Chapter 22

COLD SEATS AND WARM PASTRIES

22

The morning sunlight filters through the blinds, casting a warm glow across the bedroom. I stretch my arms above my head and sigh, feeling well-rested—if not a bit cold—despite my fitful sleep last night. Eventually, exhaustion pulled me under, and I drifted into a restless slumber before Killian came back.

Realizing that with a jolt, I turn to Killian's side of the bed. My heart sinks when I find it empty. My first thought is that I'm waking from some kind of crazily vivid dream, and that Killian was never here. But then I have to use the bathroom, and the door still has no handle.

I shuffle into the small room, half asleep, and lower myself onto the toilet without looking—big mistake. The shock of the cold, unwelcoming ceramic sends me springing up, wide awake now. "Seriously?" I mutter, glaring at the raised toilet seat.

I must have words with Killian, apparently not even book boyfriends are so perfect that they don't leave the toilet seat up.

Killian. Where are you?

At once, my mind races with thoughts of him spending the night in some random woman's house, and I can't help but feel a pang of jealousy and disappointment. Looks like our story is over before it even started.

"Morning, Sugar Spoon," Killian's voice startles me as I exit the bathroom. He's standing in the doorway with a pastry box in his hands. "Breakfast in bed?"

I try hard not to blush. The toilet seat offense already forgotten. "What do you have there?" Heart thundering in my chest, I'm impressed at the casual tone I pull off.

"Cinnamon buns." He sits on his side of the bed and opens the box. The sticky, fragrant treats immediately make my mouth water. Killian's grin widens as he sets the pastries down on the comforter, coaxing a smile in response. Okay, maybe we have another page or two million to write.

"These smell amazing. Where did you get them?" I ask, joining him in bed and reaching for one of the still-warm buns.

"Fancy bakery at the corner."

His eyes twinkle as he watches me take a bite and moan appreciatively.

"Gosh, these are incredible," I say between bites. "You're going to spoil me with all this delicious food."

"That's the plan," he teases, taking a cinnamon bun for himself. "Get you spoiled every day until you can't live without me."

The words hit a little too close to home, but I brush them off with a joke. "Without you or without your culinary treats? And that place is too expensive. You can't get breakfast there every morning."

"Don't worry, my tips from last night were great."

I finish my bun and eye the remaining two dubiously. They're fantastic, but I don't think I can eat another entire one. I pick off the outer swirl of the second one, but then I'm too stuffed and I have to give up. Killian doesn't share the same limits. He finishes his second bun and then polishes off the rest of mine, too.

Cinnamon buns become our unspoken breakfast ritual. Even if he's out working until late, I wake up with freshly baked buns delivered to me in bed both on Thursday and Friday.

In this short time, our interactions grow beyond those quiet, early-morning exchanges. We share more—stories, laughter, even comfortable silences.

On Friday morning, I leave the apartment to go to class early unable to wipe a smile from my face. In a blink, my lecture is over, and it's time to go back home and pack for our trip to South Bend. I don't have any classes to teach or attend in the afternoon, so we're able to get an early start.

As I get home after my only morning lecture, Killian astonishes me by emerging from the bathroom dressed almost exactly like the first night we kissed. He is in full cowboy attire, looking like he's about to attend a Western-themed party rather than going on a trip. The oversized belt buckle catches the light, almost blinding me. The hat on his head is so big it'd put John Wayne to shame. And the cowboy boots are stamped with intricate designs. He's only missing a lasso to complete the picture.

The ensemble is so over the top, I'm not sure if I should laugh or cry.

He smiles and widens his arms. "What do you think?"

I sidestep the question. "Did you go on a secret shopping spree without me?"

"Ah, yes." A hint of sheepishness laces his voice. "I thought it was time to upgrade my wardrobe a bit. I didn't want you to be embarrassed of me in front of your friends."

"Killian," I say with a lump in my throat. "I wouldn't have cared."

But how do I tell him he can absolutely not show up at Maggie's place dressed up like this?

"You don't like it." He blinks, taking in my expression. Then looks down at himself with a self-deprecating smile. "I had wondered if maybe this was a bit too much, but you liked these clothes in Lakeville Hills."

"It's not that I don't like them." I try to be diplomatic. And, honestly, he looks hot as hell in his cowboy costume. But that's what it feels like in this reality, a costume. "But we don't live in Texas or on a ranch in Montana." I step closer, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Killian, I appreciate the effort you put into this. It's incredibly sweet that you wanted to dress up for me and my friends. But the thing is, in this world, dressing like a cowboy for a casual get-together might come across as a bit… eccentric," I finish gently, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Did you keep a receipt, by any chance?"

Killian's face falls slightly, but then his usual wicked smile curls his lips. "Are you sure we shouldn't keep the clothes just for us? Last time you saw me dressed like this, you stole my hat and took advantage of me against a barn wall all night."

Electric shocks sizzle down my spine. "Oh, I was the one taking advantage?"

"You might have forgotten the way you bit my?—"

I stop him putting a hand over his mouth. "I remember," I say, now slightly out of breath. That night I got so carried away I almost drew blood from his luscious lower lip. But nothing good can come of reminiscing.

