Chapter 28

LEASE ON LOVE

28

When Oliver texts me a couple of weeks later, inviting me out for drinks, I know something is up. I text him back, asking if it's okay to meet in Evanston. He says yes, so I give him the name of the bar where Killian works. Mostly because I still haven't been and I'm curious to see my roommate, who I'm exclusively non-dating, bartending.

I suspect the sight won't be good for my ovaries. But what can I say? I'm weak. I should already get a medal for sleeping next to the man every night without jumping his bones. As long as I keep my hands to myself, my eyes are free to gorge.

Our time since coming back from South Bend has gone surprisingly smoothly. Killian works, we exercise together regularly, and we eat together when our schedules allow it like a proper couple. The Evanston Fire Department hasn't heard a peep from us, and Killian hasn't tried to adopt any more strays, or damaged house property, or attempted heroic gestures. He still leaves the toilet seat up most times, but I'm afraid the occasional encounter with the ceramic ring is almost a prerequisite of cohabitation with any man.

Speaking of the devil, I'm working at my tiny desk when Killian walks into the apartment, holding an envelope in his hands and sporting a serious expression.

"What's with the long face?" I ask.

"I got my first paycheck. The official, on-the-books one."

"That bad?" I try to keep my tone light but worry that for someone used to handling billions, a regular paycheck might seem a pittance.

Before answering, he does that thing again, where he drags a chair next to my desk and sits on it backward. I should've gotten used to the sight by now, but instead of becoming immune, my heart thrashes uncontrolled in my chest every time he does it. I force myself to focus on his words rather than his ever-seductive presence.

"No, it's not that bad," he says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Pay's good, at least once you add in the tips." He drags a hand through his hair which has gotten longer in the month since he's popped into my life. He looks even sexier, more rugged. And I might need an oxygen mask because I'm having trouble breathing.

"So? That's good, right?"

"Yeah." His chin dips. "I wanted to ask you how much my half of the rent is."

"Oh, that would be four hundred and fifty dollars; I mean, if you made enough."

"I made plenty."

"Like how much?"

"With the tips, thirty-one hundred."

"Three thousand dollars?" My eyes bulge. "Academia was clearly the poorest career choice ever."

Killian smiles, but it's not a serene smile. He's nervous.

"What else?" I prompt.

He drags his hand through his hair again; the gesture revealing a new vulnerability and threatening to strip away my self-control. "Well, now that I have a job and an identity, do you want me to move out?"

My spine turns to ice. I swallow and turn in my chair to face him fully, clasping my hands in my lap to keep them from trembling. "Do you want to move out?"

"Honest truth?"

"Always."

"I don't, but I think it might be best."

My mouth is suddenly cotton-dry. "Sure." I'm tempted to just leave things hanging. In all my past relationships, I would have. But with Killian, everything is different. I can be more honest. More myself. "Why do you think it'd be best? Do I snore too loud or something?"

He flashes me a lopsided grin that threatens to melt the last of my self-restraint not to jump his bones STAT. "No, Sugar Spoon, you're the cutest teddy to hug in bed…"

"But?"

"But you refuse to even kiss me before"—he makes air quotes—"I find myself. And I thought living alone would be a good step in that direction."

I'm a stupid cow and no one should ever listen to a word I say. "That actually makes sense." I force a smile. "Do you want my help house hunting?"

"Sure, Sugar."

"Then come here." I revive my laptop and open a real-estate website.

Killian takes my invitation to move closer literally. He stands and, instead of bringing his chair next to mine, he lifts a leg and wedges himself between me and the back of my seat.

This fold-up chair wasn't built to bear the weight of two people, especially not when one of them is a six-foot-four mountain of a man like Killian. I brace myself for the inevitable topple, but one of his big hands glides over my stomach to secure me in place while the other casually rests on my thigh.

His scent wraps around me, a familiar blanket of spice that just feels right.

"How many bedrooms and baths are you looking for, sir?" I struggle to keep an even tone.

"Just one?" Killian drops his chin on my shoulder.

My skin tingles with a sudden warmth and my ability to think is lost in the haze of all the places where our bodies are touching. For goodness' sake, I use the man as my personal pillow every night. I should be used to the close proximity. But I'm not. So I check all the wrong boxes and pull up million-dollar mansions for sale instead of studio apartments to rent.

