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“Bunnies?” I hadn’t wanted to laugh but did anyway. “Of all the animals, you go with bunnies?”
“Have you ever looked in a bunny’s eyes, Libs? They’re just waiting for their chance to dominate. Why do you think they’re always so twitchy?”
“Because they’re freaked something’s going to eat them for dinner?”
“Nope. They’re plotting. It’s just a matter of time before they make their move. Mark my words.”
So here we are, in Nellwood’s General Store, Killian all but hopping from shelf to shelf, intent, it seems, on touching everything. “Oh, shit,” he drawls. “Look at this, Libs.”
He picks up a red trucker hat and tries it on. “What do you think?”
Of course he looks good in it. Even with his long, tangled hair. In truth, he’s like a hot trucker. It doesn’t help that his faded black Star Wars T-shirt clings to his chest and displays his tight biceps with loving care. Disturbed fantasies involving a big rig and a truck stop parking lot fill my head, and I have to give myself a mental slap to focus on the question at hand.
His grin is one of goofy happiness, and I can’t help but smile back. “It’s totally you. In fact, you really should buy one in every color they have.”
Killian points at me. “You’re getting one too.”
“Yeah, no.”
“It’ll protect your skin from that sunburn threat you keep going on about.”
Behind the counter, Mrs. Nellwood titters. “So sweet, looking out for you. Liberty, dear, who is your young man?”
My man? Gah.
Under the brim of his hat, Killian’s dark brows waggle, though he manages to keep a straight face while he does it.
“This is my new neighbor…” I glance at him and realize I have no idea what his last name is. Good God, I’ve let a virtual stranger into my life. And become way too attached to him at that.
Killian doesn’t look at me, so he’s oblivious to my panic as he steps to the counter and extends his hand. “Killian, ma’am. I’m renting the Cromley place for a few months.”
Mrs. Nellwood preens, her white bun trembling. “Welcome to Collar Island, Mr. Scott.”
Killian frowns as if confused. “Mr. Scott?”
Mrs. Nellwood’s pale blue eyes are shrewd. “I thought a Mr. Scott was the name on the rental agreement. Was I mistaken?”
Killian’s back stiffens in surprise. He clearly hadn’t understood the busybody nature of a small town. But he recovers quickly and gives her the full force of his charming smile. “Mr. Scott handled the rental for me. I was traveling at the time.”
It’s strange. Watching Killian, I get a sense he’s telling the truth, and yet he seems oddly unsettled. Maybe he’s like me and values his privacy. I don’t blame him. I’ve spent every summer of my life here. Still I’m treated like an outsider and an object of curiosity.
I hide a lot since I moved in permanently. The idea that they’re just waiting for me to slip up and spill my innermost secrets sets my teeth on edge. I hate small talk, always have. Hate the awkward, too-tight effect it has on my skin, my throat. I’m better off on my own. Which is why I rarely come to town.
Killian is paying for his things—a mountain of candy, chips, soda, knick-knacks that no one ever needs, and the hat—when the bell over the door rings and a group of girls enter on a wave a giggles.
They look about sixteen, and it occurs to me that I’ve really been hiding away for a long-ass time, because I don’t recognize a one of them. At the counter, Killian shifts his weight so his back is to the girls. I wouldn’t have noticed except my attention, apparently, is always somehow on him.
He thanks Mrs. Nellwood with a quick, tight smile then hustles over to me. He doesn’t actually move quickly, but each step he takes seems laden with the intent to get the fuck out of here. Fine by me.
The moving mass of teenagers has hit the makeup aisle, and much squealing has ensued. And they’ve definitely noticed him. The girls keep whispering while glancing at his back, which isn’t surprising. Killian is tall and well formed. A hot stranger. He might as well be bait on a hook for the local female population.
I am surprised, however, when Killian takes my hand and tugs me outside. Not surprised that he wants to leave, but that he does it in a way that makes it look like we’re a couple. In silence, we walk down Main Street, and all I can think about is the rough yet warm feel of his hand in mine. His hold on me is secure but easy, his stride slowed to match my shorter steps.
Jesus, I need to get a grip. I can’t have a crush on this man. We’ve already set up a pattern in our relationship. He teases, I sneer. The idea of him finding out I’m attracted to him makes my insides twist. I’d never live it down. Never.
