Idol (VIP, #1)(27)

“Today, we shall eat from the trough. Later we shall play Fun with Water Hoses.” His gives me a cheeky smile. “You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to payback.”

“Yeah, I bet.” I take a bite of sun-ripe peach. “Never mind the fact that I was performing a community service.”

“Don’t worry, Elly May. I’ll be kind. Ish.”

We grin at each other like idiots, and then his phone rings, the muffled sound coming from his pocket. His smile fades as he reaches down to turn it off.

“You’re not even going to look and see who it is?” I ask.

He shrugs and stabs a peach chunk with his fork. “Don’t need to. That’s my manager’s ringtone, Scottie.

“And you don’t want to talk to him?”

“Not particularly.” He spears another piece of fruit like he’s hunting game. “He just wants to talk business and…” Killian gives me a large, kind of fake smile. Anger and irritation flicker in his eyes. “I’m on vacation.”

“Well, all right then.” I try for teasing, but my mouth is stiff.

A lead weight settles in my gut. His manager wants him to go back. That much is clear. No matter how much Killian wants to enjoy his vacation, real life is still waiting for him. And eventually, I’m going to lose him to it.

“Thanks, by the way,” I rasp, hating the soreness in my throat.

He shakes his head. “It’s a horrible fruit salad, babe. And we both know it.”

“No, I mean for being there… Here.”

Killian looks at me for a moment, his brows drawing close; then he rests his hand over mine. It’s warm and heavy, his grip gentle but strong. “Thanks for letting me.”

Jesus. I’m in danger of clinging to his hand and blubbering. I need to get a grip. I lift up a slice of mangled orange. “You know, it’s ideal to include at least a little of the fruit with the rind.”

His lips twitch. “How about the seeds, Martha Stewart? Are they okay?” He flicks one at me before I can answer.

As I prepare to launch a banana in retaliation, relief eases the tightness in my chest. This, I can handle.





Chapter Eight





Libby



Usually after a storm, things cool down; the land gets to breathe a bit. Not so here. Heat settles like a thick blanket, smothering everything in its wake, turning the world humid, heavy, and slow. With the power out, there’s not a thing to do but wallow. Even going to the beach is useless. The full summer sun scorches the sand, and as soon as you leave the ocean, you’re baking, sandy, and miserable.

I settle for lounging on the porch’s sleeping couch, the shades lowered against the sun, and every now and then stealing a lump of the rapidly melting ice I’ve filled my cooler with. Cotton shorts and a thin tank is all I can manage, and for once, I’m grateful for my small boobs because it means I can comfortably go bra free.

Or maybe not. I’m all too aware of the ribbed fabric clinging to my damp skin, outlining my shape. But what can I do? I’m not willing to suffer this heat any further by putting on more clothes, so if Killian happens to get an eye-full, so be it.

He isn’t looking at me anyway. He’s sprawled out on the floor, plucking away at his guitar, and taking sips of the lemonade I fixed. The slow twang of his guitar lulls me, and I drift in and out.

“If the power doesn’t come back on by tomorrow,” Killian says, pulling me from my daze, “we’re going to a hotel in Wilmington.”

I don’t bother opening my eyes. “It’ll come back on.”

He makes an annoyed noise. “We should have gone this morning.”

“Didn’t know it would take so long then. Besides, the sun’s setting. It will get cooler.”

Killian hums, which might mean an agreement or the vocal equivalent of an eye roll. I don’t care. I’m too hot.

And the heat is getting to me. I should be listless. But I’m not. I’m restless. The thick, heavy heat has settled on me, too, caressing my skin, drawing my attention to it. I’m aware of the way my chest rises and falls with each breath. Perspiration trickles down my spine, and the ice I’m slowly rubbing over my sternum melts in rivulets that slip between my breasts.

But it’s not the weather. Not really. It’s Killian sitting across the way, wearing nothing more than a pair of low-slung shorts and a sheen of sweat on his toned chest. It’s the deep, rolling sound of his voice, so gorgeous it pulls at my nipples and touches that achy spot between my legs.

I shift, hating the heat that throbs there, luscious and needy. I have to fight the urge to arch my back and thrust my nipples outward, calling attention to them. Begging.

Killian sings a low, soft song I’ve never heard before. I focus on the lyrics. It’s about a man, aimless and jaded, finding solace in a woman’s smile. It’s about sex—lazy, languid sex—that goes on for days.

I want to tell him to sing something else. And yet I don’t want him to stop.

But he does. He stops and starts, and I realize he’s composing. Tingles run over my skin.

“New song?” I murmur when he pauses, messing around with a chord progression. He’s been writing since he sang with me a few days ago. And it’s been a thrill to witness. When a song hits him, it comes hard and fast. But he needs feedback, someone to work through it with. He’d told me that role had been Jax’s. Only Jax isn’t here, so the task falls to me.