"Those might be slightly out of my budget in this world, Sugar Spoon," Killian whispers against the shell of my ear.

Then he reaches over to cover my hand over the mouse with his, guiding my movements to pull up the right section of the website.

With every accidental brush of his hand, the idea of him moving out becomes a less bearable thought. House listings scroll by, but it's the unlisted feelings between us that seem to be on the market now.

On Thursday night, I'm supposed to meet with Oliver at eight. But I arrive at the Blackhawk, the bar where Killian works, early. Besides checking him out while he bartends, I also want to give Killian a heads up that I'm meeting a friend here.

I push open the heavy glass door of the posh sports bar, taking in the sleek black leather booths and gleaming wood floors. The rich mahogany and brass fixtures scream elegance, but the rowdy cheers and clinking glasses keep the place grounded in its purpose. The large flat-screen TVs remind me this is still a space where sports reign supreme.

I spot Killian immediately. He's working his magic behind the counter, muscles flexing under the fabric of his black T-shirt as he vigorously shakes a cocktail mixer, and I can't help but think that jeans have never looked so good on a man. The warm air of the heating system kisses my cheeks, but it does nothing to stop a shiver from running down my spine.

Killian lifts his gaze and spots me as I'm still standing on the doorstep, fighting to remove my scarf without getting strangled. His entire face lights up with a smile that has no right being that devastating—it should come with a warning label.

"Spoon!" Killian's voice booms from behind the counter as he pours the drink into a glass, garnishing it with a twist of lime.

"Hey," I say, heading toward the bar, slightly out of breath from rushing to get here early or from the sight of him—both are equally probable.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" He grabs a bottle of gin and casually flips it behind his back, catching it with his other hand.

Showoff.

"I'm meeting with a friend here tonight, just wanted to give you a heads up."

He puts away the bottle and leans his elbows on the counter, eyes twinkling with unspoken things. "No problem! Grab a table, and I'll bring you a cocktail."

"Thanks, Oswald," I reply, unable to keep a grin off my face.

As I walk away, I can feel the weight of his gaze on my back. It's like a physical touch, and I fight the urge to peek behind me. Instead, I choose a high table with a view of the bar, giving me a perfect vantage point to observe Killian in his element.

I finally get rid of my outer layers, dropping them on an empty stool, just as Killian arrives with my cocktail.

"Here you are." He slides a tequila soda in front of me—the same drink that was my go-to in the book world but that I've actually never tasted in real life. "Your favorite."

I abstain from correcting him and take a sip, keeping an open mind. And it's divine—same citrusy sweet taste from my dreams. "Amazing," I tell him, and I'm not even sure I'm talking about the cocktail.

"Enjoy your drink!" Killian says, giving me a wink before returning to work.

I watch him, mesmerized.

With each shake, pour, and garnish, he commands the attention of the room—and not just women. Every person with a pulse in this bar seems to be as drawn to him as I am. The men exchange friendly banter and sports commentary with him, while the women bat their lashes at him, slipping him outrageous tips. I spot more than one twenty-dollar bill being sultrily pushed his way and at one point, even a fifty. No wonder his paycheck is better than mine.

Another part of me notices how he makes no faux pas, no slip-ups that reveal him for anything other than a regular hot dude behind the bar with charm to spare. He fits. And if he blends in so well in a crowded bar interacting with all sorts of people, could he also fit into my life on a permanent basis? Is it time I gave us a chance?

My thoughts are interrupted by the door chiming. I swivel in my seat, waving when Oliver swings inside. He crosses the threshold with the effortless grace I remember from our blind date. A smile lights up his face when he spots me.

"Leighton!" He wraps me in a hug that smells like fresh laundry and cold air.

"Hey, you," I say, squeezing back before we part. He flags down a server with the kind of casual charm that could win wars or at least bar tabs. "A beer for me, please," he tells the server, who nods in response and scurries off.

"Okay, spill. Why are we meeting?" I say. "You've got that ‘I've just adopted a puppy' glow, which is either alarming or adorable." I prop my chin on one hand, watching him.

