For his part, Killian is quiet tonight, as if he’s tired. He doesn’t leave, though. He calmly sits at my kitchen table and watches me with hooded eyes.
It makes me more nervous, and I find myself jumping up more than once to get this or that.
I do it again, and Killian snorts.
“What?” I ask, meeting his glare.
He points an accusatory finger at me. “You’re acting weird.”
I freeze in the act of topping off his already full cup of coffee. “Shit.” I wince and sit down. “I am. I totally am.”
“Well, stop.” His jaw clenches as he tosses down his fork. “It’s pissing me off.
“I’m sorry.” My hands lift in a helpless gesture. “I don’t mean to. It’s just, I keep thinking it.” He’s Killian James. In my kitchen. Mind. Blown.
He stares with eyes that seem to see right through me. Hurt clouds those dark depths too. “Not you, Liberty,” he says in a low, raw voice. “Okay? Just… Not you.”
My heart pounds in my chest. “W-what do you mean?”
Killian braces his forearms on the table, his expression tired. “You Google me yet?”
“No.” Annoyance colors my tone. Sure, I’d been sliding into this side of ridiculousness, but I’m not that bad. “I figured you’d tell me about yourself if you wanted to.”
He gives me a tight sort of smile-grimace, as if he wants to lighten the mood but can’t. “My mom is kind of famous. She was a top model. Her name is Isabella.” His lips twitch. “She only goes by Isabella.”
“That Isabella?” I say, gaping.
He gives me a sidelong look. “Yeah, that one.”
Isabella Villa, famous supermodel and second-generation Cuban American. She is gorgeous: perfect golden skin, high cheekbones, luminous dark eyes, and glossy raven hair. Killian has her eyes, her coloring, her charisma. He must have inherited his bold features from his dad, because Isabella’s are as delicate as a doll’s.
“Her image was everywhere when I was in high school,” I say.
He rubs the back of his neck, his nose wrinkling. “Yeah. Try being a teenager and all the guys have your mom’s picture hanging in their lockers.”
The iconic image of Isabella wearing a diamond bra and panty set with white angel wings fluttering behind her as she struts the catwalk comes to mind. I’m not even into women, and I found those pictures irresistible. “Bet you got into a lot of fights.”
A smile creeps into his eyes. Just barely. “You have no idea.” Laughing darkly, he shakes his head. “Thing is, she’s a good mom. Loving, if a little flighty.”
“And your dad?”
“Killian Alexander James, the second.” He gives me a wry look. “I’m the third. My dad is a hedge fund manager. He met my mom at a Met fundraiser, and that was it for him. They were good parents, Libs. Well, as good as they could be. But they were also busy and traveled a lot. My grandmother took care of me most of the time. She was great, you know? Took no shit, always kept me grounded, made me do chores, learn how to cook, that sort of thing.”
“She sounds lovely.”
Killian nods, but he’s not focused on me. “She died about two years ago. I still miss her. She was the one who encouraged me to start the band. Hell, encouraged all of us to keep at it. We’d practice, and she’d listen. Even when we sounded like shit, she’d praise us.” His gaze draws inward, and a frown pulls at his mouth. “When our album went platinum, she was the first person I went to see.”
He stops talking, just scowls at the scarred kitchen table. And I find myself reaching for him.
At the touch of my fingers to his, Killian looks up. “She fluttered around the apartment she practically raised me in, dusting off the seat for me, running to get me coffee and pan. My abuelita,” he hisses, leaning in. “Like I was the fucking president or something.”
My fingers twine with his cold ones. “I’m sorry, Kill.”
He holds onto me, but doesn’t seem to see me. “I sat there on the old chesterfield sofa I’d peed on when I was two, while she tittered away, and I knew my old life was over. I’d never be the same. That no matter what I wanted, there would be a dividing line between the world and the person I’d become.”
“Killian…”
“It’s not all bad, Libby. I’m living the dream.” His lips pinch. “But it gets fucking lonely sometimes. You start wondering who you are and how you’re supposed to be. And I think…shit, I know that’s why Jax couldn’t handle things.”
His eyes meet mine then. “I didn’t want to tell you who I was because you looked at me like I was just another guy.”
“More like you were a pain in the ass,” I correct with a watery smile.