In response, Killian nibbles on my hand. I drop it as fast as if it were on fire.

Killian laughs. "Don't worry, Sugar, I don't mind a little bite."

I scowl. "We should get going if we want to return your clothes and catch the bus to South Bend in time." I shoo him back into the bathroom to change.

The bell above the door jingles as Killian and I step back into the department store where he bought his cowboy clothes. The familiar scent of leather and fabric fills my nostrils as we begin to search for more understated clothes for him.

"Alright, let's start with some basics." I steer him toward the men's section. "A few sweaters, jeans, sneakers. That kind of thing."

Killian rolls his eyes but grins in agreement. "Alright, fashion expert, lead the way," he teases as we stroll through the aisles.

I spot some cozy sweaters and immediately pick out a few for Killian to try on. One is a soft beige knit, while another has stripes of muted blues and greens. "How about these?" I ask, holding them up against his chest.

He shrugs. "Pretty boring."

"But perfect to blend in." I drop the clothes in his arms to go try on later.

He already has those black boots from the consignment shop, so I grab a pair of simple white sneakers and some straight-leg jeans to go with them. Killian stands there stiffly as I drape a light winter jacket over his arms.

As I'm sorting through more racks for him, a flash of lavender catches my eye from the women's section. I glance over to see the most adorable oversized sweater—soft, fluffy, with a cowl neck that looks perfect for snuggling into, and a unique pattern woven into the fabric. I barely resist the urge to run my hands over the plush fabric, but I quickly shake off the thought and refocus on helping Killian.

"Alright, I think we've got a solid wardrobe for you now," I say as I hand him the last item, a stylish button-down to alternate with the flannels. "Go try everything on, and let's see how it all looks."

As I stand outside the dressing room, I can't help but feel a little nervous about how Killian will take the wardrobe restrictions. Am I being a bitch for forcing him to change clothes? If a man told me what I could or couldn't wear, he'd get a boot to the behind in no time. But does that apply also to Killian? I'm not being mean, or controlling. I'm just trying to help him transition. And if, after he's been here a while, he still wants to dress as a cowboy, that will be his decision. I won't stop him.

My heart skips a beat when the door creaks open and he emerges.

"Alright, what do you think?" Killian gives me a little twirl in a cozy sweater and jeans. He looks totally huggable. I have to physically restrain myself not to go snuggle.

"You look great!" I squeak.

He smiles and ducks back into the fitting room. The rest of the outfits are similarly successful. Once he's tried on all of them, Killian disappears into the dressing room one last time to change into his original clothes. But when he re-emerges, he surprises me by handing over the lavender sweater I'd been eyeing earlier. "Here, try it on," he encourages, winking at me.

"You noticed?" I ask, surprised he picked up on my interest without me saying anything.

He grins, bending down so that his mouth is almost grazing my ear. "The way you were eyeing it, Sugar… it got me a little jealous."

Ignoring the goosebumps, I step inside his now-empty dressing room—more to take advantage of the full-wall mirror than for any real need for privacy. I remove my hoodie and swiftly pull the sweater over my head. It feels soft and luxurious against my skin, making me feel warm and fuzzy inside. However, as I attempt to close the small clasp at the back of my neck, I struggle to secure it.

"Umm, Killian," I call out sheepishly, "could you help me with this clasp?"

"Sure thing." He steps into the dressing room, dropping his new clothes on a stool and pulling the door closed behind him.

The air suddenly feels charged with electricity.

"Turn around," Killian instructs softly, and I comply, lifting my hair out of the way and exposing the back of my neck to him.

Our eyes lock in the mirror. I don't know what I see in his stormy gaze, but it's enough to have my knees go weak. And that's even before his fingers brush against my skin as he fastens the clasp, sending shivers down my spine.

His hands don't leave my neck when he's done. Instead, his fingers wrap around the front of my throat. "Last time I had you in front of me like this, Spoon, your fashion didn't fare too well."

His eyes never leave mine as he talks, which is even worse than the scene in my fictional kitchen when he ripped my shirt. At least there, I didn't have to sustain eye contact.

Heat blooms across my cheeks, and I laugh to hide the sudden onslaught of butterflies in my stomach. "Well, let's hope this sweater is luckier than my shirt," I retort. "Because I can't afford to buy it."

Killian's lips quirk up. "I'd buy it only to rip it off you."

His words send a fresh wave of heat through my body and I swallow hard, unable to look away from the intensity in his eyes. The air between us crackles with tension, and I'm acutely aware of every point where his skin touches mine—his fingers still wrapped around my throat, his thumb on my nape, his chest brushing my back.

A shop assistant clears her throat just outside the dressing room. "Do you need help in there?"

I practically buckle away from Killian and launch myself at the door, opening it. "No, we're fine, thank you."

She regards us with a stern look. "Changing rooms are strictly for one person at a time."

I smile embarrassedly. "He was just helping me with the clasp."

The shop assistant doesn't reply, she just pointedly waits for Killian to step outside. I don't look at him as he grabs his clothes and exits. And I've already closed the door when the clerk says, "I'll start ringing these up for you. Did you need anything else?"

"We'll take the sweater, too," Killian declares with an air of finality.