Chapter 23

COWBOY CONFESSIONS

23

"Thank you for the sweater," I say, as we head back home laden with shopping bags. I didn't expect Killian to pay for it. The gesture caught me off guard, turning me way too emotional—ah! Dr. Hammond would be vindicated if he could see me now, having a semi-meltdown over a sweater. "You didn't have to, but the gift is much appreciated."

Swinging his shopping bag in one hand, he gives me a heated stare. "The gift might've been self-interested, Spoon. You just looked too gorgeous in it."

He waits until we're at my door and I'm fumbling with the keys to let us in to press into me lightly from behind. "I can't stop imagining you wearing that sweater and nothing else." I drop my forehead on the door, no longer trying to fit the key into the lock. "How I'd slowly drag it over your thighs…" He's not touching me, but I can still feel phantom fingers trailing over my legs.

"Miss Witherspoon, is this young man bothering you?"

I turn around to find Mr. Calvin, my ninety-year-old neighbor from upstairs, in the hall—he makes a point of keeping healthy by taking the stairs.

"No, Mr. Calvin, thank you."

The old man gives us a foxy grin. "Then, by all means, carry on. Enjoy being young."

I die of mortification for the second time in less than an hour and hand my keys to Killian. "You open the door."

"You fluster too easily, Spoon." Killian chuckles.

"And you'll be out of a place to live if you keep that attitude up."

He's still smiling as he gets behind the stove to make us a quick lunch before we have to leave.

We eat simple grilled cheese sandwiches that Killian elevates to a gourmet treat. With a satisfying crunch, I take the last bite of my toast and drop my plate in the sink. "Ready to head to the bus station?"

"Yep." He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin before quickly rinsing our dishes.

We grab our bags and head out the door, making our way toward the bus station on foot under a bright afternoon sun.

As we approach the parking lot, I notice Killian eyeing the Greyhound buses with a hint of skepticism. He wrinkles his nose ever so slightly, and I can't help but tease him about it.

"Aw, what's the matter, St. Clair? Is this not up to your billionaire standards?" I playfully nudge him with my elbow.

He looks mildly embarrassed, but chuckles. "I suppose I'm still adjusting to this new lifestyle. But I hope you don't think I'm ungrateful for everything you're doing for me, Spoon. I truly appreciate it."

"Of course not." I reassure him with a warm smile. "And don't worry, bus rides can be charming."

"Charming?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "That's one way to put it."

We join the line to board the bus, and I have to give it to him, the smell of old upholstery and stale coffee that greets us inside isn't exactly pleasant. Killian follows closely behind me, taking in the narrow aisle and cramped seats.

"Welcome to the glamorous world of affordable transportation." I grin as I motion for him to pick a seat. "You get used to it after a while."

Killian insists on me having the window seat. I sink into it with a silent "oof," grateful to have a view. "Thanks, cowboy," I quip, the corners of my mouth hitching up into a teasing smile.

Killian, showcasing more the air of a chivalrous knight than a cowboy, nods and parks himself in the aisle seat. Despite his body being too large for a cheap bus service, he still displays that effortless grace of his. The way he adapts to the tiny strip of Greyhound real estate is impressive.

The bus leaves soon afterward. Just as I'm about to nap in the comforting drone of the engine, a chatty stranger takes the seat on the opposite side of the aisle to Killian. The newcomer greets us with a cheerful hello that is threateningly friendly.

I snuggle closer to the window while Killian gives me a brief, helpless glance before he's sucked into a conversational vortex.

"So what do you do for a living?" the stranger asks after a while.

"I'm a rancher," Killian replies on reflex. The fact that he is actually a bartender in this world hasn't sunk in yet, apparently.

"A rancher? Wow, like those cowboys you see on TV?"

"Something like that," Killian deflects, his tone even, patient.

But the guy's off with a never-ending stream of questions about ranch life, horses, and the price of beef per pound—things Killian can answer but looks increasingly desperate not to. I bite my lip, torn between rescuing him and continuing to enjoy the comedy gold unfolding before me.

Killian catches my eye between the barrage of cowboy-related inquiries, and I can't help it; I grin.

"Any funny stories on the ranch?" the man asks at one point.

"Well, there was that time that my neighbor stole my prize rooster, Sir Clucks-a-Lot," Killian responds as if this were a story he's told a million times before.

The man's eyes bulge. "You had a rooster called Sir Clucks-a-Lot?"

Killian shrugs. "Sure. He was a crowing champion three years in a row," he says without a hint of sarcasm. I have to fight hard not to laugh at the shocked expression on the nosy man's face. "That's why my rival rancher chicken-napped him. When I confronted him, he denied it, of course. But I could recognize my rooster's clucks coming from his henhouse. So I went back, in the dead of night, on a stealth mission to retrieve him."

I'm fully aware this anecdote must be from some kind of made-up back story, but I'd be lying if I said I'm not sitting on the edge of my seat to learn the fate of Sir Clucks-a-Lot. I look around, and see half the passengers on the bus are doing the same.

"I snuck past their guard dog, an old German Shepherd with a nasty temper. But turns out, he was more bark than bite—or more accurately, more snores than chomps because the old boy was asleep by the chicken coop. Quiet as a cat, I tiptoed up to where Sir Clucks-a-Lot was stashed and—wouldn't you know it—the darned bird recognized me and started up one of his serenades. That woke up the dog, alright."

"Did you make it out in one piece?" the man asks.

Now the entire bus is waiting for Killian's answer.

"Sure did." He leans back in his seat with a self-satisfied smirk. "But my jeans weren't half as lucky. The old shepherd managed to latch onto them just as I was hoisting Sir Clucks-a-Lot over the fence. Ripped them right down the backside. So there I am, in the moonlight, with a squawking rooster under one arm and my dignity flapping in the wind."

The bus erupts into laughter, and even the driver glances at us in the rearview mirror, his lips twitching into an amused smile.

I can't help but join in; Killian's story is just too absurd, too vividly painted not to find it utterly hilarious. And if something like that comes up while we're at Maggie's, we can always claim Killian grew up on a farm.

But a tiny part of me still wonders how much of his personality is part of a fictional construct. Even now that he is here with me, are his thoughts his own or pre-programmed into him? Is that why he likes me? Because I was the heroine in his story? I squash the disturbing thoughts aside, and before the chatty stranger has a chance to ask Killian for another story, like he's clearly dying to, I take pity on him and take advantage of his neighbor having to take a breath to ask him if he wants to listen to a playlist with me.

Killian gratefully agrees, taking one of my earbuds—the old, corded kind—from me like a literal lifeline.

The moment I open the music app, my favorite playlist starts playing automatically, Taylor Swift blaring out of the earbuds at top volume.

I glance at Killian, whose expression is a mix of bemusement and mild panic. "Uh, interesting choice," he mutters, and I laugh, my finger already skipping to the next track.

The playlist mellows into a soft acoustic number, and Killian's shoulders sag against the seat. He gives me a grateful look, his hand finding mine and squeezing it gently.

With the music pounding in my ears—ear singular—and Killian's reassuring presence next to me, I relax and close my eyes.

I wake up an hour or so later as the bus comes to a stop. Unsurprisingly, I've once again used Killian as my personal pillow. I look up, and he gives me a wink.

My spine straightens up in response as if I'd just been electrocuted. I touch my mouth. Dry. At least I didn't drool on him.

"Sorry," I say.

"No need to apologize, Sugar Spoon. You needed the rest."

"Why?"

He swipes a thumb over my knuckles as he draws near, his breath warm against my neck, speaking in hushed tones only I'm meant to hear. "It's going to be a long weekend of fake dating."