Killian #2
“Why do you have to be so frustrating? I didn’t drink that much.”
“You couldn’t even walk in a straight line.”
She opens her mouth to argue because she just loves to argue with me.
I don’t give her the chance, though. I step forward until I’m directly in front of her and her back is pressed against the island.
There’s a sliver of distance between, just enough for air to pass through, and nothing else. I can smell her floral body wash.
Caroline’s mouth snaps shut and she swallows, tilting her head back to look at me.
“Caroline, take the damn medicine.” I lean down slightly, my eyes never leaving her wide grey ones. “Don’t force me to make you swallow.”
Reaching behind her, I grab the Advil bottle and twist open the cap. Taking out a pill, I hold it up.
“Open,” I command.
Obediently, Caroline opens her mouth, sticking her tongue out. Her cheeks are blooming the same pink as the color of her nightwear. Her eyes don’t lower from mine as I place the pill on her tongue. Handing her the glass of water, I watch until she empties all of it.
Once the glass is empty, she hands it back to me.
I set it on the counter, knowing I should step back now.
Instead, my hand moves of its own accord, reaching back to remove the hair stick.
Her hair unravels around her shoulders like a dark waterfall, and I can’t stop myself from picking up a strand and feeling it between my thumb and forefinger.
It’s as soft as I expected. Caroline’s breath hitches as the back of my hand brushes against her shoulder. The brief catch in her breath is enough to bring me back to my senses. I drop her hair like I’ve been burned and take a step back.
Caroline shivers as the cold air of the apartment hits her.
“I’m—”
She arches an eyebrow.
Fuck, what am I? Definitely not sorry.
I push my hands through my hair, turning away from her. Why do I keep making things complicated for myself? I should let her do whatever she wants. Once again, she’s not my fucking responsibility. I’ll have to keep repeating it until I believe it.
Maybe she knows I’m not going to say anything because she sighs deeply, stepping around me to go to her room. I stand there and watch her walk away.
Halfway to her room, she pauses and turns back, walking to the fridge. I expect her to be looking for a late night snack. She surprises me by reaching for her wedding invitation.
“In case you won’t ever admit it to yourself, there’s not going to be a wedding.” She turns to look at me, standing in the middle of my kitchen in her tiny clothes, her hair wild. Slowly, she tears the wedding card, holding eye contact as she does.
“No, I don’t have cold feet,” Caroline continues, while she tears another piece of the wedding card.
“I’m not drunk from four cocktails. I’m not having second thoughts.
The only way I’ll ever marry Beckett is if he clubs me over the head and carries my unconscious body down the aisle.
Even then, the first thing I’m doing as soon as I return to my senses is stab him in the ass, again, and the second is filing for divorce. ”
Walking to the trash can, she throws away the pieces of her wedding card.
They rain down like confetti. There’s a wild energy around her that’s electrifying.
This is who she hides from people, the person they want to suppress because she’s just a little too wild, when the wildest thing she ever does is speak her mind.
“You stabbed Beckett in the ass?” I ask. Because I’m not sure I’ve heard her correctly.
“That’s what you’re focusing on?” She’s bewildered.
“It’s the most surprising and out of context thing you’ve said!”
A small, almost proud smile tilts up her lips. “Yes, I stabbed him in the ass.” She frowns. “And then his mistress called the police and had me arrested.”
“You have a record?” I ask. I’ve been missing out on a lot of fun gossip, apparently.
“Again, focusing on the wrong thing,” she says.
“Again, the most surprising and out of context thing you’ve said.”
Does she expect me to be surprised that Beckett is a cheater? My father wanted a son who was just like him, and he’s clearly succeeded with Beckett.
Sighing, she walks back to the fridge and this time, she does grab a snack, the baked mac and cheese she made yesterday. And by she, I mean me. Obviously. I’m not letting her near a hot oven. She slices off a big chunk of it and puts it on a plate before microwaving it.
“I don’t have a record,” Caroline says. “As if a Sinclair can ever have a police record. I was only arrested and released with a warning to not stab anyone again.”
“Still, Caroline Sinclair arrested. That’s not something which happens everyday.”
Giggling, she fills her glass with water. “Not going to lie, it was a wild ride. They actually put me in handcuffs.”
Grabbing her plate from the microwave, she takes two forks out of the drawer and sits down at the table. I pick up her wrap from where she threw it on the couch earlier and hand it to her.
“You’re probably cold,” I say.
As if just now realizing what she’s wearing, Caroline hurriedly grabs the wrap and pulls it around herself. “Damn it, Killian, why don’t you tell me these things earlier?”
I take a seat across from her at the table. I’m not the middle of the night meal type of person, but Caroline is finally relaxed enough to tell me a lot of things I missed out on so I’ll eat with her.
“You picked out the clothes,” I remind her.
“To sleep in. Not to have a midnight meal with you,” she protests. “Obviously I’m way too comfortable around you.” Crossing her legs on the chair, she tucks her hair behind her ear and picks up her fork.
“That’s a bad thing?”
She chews her bite of mac and cheese thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Depends on how you look at it, I guess.”
I sit back against my chair, watching her quietly.
Her lowered lashes cast shadows across her pink cheeks.
Her lips glisten wet from where she licks the taste of Mac and cheese off them.
The way her hair falls around her shoulders, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. I don’t see her comfort around me as a bad thing.
It’s probably the only time she’s allowed herself to be vulnerable with someone.
“Let me paint you,” I say, before I can think better of it. Maybe I’m still reeling from her confession.
I’ve spent years knowing she was expected to marry Beckett; months staring at their wedding invitation as my personal form of torture.
To have my suspicions confirmed about this wedding is another matter entirely.
There was a part of me which was almost convinced Caroline had cold feet and would go back.
There’s nothing stopping us from… Well, there’s nothing stopping us. I don’t know whether to be happy or sit with the feeling for a while. I’m choosing the next best thing, something I’ve wanted since I saw her in the apartment.
Caroline pauses mid-bite, surprised eyes flickering to mine.
“What?” Holding up a finger, she finishes chewing, and then asks again, “what?”
“I want to paint you.”
“I’m thinking you’re the one who needs the hangover cure because you’re clearly drunk,” she says.
“I didn’t drink,” I explain. “You don’t have to decide tonight. You can think about it.”
I’d rather start tonight because now that I’ve voiced the idea, my hand is itching to pick up a paintbrush. I haven’t created in months and I'm fully aware of the deadline for the exhibit ticking closer. The closer it gets, the harder it will be to back out.
“Well, thank you so much, if you hadn’t given me the time to think, I would have agreed to this crazy idea.” Rolling her eyes, Caroline stabs her fork into the mac and cheese and brings it to her mouth while giving me the stink eye.
“Alright, I’ll ask tomorrow.” I lean forward, resting my arm on the table and digging into the mac and cheese.
Giving me a suspicious look, she continues to eat without saying anything else. I bite off a smile, feeling a strange sense of calmness for the first time since her arrival.