"Please don't hate me, but…" he trails off, fidgeting with the edge of the menu, "but I met someone."

Instead of feeling left out, as I would have in the past, I can't help but smile. My eyes wander over to the bar, and for the first time, I don't squish down the hope; I let it blossom in my chest, warming me from the inside out. Because for once in my life I, too, have met someone. More made him up in my head and then somehow conjured him into existence—but that's irrelevant. Also Killian has changed a lot since splashing into my life. He's still stubborn and a little overprotective, but he's less impulsive, less exaggerated… he's becoming less of a fabricated romance hero and more of a man I could really give my heart to every day.

"Are you kidding?" I laugh. "I'm so happy for you! Tell me everything. Boyfriend or girlfriend?"

"Boyfriend."

"Oh, that's amazing, Oliver. So, how did you meet him? It must've been something ridiculously romantic, I assume?" I tease, leaning forward, elbows on the table.

"Actually, he crashed into me with his bike." He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "Literally swept me off my feet, into a bush."

"Awww," I deadpan. "Romantic much, uh?"

"Leighton, I'm really happy." He gives me a sheepish grin.

"Me too, Oliver. For you." I squeeze his hand across the table. "But you know what this means?"

"Time for us to fake break up," he quips, dropping his gaze to our joined hands as if mourning our staged love story.

"George and Ivy are going to flip," I muse, feeling only the tiniest twinge of guilt. "But how do we play it? Sudden but amicable split? Or should we have a pretend blowout?"

"Knowing George, he'll want to mediate our non-existent problems. And Ivy will bring you ice cream and rom-coms." Oliver shakes his head in mock sorrow.

I'd welcome the ice cream and rom-coms even without a real reason, but then I'd have to explain to Ivy my roommate situation, and I'm not sure I'm ready to go there. I wouldn't even know what to say. Better make it clear this breakup doesn't warrant support sweets and a girlfriends' movie night. "Can't we just go with the truth for once?" I suggest. "Say we realized we're just friends and met other people."

"Lady, you've been holding out on me. Who did you meet?"

I'm about to reply when a shadow falls over our table.

"Here's your beer," Killian growls, not quite slamming the glass onto the wooden surface, but close enough. His jaw is set, eyes flashing with a possessive glint that, while misplaced, I don't really mind. Except for the fact that he's growling. Maybe he's still a bit exaggerated at times.

"Killian, please stop snarling."

"Then stop holding a random dude's hand. I thought we'd agreed?—"

"This is Oliver," I interrupt. "My fake boyfriend who's invited me out to tell me he's met someone else and ask if we can fake break up."

Oliver casually disentangles his hand from mine and waves sheepishly. "Hey, man." My friend looks half amused, half worried.

Killian is still staring murder at him.

I grab Killian's arm and make him face me. "This," I say, flipping a finger between us, "is not a ‘touch her and you'll die' kind of deal."

"I don't know," Oliver says, tilting his head. "The handbook on ‘touch her and you'll die' could've been written on his face right now." Then he sticks out his hand in that irresistible, friendly manner of his. "I'm Oliver, the ex-fake boyfriend."

Killian's face relaxes only slightly as he takes Oliver's offered hand. "Killian."

I have to admit that sounds more intimidating than if he'd gone with Oswald.

Someone calls him from behind the bar. Killian acknowledges the request with a curt nod, then looks at me with such burning heat, his gaze could make the sun seem like an amateur heating source. "I have to go," then, lowering his voice, he leans in to add, "I'm sorry if I overreacted. Seeing you with someone else just—" He runs a hand through his hair, a clear sign of frustration I've learned to recognize. "It does things to me, okay? Talk later?"

He pulls away, giving Oliver a quick nod before throwing me one last heated glance and returning to the fray behind the bar. I watch him go, my heart doing erratic somersaults in my chest.

Oliver tsks, mock fanning himself. "My, my. Is it just me, or did the temperature rise a few degrees with that look he gave you?"

I roll my eyes, but I can't entirely hide the flush creeping up my cheeks. "Shut up, Oliver."

He chuckles, his gaze softening. "How did you and Mr. Alpha meet?"

"Oh, you know," I say, glossing over the question. "One day I woke up, and he was warming my bed…"