Idol (VIP, #1)(11)

We go back to work. Which is good, fine. Until Killian reaches behind his head and pulls off his shirt to tuck it in his back pocket.

I’ve already seen the man naked. But that was different. I was too pissed and too busy trying to get him clean to fully notice the particulars. Now he’s in the full sun, his tan skin already glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He’s lean and strong, his muscles a work of art. The massive tattoo that covers his left shoulder and torso is actually a vintage map of the world, like a spread-out globe.

“You looking at my art, Libs?” He sounds amused.

I meet his eyes and find them glinting, those ridiculously long lashes practically touching his cheeks. No fair that a dude has such pretty eyes.

“I am. I figure you put pictures on your body, it’s fair game for anyone to study them.”

His grin is quick, devilish, the little dimples on the sides of his mouth going deep then fading with his smile. “Didn’t say I minded.” He sits back on his heels so I can see it all.

Unfortunately, I find myself wanting to study his lower abdomen, where the muscles are like stepping stones leading the way down to Mr. Happy.

Damn it. I am not attracted to this guy. Nope. I’m just undersexed and need to get me some. Soon. But not with Killian. I cannot forget how I met him. Alcohol addiction is my hard line in the sand; it destroyed everything I loved.

Ignoring my inner argument, I take in his tattoo. It’s done in clean, sure lines, more of an impression of the globe instead of being heavy with detail. And it is beautiful.

“Does it have any meaning?” I ask. “Or was it for fun?”

Killian tosses a dark lock of hair back from his face. “Started off as a way to cover up a mistake.”

He leans in, bringing the scent of clean sweat and heady male pheromones with him. Hell. There really isn’t any good way to describe that fragrance other than delicious and addictive. I brace myself as he points to a spot above his nipple where there’s a compass rose. “I wanted to cover a name. Darla.”

“Love gone bad?”

He gives me a wry grin. “That would at least be romantic. But no. It was high school graduation. Me and…” His face goes blank for a second, a haunted look flashing in his eyes. But he blinks, and it’s gone. “My friends and I got wasted and hunted down one of our other friends who was practicing to become a tattoo artist. I was the guinea pig.”

“And he put ‘Darla’ on you?”

“Yep.” Killian sits back and starts to weed again. But he’s still grinning.

“Who was Darla?”

He laughs. “That’s the thing; she was just a name he thought would sound funny. I might have kept it. But, shit, it was ugly—all lopsided and f*cking loopy.” Killian shakes his head. “Looked like some third grader did it.”

I can’t help but laugh too. “Nice.”

Killian’s expression goes soft, his gaze running over my face. His smile grows.

“What?” I ask, thrown by the gleam in his eyes. It makes my breath catch.

“You’re pretty.”

He says it so matter of fact, I snort. “You sound surprised.”

Killian leans in just a little. “Truth? I am. You’ve been scowling at me so much… Ah, there it is again. Glaring hate-fire at me.” The calloused tip of his finger traces the top of my cheek, and my lower belly clenches in shock. His voice grows thoughtful. “But when you smile? You kind of glow.”

“Like a light bulb?” I retort, trying not to duck my head.

His brow quirks, his eyes glinting with suppressed humor. “Fine. You’re radiant. That clear enough?”

Words stick in my throat. It hits me that a man has never called me pretty before. Not once. How could that be? I’m not ugly. Objectively speaking, I know I’m pretty, or can be. I’ve had multiple dates, a boyfriend briefly in college. I’ve been hit on before, sure. But I’ve never been complimented in such a simple, honest way. The knowledge sinks into my skin like an itch, and suddenly I don’t want Killian to look at me.

My spade plunges into the earth with enough violence to send soil flying. “So how did this Darla tat go away?”

Killian frowns down at my spade for a second before he eases back to his usual cheekiness. “My mom was so disgusted with it, she gave me the money to get a new one to cover it.”

“I’d have thought she’d want you to get it removed.”

“Naw.” He tugs out a weed. “She didn’t object to a tattoo, just that it was poorly done. And there’d still be a scar. Mom isn’t big on scars. Anyway, I got the compass rose. The map came later.” He glances down at himself. “Kind of like, ‘Hey, Kills, here’s the world. It’s all yours if you don’t f*ck it up.’”

The regret in his voice, though he’s clearly trying to hide it, hits something in me. I take a breath, my gaze wandering to the clear blue sky overhead. The world. I’ve seen so little of it. Just this small blue corner of North Carolina and the slightly bigger swath of land when I went down to Savannah for college. Twenty-five years old, and I’m a hermit of my own making.

My chest closes up, and I have to fight to breathe. I have an overwhelming urge to run into the house and curl up in my nice, cool bed where it’s dim and silent.