t decide if I should let him continue to parade around topless. The morning sun shone over his body, making him glow like an angel…except I knew he was no angel. Maybe one of the fallen variety at best. And his forearm tats shifted as he moved. The entire effect wasn’t exactly giving me the calmness I wanted to achieve.
“You should put on a shirt,” I said.
“Why?”
“That oil might spatter and burn you.” And what a shame would that be on such a fine torso. Not that I’d ever say it out loud.
“Still drying my chest hair, remember? Oil and water don’t mix. It can’t hurt me.”
Must be some type of man logic, because it made zero sense. Probably the same sort of thinking that made men do stupid stuff. “Don’t sue me if you get hurt.”
“I won’t. Now go away and let me work my magic. I’m a pretty decent cook.”
That remained to be seen, although if it tasted half as good as it smelled, it’d be all right. I sat at the island and pretended to fiddle with my phone, although I watched him surreptitiously. I told myself it was for self-preservation, because my presence might discourage him from sprinkling arsenic all over my eggs. The fact that I noticed how broad his shoulders were…how hot it was to see his back muscles flex… Well, all that
was just going to be there, no matter what. Very much like the irritating side effects you had to put up with while taking a life-preserving drug.
As he started to place omelets on plates, I took out a couple of icy lemon-flavored sweet teas from the fridge, because first, I needed one, and second, he probably wouldn’t complain, since it was that or water. Even I thought it was too early for beer, even if it was Hop Hop Hooray. When he brought the omelets and forks to the dining table, I quietly switched our plates.
“What’s that about?” he asked, sitting down.
“Yours looked bigger,” I lied, not wanting to tell him about my suspicions. I’d been watching him, but there was that distracting bare torso. I might’ve missed something.
“I made them the same size.”
“Why?” Didn’t guys usually want to have more food?
“Because you don’t seem like the type who’ll stop to eat lunch or dinner.”
“You don’t know that.”
He gave me a look. “I’ve seen your fridge. And your cart at Sunny’s.”
I shrugged. “Eating is overrated.”
“It’s essential for survival, but go ahead and humor me. Do the overrated activity.” He gestured with his fork.
Ha! Sarcastic bastard. I bit into the omelet. Holy cow. It was good—fluffy and gooey, with melted cheese in the center. The man knew how to cook. And with the first bite in my mouth, I suddenly realized I was starving.
“How’d that taste? Overrated?” he asked after I’d swallowed.